October 31, 2001 - The Scariest Of All
Each baseball postseason, there is a tangible, definable moment when I begin to think this is really the year the Yankee dynasty ends. When it really seems like the team that has refused to lose since Jim Leyritz hit that three-run homer in Atlanta (Game 4, 1996) is finally going to run out of gas. I thought that point was as I watched the final out of Game Two in the Divisional Series against the A's. However, had I watched the end of tonight's Game 4, 2001, I would imagine it would have come when the D'Backs recorded the second out in the bottom of the 9th, ahead 3-1.
The scariest thing about this year's Halloween.
Tonight's 4-3 Yankee victory, featuring a ninth-inning, two-out, two-run, game-tying, last-gasp gut-wrenching home run, only to be followed by a tenth-inning, two-out, walk-off, Derek-Prissy Ass-Jeter home run, is a loss that begins to reach towards Game 6 '86 status. It can never come close to equalling it, given that one of the teams involved wasn't even playing baseball in 1996. Plus, given that Game 6 of the 1986 World Series was the highest high and lowest low for all of Red Sox Nation, and that we are all embittered and full of hate, like evil fruit pies, it is a game that truly changed the way we root for the team whose name I said I wouldn't mention here until March 2002.
Memo to Bob Brenly, D'Backs Manager: If you're going to go to all the trouble of pitching Curt Schilling on three days rest, you might want to actually use him, as opposed to putting in Hong Kong Phooey, or whomever your closer is after Matt Mantei going down. I understand you want to keep Schilling available for a potential Game 7. Had you kept Schilling in though, and won Game 4, there wouldn't have had to be a Game 7. Why is this so obvious to me?
I didn't watch last night's ending because I was chatting with Meg and arranging a schedule to go show my advisor, Professor Klarfeld. That meeting is now, so your update is over.
October 30, 2001 - Desert Envy
[Vito and Matty Cooch got added to the Posse page today. Go there now, and send in your own pic to get on there too!]
There are few things that make a 21-year old feel more helpless than to be shampooing your hair and, looking down at your hands, seeing a handful of little brown hairs now on your palms and not your scalp. Yeah, I'll be buying those multivitamins next trip to the supermarket.
I actually watched a good piece of the Series game tonight, shutting it off after the 7th - the Yanks took a one-run lead, which may have well as been as 35-run lead because the D'Backs weren't coming back from anything. I'm very torn this year, because I much as I want the Yankees to lose, and as much as I want Arizona to win (In my younger days, I owned many a D'Back cap), I can't fathom a team winning the World Series that couldn't sell out its Division and Championship Series playoff games.
When the playoffs come to Boston, you have to kill family just to get a ticket... well, that or have Renee around to give you a piece of her seasons or just walk up to the brick pillar ticket windows and buy the last remaining bleacher seat. I had no problem when the Marlins won the Series in 1997; I openly cheered them along with little bro Matt, the only actual Marlin fan in the Northeast. The Marlin fans were baseball mad that season, and they should have been, being that Blockbuster Video had given them the best team money could buy. They sold out their ballpark, they understood the concepts of baseball. The Diamondback fans like to go sit in the pool.
"If I'm going to answer this honestly, I'll have to say the women in the pool at Arizona. For the simple fact that we've played in hostile places before. So you have that little trigger inside you, or at least you should, that can block out crowd noise. You can block out end zones. But it's hard to block out some of the suits they let run around down in that pool."
-- Arizona pitcher Brian Anderson, responding to 'What's a bigger distraction for visiting teams, the women in Arizona's pool or the fans in New York?'
My gambling issues have been resolved, to a point. After a perusal of the terms and a chat with some guy named Alex over e-mail (yes, I'm beginning to see the humor in all this), I'm allowed to take out $56, but can't take out anymore until I've wagered five times what my original balance was when these new people took over. I'm not pleased with things, but as I don't feel like going to war over $124, I've decided my best response would be to screw them over hardcore.
After I take my $56, I'll have $124. This weekend, I'm going to bet that entire $124 on one game, either doubling it or losing it all - hey, it wasn't my money to begin with and I can't get at it until I wager like $600 cumulative. Let's hope I win, putting me at like $230. I'll then wager that $230 all on one game, with the possibility of winning $210 or so more. See where I'm going with this?
After three weeks of this, I'll either have lost all but the withdrawn $56 or have wagered enough to get my account closed (and be up in the neighborhood of $800). Yeah, so at least I'll have made $56. :)
If any of you know anyone who I can milk as a connection at ESPN, you need to e-mail me and give me the information. On Lisa's urging and providing me contact info, I'm applying there for an internship. Being that I have no formal sports writing experience outside of class, it's going to take something short of a miracle for me to even get a rejection letter.
October 29, 2001 - Sour Puss
Before the uninteresting bitch fest begins, I give you a happy quote to carry you through:
"When you're a kid and you wanna go 'Weeee!!!', but you ain't got drugs yet, you hold out for your life... hold on to your little... gonads."
I had a Playstation 2 for approximately 16 hours yesterday and today. When the hockey possé came here after last night's game, we brought the booze and Justin's system. With NCAA Football and Madden 2002 versions in tow, the system came to my room and spent the night here. Sadly, I didn't get to play it much between sleep, work and FreeP, but I must say NCAA was breathtaking even on my 13-inch crapbox.
Maybe Justin coming to pick it up brought me down. Maybe not. I don't know what it is. The rant will now begin... it could end anywhere, so this could be interesting.
I'm utterly sick of College Bowl. At some point during the night's meeting, it occurred to me how tired I am of being Governor General. I think it was while I was standing in front of the team, explaining what they'd have to do if they wanted to go on our big Philadelphia trip this January. People were talking, laughing, not paying attention to me, asking questions about things I'd already explained. This wasn't just a case of one guy in the back being a doofus, this was people who've been around before, who should know what's going on but have had me to take care of everything.
I'm sick of going without appreciation, of having to read questions because every time I play I embarass myself. The team has gotten so much better, and I haven't proceeded at all. Even the pop culture stuff... I'm probably not one of the team's best anymore. But that's not the point. I'm sick of being their bitch, and ready to hand in my badge, as it were. I won't, but for the first time, I can see how great it would be to be able to.
The near future holds nothing fun. Outside of hockey games, the next few months are going to be utter nothingness. There's so many people I want to go visit, like the Lisa's and Lonnie's of the world who like to whine they don't get enough pixel on this page. But I can't, because I have to run tournaments, take care of business in the city. When do I get to be irresponsible, like the
The football season may as well be over. With the Giants and the Patriots both at 3-4, I hold out no hope either or them are going to put together a run for a playoff spot. Early to give up hope, yes, but not all that unrealistic being the last two years after the G-Men went to the Super Bowl, they choked and missed the playoffs. On the other side, with Tom Brady now proven mortal, the Pats crash back to Earth will be short and efficient.
The U2 show, still. I won't bring this up again, I promise. Considering I know about 25 people going to the show, and none of them asked me if I wanted to buy a ticket with them, you can all go fuck yourselves. I hope your cars stall on the way down to Providence and you miss the whole concert. The only ones exempt from this are the people who legitimately thought I would be going with someone else, such as Bridget.
Asses on the Internet. After another loss yesterday, I've decided to pull my $180 in gains off the table, and shut down the betting for at least a few weeks. The NFL's way too volatile nowadays. So I make my request, only to have it denied by the sportsbook because "all bonus money that is given must be put in play at least five times before a payout is granted." Course I try to e-mail them back and ask what they mean, and the e-mail bounces. I just want my money. My money... what part of that do you not understand? I'm just glad I never put any money in to begin with... no loss, but no gain either.
I'm tired. That means you get no more... go read some of my stories or something.
BU 4 - 0 Merrimack
1-0 in Hockey East, 2-0 at Walter Brown, 3-0 Overall. I think the last time this happened, I was in grade school.
|@ WBA - 10/28/01
Fifty-one minutes into tonight's game, it reeked of the 1998-99 season. The Terriers had domnated play all game long, were outshooting Merrimack by some obscene number of shots, but were only up 1-0. In 1998-99, we would have given up a cheap goal on an odd man rush to tie it, then with about a minute left, Michel Larocque would have ceased to be a superman, and we'd lose 2-1.
Thankfully, those days are now over. I hope.
Realistically, this is a game whose result was never in doubt, because as I said, we dominated play pretty much the whole way through. Fields was tested, but only had to make two or three spectacular saves. He played great, leading me to witness the first BU-thrown shutout I can remember seeing in person. All the third period goals came in a span of four minutes, the last two 28 seconds apart. That blew the top off the place, and brought in a backup sieve for the second straight home game.
This was the first time I ever watched a game from psycho fan Section 8, and I have to say I'll probably never watch from anywhere else again if I can help it. It's just so loud, and you're standing the whole game... you can't help but go nuts when something happens. Meg and Justin came along, and I suspect they'll now be the core hockey posse for the rest of the season. While ex-rromie and I were disappointed we didn't get to six goals again, we decided we'll take a four-goal victory any day of the week. Meg, this being only her second hockey game, seemed to hold up alright, though she's said she'll wear her big boots in the future (to see over all the normal sized people.)
Other than Fields, I was most impressed by Brian Collins, who seemed to have about 341 rushes into the zone all by himself. You knew he wasn't going to score, but hey, good hustle.
Next weekend is going to be huge, with Northeastern on Friday and New Hampshire on Sunday. Should we be undefeated at this time seven days from now, the BU Hockey bandwagon might start getting back to full strength.
"Please do your part to eliminate the unpleasant language and behavior. We do not want to quell your enthusiasm, but we would like to see the return of an image of high class from Boston University fans."
-- An except from Jack Parker's letter to fans handed out at this game, quite possible the largest scale waste of paper at the University this school year. The rationale is all the alumni and friends can't bring their kids because the students swear too much. Part of me wonders if anyone actually believes this letter will solve anything.
October 28, 2001 - Aneurysm Time!
Throwing on MTV2 to kill time before the FOX NFL Sunday pregame, I came across the video for Ryan Adams' New York, New York. It opens with a short message saying, "This video was filmed on a Friday, September 7, 2001." When that black screen fades, Adams reaches into a car trunk, pulls out his guitar, and walks to the shore of the East River. With the skyline clearly behind him while he sings "I still love you New York" or some such crap, you can't help but look at those two buildings behind him just a little bit taller than any of the others.
I don't want to say I've always hated New York, because that's really not the case. I hate the Yankees, and will hate them until the day I die bitter and embattled. HATE. YANKEES. FOREVER. YOU UNDERSTAND? Anyway, New York City has always been a place I don't understand, I don't comprehend, because it's too big for me to get a handle on. It's everything Boston isn't, and I like Boston, so the natural affinity against it. That said, I spent a good portion of this morning looking at this website set up by The Newseum with a selection of front pages from September 12 - my paper, The Telegraph, is in there near the bottom. It still doesn't seem real to me, and until I see that smoke for myself on the trip to Philly in January, it won't. Am I the only one who feels like this? I keep expecting to wake up and find out this was all a horrible dream. The attack, the anthrax... it still hasn't hit me.
After the Adams video on M2, on came U2's Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of. It's a mockup of a football game, complete with John Madden, a missed game-winning field goal, the whole thing. Once again, I want to thank Rea and Elmer for not asking me if I wanted a ticket to the Halloween concert in Providence. Means a lot.
On the way to go buy a football today, I saw a girl wearing those toe socks. You know, those things that are like gloves for your feet, with a little sleeve for each toe. When I saw them, I thought to myself, "You know, it's at times like these I wish I carried a gun."
The actual process of buying a football was so much harder than I expected. Going into City Sports, I never knew the varied choices one had in their purchase... I just kinda assumed there was one football and that would be what you got. I didn't know there were 17,000 types to choose from. Nike makes about 13,000 different sizes and types alone, which doesn't surprise me much at all come to think of it. Official NFL game ball? $75 I'm serious. Only catch is you can play with it, touch it, get it wet, look at it funny, breathe on it or take it out of its box.
I never had to ever buy sporting goods back in Feeding Hills, as our garage somehow had every type of ball, stick, bat, etc. that I could ever need. Strangest thing... I swear, if I ever wanted to take up curling, wouldn't have had to pay a dime for equipment.
Actually playing football was Rea's idea... little casual throw the ball around on a Sunday afternoon. When I finally got to the BU Beach, not to be confused with an actual beach, the casual thing was out the window. He, or someone else, had arranged a pickup game with four guys and a girl, a group who you could just tell was going to kick our ass before we even started. They did, 42-14. I got thrown the ball about three times and was relegated to "covering the girl," thus meaning I got to watch my four teammates get repeatedly burned on deep routes rather than actually play. I wear glasses, so I can't be good at sports, you know?
Course anything short of the ball getting embedded in my brain would have been better than actually watching the football games. Redskins 35, Giants 21. Need I remind you all these are the same Giants that went to the Super Bowl in January, and the same Redskins that my left ass cheek coule beat in a pickup game.
Thank God for the Icedogs...
"You're all full of bitterness and hate... you're like an evil fruit pie."
-- Me to Meg at the hockey game. Yes, I actually said this out loud. Justin can vouch.
October 27, 2001 - Too Much To Do
"I don't understand ballet. I've written a ballet of my own, I'm thinking of producing it. There's a man who really wants to marry this woman, but the woman is already marrying another man... so they dance around for about two hours."
-- Brian Regan badly paraphrased, as for most of the show I was laughing too hard to remember enough to quote anything else.
"But the third match kicked ass. It was an outright cage-destroying brawl between Super Akuma and the ressurected Hell Monkey. They knocked one of the fence panels out; it was sweet. At the end, Super Akuma took a flying header off the cage through a table and a model building."
-- Ken from BUCB, giving me the recap on the Kaiju show.
It never fails that I can go six days a week having nothing socially rewarding to do, and then on the seventh day, have about 37 different viable options. Thus was my Saturday, a story you will now read because, honestly, did you really come here to look at my resumé?
I had told the team to meet in Kenmore Square at 8:15, setting my own alarm for 6:00 to ensure much frivolous primping time (read: sit on Internet reading e-mail and ESPN.com). I remember waking up at 6:00. I remember shutting off my alarm. I remember the door buzzer and phone waking me up at 8:00. Whoops.
I did manage to wash up and get to Kenmore before 8:30, giving the excessive Kit Kattage to everyone who beat me to Bruegger's Bagel Bakery. Needless to say we ran out of Kit Kats.
I have long had a general disdain for MIT, possibly because I know all their graduates will someday be richer than me, possibly because 98% of their student body has embraced the nerddom you and I shun. Today was one of those days that only solidified that point. This was, by far and for whatever reason, the longest and most-painful college bowl tournament I have ever worked at. It was painful. Bleeding out of my eyes painful. Steel beans stuck in my guts painful. There was no solace, not even when it was over. I had to sit back and think about how I wasted an entire day at a school where they can't even name the God-damned buildings with words.
"OOH! WE'RE GONNA BE COOL AND GIVE ALL OUR BUILDINGS FUCKING NUMBER NAMES! HAAAAAA!"
First off, one of the guys from the Cornell team was complaining in the morning about how bad a pack I wrote... for the tournament LAST October. I'm the first to admit I don't know crap about question writing... I'm good at other things. Like organizing tournaments that don't run two hours long, running events where things at or before the time they're supposed to. Not saying your tourney is going to start at 9:30 and starting rounds at four in the afternoon... but I digress.
Needless to say the tournament ended, and we didn't win it - well, Ellen and Jon Rea's team won the lower bracket of the JV division, but that only kinda counts. Meg and I had to bolt after I finished reading, so I could change and get to the Comedy Connection at Quincy Market by 7:30. Long story short, I proceeded to lock my keys in my apartment, had to go get the RA on call, run to the C Line, get on a train that heavily reeked of piss, bolt from it at Government Center and run to Quincy, all to get there by 7:45. But we made it with plenty to spare, so it was all good.
I had always wanted to go to the Connection before now, and I was very impressed. They pack the place good, the opening act was decent enough to be an opening act, and Regan was hilarious. Having never heard his stuff before, it was all fresh material to me. Even still, Justin, who listened to his CD before deciding to go, said that most of it was new to him too. I was impressed all around, though the whole "proud to be an American" spiel at the beginning of the show was forced and stupid.
I love America. I don't need the opening act to remind me of that.
Afterwards, the two of us made our way over to Justin's, where I bought the kiddies booze, we played more PS2 and engaged in graphic sexual acts involving creatures of the night. Or something like that, I can't really remember the details.
As for Kaiju, well, I think I made the right call. And in an unrelated note, YOU ALL NEED TO COME VISIT ME IN BOSTON. NOW.
October 26, 2001 - Excessive Kit Kattage
"Well, you never had a mane, and Meg ain't exactly Steffi Graf... though she could clean up those Wimbledon plates with a chamois."
-- Vito, commenting on our plan to, like Andre Agassi, shave my head to hide oncoming baldness.
This is the kind of day I've had so far. When I came home from work today, I got a fruit cup out of the fridge, along with a spoon to eat it with. Sitting down at my computer, I proceeded to eat the fruit cup without using the spoon. For the next five minutes, I held that spoon in my right hand, while I walked around the room, typed, generally did my thing. I then proceeded to look down at my hand, and have no idea where the spoon had come from or why I was holding on to it. The words, "What the fuck is there a spoon in my hand for?" were actually said aloud before I figured out what was going on.
I need a vacation. Bad. Please don't expect much coherence in this... I'm not even sure I'm still conscious right now.
AT&T sent me a letter today, warning me that my "long distance balance must be paid in full by the due date to avoid interruption of my service." My balance? $ 1.19 I also received a credit card offer from Capital One for a Gold MasterCard which would allow me "up to $3,000 in credit!" I currently have a MasterCard with a credit line double that. Thanks for nothing, United States Postal Service!
To all my fellow BU Hockey fans out there, Amit says hello from Chestnut Hill.
OK, enough of this randomness, because I do have things to say today. First off, I want to express my pissiness about having a $24 ticket to the Brian Regan comedy show at the Comedy Connection, because it will keep me from seeing the greatest thing to come to the BU campus since Coke and David Letterman: Kaiju Big Battel. For $6, I could see guys, dressed up like Japanese monsters, extreme wrestle in a steel cage. Go to the website. I beg of you. They have a guy with a skull cube on his head. A skull cube people.
SKULL CUBE + STEEL CAGE = BIG FUN
Second... for the life of me, I cannot remember what second was. See, I stayed in tonight. I know you're shocked... a "life of the party" guy like myself... but I had a quiet night. A little Instant Messenger, a little cruising for new wallpaper, little Meg, little candy, and that's how you fill six hours. TV didn't go on once... broadcast TV sucks.
Third, we have reached Day Nine of "FreeP Sucks," my new exposé on the devolution of a college newspaper. NEWS FLASH!! If the aforementioned Big Battel is happening Saturday night, we don't right a headline that says it's happening tonight. Revolutionary thinking I know, but go with me. I'm with it on the trends.
I just woke up from a nap, and really can't remember what the hell I was going to say. Sorry gang. Tomorrow's Beaver Bonspiel and College Bowl fun, so I must away. Ahh MIT... because we have to be nerdy for EVERYTHING.
October 25, 2001 - Neatness Counts
Professor Bacevich, of the IR Department and my Military class, is rapidly becoming one of those guys whose classes I would take sight unseen, joining the ranks or Sirs Dallek and Klarfeld. Today in class, upon noticing that 5 of the 36 on the class roster were absent, Bacevich decided we'd have a pop quiz, to fuck the stragglers who couldn't even be bothered to lift their asses out of bed. That would have been cool enough, but no, he went a step further. Instead of making the pop quiz on the readings, which would have screwed a certain student with a book aversion, he made the quiz on today's lecture, ensuring 5/5 for us all. Any professor who values my coming to class and taking four pages of notes every day gets a hearty round of applause.
Anyhow, today was laundry day. Eighth week of school, and it's Jon first laundry day (not counting one in the F.H.). Disgusting as that is alone, it's made worse by a comment like, "I've been wearing the same boxers for six days in a row," don't you think? Shut up, I've been handwashing them each night. Sure I have...
$9.50 for four washers and two dryers got the job done, though like always, the jeans are still damp. These dryers were literally large enough for me to climb into and ride ala my heroes, but they still can't permeate denim. What's that all about.
And what's Brendan O'Malley all about? Roomie, is it possible for you to, you know, clean something every now and then? Maybe wash your dishes once in a hundred years? Clean the ring out of the toilet? Scrub the black stuff out of the tub? Am I really asking too much here for you to put a new roll of toilet paper on the roller when the old one runs out? He's never here, but I'm a cleaning Nazi. I get to bitch.
Yesterday marked the eighth, since I started actually counting anyway, consecutive day I've found a typographic error in the Daily Free Press. The date on today's issue? Thursday, October 10, 2001. OCTOBER 10TH NEVER WAS A THURSDAY, PEOPLE. No wonder the people at WTBU love ripping on us. It's gotten so bad, I'm seriously considering applying for Managing Editor (Second in command) this spring. Please e-mail me and virtually smack me to my senses.
"I'm going to put Doc Otis in my mouth."
-- Photo Assistant Kate, responding to my saying she should pour the aforementioned Doc in Photo Editor Conway's Bud Light (rather than giving him fellatio). Hey, I made some more green, what do I care.
"Mime in prison."
-- City Assistant Dan. Just imagine what you would act out if you were a mime in prison. Yeah, it was funnier if you were there.
October 24, 2001 - Better Written
Today in the Daily Free Press... I swear to God...
1. Front Page Feature Photo: Ihsan Gurdal of Formaggio Kitchen teaches the Boston University Cheese Certificate Course at the School of Hospitality on Tuesday night. Cheese Certificate Course? CHEESE CERTIFICATE COURSE?! This university is trying to pass itself off as world class, and we have a freakin CHEESE CERTIFICATE COURSE??
2. Staff Editorial: A World Class Example - That includes the people of Boston, and many a diehard Red Sox fan who in August never, ever thought he or she would be pulling for the Yanks. But now, even the most ardent Sox supporter must recognize that a championship for New York would be somewhat of a victory for us all. In a wholly different way, I'm left to ask "Are you fucking kidding me?!" Since I may write a perspective on this for Friday's paper, I'll spare the rant here... for now.
Tonight, I wrote a sports journalism player profile that will not be done until well into tomorrow morning. Why do I repeatedly do this to myself? Because it make me write gooder. I don't understand it either, it's just the way it is.
That's why this is getting posted in incomplete form, at 11 a.m. on Thursday. Life sucks, chico. Deal.
"You are such a momma's boy."
-- Meg, on yesterday's listing of my grades.
-- Response, with 100% less wit.
October 23, 2001 - An Explanation Or Two
"Oh, I was inconsolable."
-- Sporting genius Erik Malinowski, showing I wasn't the only one who took the Monday Nighter hard.
Now that I'm calmed from the fervor of last night, we can be a little more rational. Although, the fact that I just drank apple juice and it's given me a headache, that's pretty irrational. And the sickening pop of a sprained ankle that just happened here, when the pickup game against what's her face got a little out of control, that was pretty irrational too. Don't worry, it wasn't her ankle...
But we'll get back to that. As this is based on the university's computer system, just for shits and giggles I'll actually talk about school. With it being midterms, and with Mother no doubt reading over a cup of coffee at work, here's the Avoiding the Failout Report, brought to you by Skittles and Rogaine - part of a balanced breakfast.
American Military Experience: Got my midterm back today. Only actual midterm exam, in my only actual class (everything else is in COM, which for those who don't know, is only similar to going to college). A 29/30 (97%) on it, puts me at 34/40 (85%) for the semester, including my bageled pop quiz.
Outlook: I should be higher, but it could be a lot worse.
Sports Journalism: Always nice to have a one-on-one meeting with your professor, who wrote for Sports Illustrated, and have him tell you, "I don't know what more to say, I like your stuff!" A- on our only graded game story and a straight-up A on my feature. We did another game story yesterday, which I think I blew, but I don't think it'll be that bad.
Outlook: A- shouldn't be out of the realm, given that we have a graded column assignment still to go. As Ralph Wiggum once said, "Oh boy columns! That's where I'm a viking!"
Production & Design: No actual grades yet, though I haven't missed a class and every assignment we've needed to do, I've had in on time. We handed in our first-half newsletter project yesterday, and as graded by a classmate, I got an A-. Course the classmate was FreeP editor Jess Van Sack, whose project I gave a B+. As she's presumably one who carries grudges, I'll probably end up getting a Q. Q as in "Class for Queers."
Outlook: Anything above a C will be deemed unbridled success.
Journalism Research: What's the date today, October 23rd? OK as of October 23rd, I have yet to do anything remotely difficult in my last required journalism class. The homeworks are a breeze, and our final group project I've been asked to do nothing thusfar. All those years of being a nerd have finally paid off.
Outlook: Anything lower than a B+ isn't going to sit too well.
Now, back to much more important things; sports, midgets, pie... OK, no midgets or pie.
After Meg watched the agony I put myself through after the Giants game was over, she left. The next morning by e-mail, I was told "I think it's wonderful to be able to get so involed with it," but that I essentially need to get a grip because none of it matters.
Now it's rare I ever write anything of substance on here, but this is a situation where it warrants it. Why are sports my life? Why can a simple loss send me into a tailspin? Here's why.
I want you all to go to this site, and follow the link to download ESPN's Images Of Our Century, a 7-minute video of the last 100 years in sport that originally aired on 12/31/99. Watch it. If you like sports, you will see something you know, and it will make you smile. I guarantee it.
There, excapsulated in that video, is why sports are so great. Why our sports stars get paid so much money for doing essentially nothing. The fact is they do, in fact, do nothing. Sports mean nothing; if every major league declared bankruptcy tomorrow, I would be crushed. A huge part of me would be dead forever. But I would still have my life, my health (busted ankle aside), my friends, family, all of it.
Yet how can something that means so little matter so much? That's the magic of sport. You remember what you felt like when the U.S. beat the Russians at Lake Placid? when Yzerman scored from the blue line against St. Louis? when Flutie and Kordell Stewart hit their long bombs? when you watched Barry Sanders run or Larry Bird in his prime? when "Havlicek stole the ball" or "the Giants won the pennant?" On the flip side, how about when Nancy Kerrigan got her leg smashed? Or when Len Bias died? Or when your team lost the big game?
Personally, since the Boston sports world is paying the karmic debts for '60s Celtic dominance, I look to January of 1991, Super Bowl 25, won by the Giants 20-19. I was too young to truly remember the win in Pasadena, but I remember sitting in my basement with my dad, watching the Bills drive down the field in the final minute. Eight seconds left, Scott Norwood lining up the field goal that would have changed Bills history forever. He kicked it, and it was wide all the way. At that moment when that kick hit the netting wide right, it didn't matter that we were in a war, or that it was past my bedtime, or anything. All that mattered was, just for a moment, everything was perfect. The Giants, my favorite football team, were world champions.
Same kind of thing when the United States won the Ryder Cup in '99 - I was there on Tuesday, if anyone cares. It was after the Field Day for my father's golf league, and we were all sitting in the clubhouse watching it unfold on the big screen. When Justin Leonard sank that sixty footer to essentially seal it, imagine 50 grown men and me jumping around like idiots, high fives, the whole bit.
It can be the highest highs and the lowest lows over something, like you said, that matters not at all. That's why it makes me "irrational," Meg. I'm going to work.
October 22, 2001 - Momentum Shift
Words can not even begin to describe how absolutely angry I am right now. You can call it trivial if you want, Meg, but I don't much care. Tonight's Giants game was like watching the Dave Brown - Danny Kanell Giants of the mid-90s. The defense would dominate the entire game, while the offense would fail to be able to get out of its own way. The Giants would lose when the D would make one lapse...
Ten to fucking nine, in a game that should have been won by at least 10. I'm sorry, but it's fresh in my mind. There's nothing else to say, except hope your 55th was happy prior to the game, Dad, because I know it wasn't during of after it.
October 21, 2001 - Memos and Madden
Memo to Jillian Barberie: In a world of flavor-of-the-week hot chicks, you are far from the first and far from the best. Your Prestone commercial about peeing is not witty, you suck as a weathergirl on FOX NFL Sunday, and you generally just need to get out of my face and bring back Jenny McCarthy from whatever truck stop MTV found her at.
The streak is over. After nine consecutive winning NFL bets, I had a feeling today was going to be the end of the winning run. Looking at the lines, nothing jumped off the page at me, so I passed on the early games. In the afternoon though, I bit on a parlay with Green Bay and Arizona fully aware the stars were well against me. Course I never thought the Packers would be the loss out of the two. Whatever, I'm still up over $200 and you're not. I do regret not going on my Bears hunch though...
TEN underdogs won today. TEN! And guess who's a favorite tomorrow night in the Meadowlands... that be my Giants. My nine-game winning streak ended today... will Big Blue's nine-gamer end tomorrow? Don't count on it Philly!
Memo to United Airlines: I appreciate your sorrow over what happened on September 11th, because of the direct impact it had on your company and your country. However, a blond-haired and bubbly flight attendant telling me, "We're Americans, and this is not gonna beat us down," isn't helping anyone. Please leave her to asking me what I would like to drink and whether or not I would like a hot towel.
Tonight, I finally broke down and visited Justin. Given that doing work would have been the responsible, scholarly endeavor after football(and that just ain't my game, baby), I went to 1053, paid Mikey for Saturday's Brian Regan tickets, stopped to say hello to Margaret and ran over to Justin's place for three hours on the PS2. Here it is October 21, and he just got a roommate yesterday; he's already complaining that the way the room is set up, he'll be on his computer and have roomie's feet next to his head if he's in bed. Meh.
Madden, we exchanged ass kickings - his to me in an exhibition, mine to him in the excellent two-minute-drill mode. Then one of his friends came over and I watched some Devil May Cry; very pretty, but very boring to watch. Then NHL, which his buddy housed me at... shocker there. Then I departed; just like old times.
He still has no job, still spends money like a wild man, still eats Domino's on a daily basis and gains no weight... damn I miss living with him.
Memo to Ray Henry, Daily Free Press News Editor: Raymond, it has come to my attention that you feel guys hugging girls in the newsroom is inappropriate behavior. I also know that you've refused gifts because you feel it will hurt your journalistic impartiality. Well Ray, just to pass along the word, fucking on the couch in Photo is inappropriate behavior, as is leaving the lobster boxers Mommy sent you on the news desk for a month.
"Concept made famous by my friend who wanted to call CBS a couple years ago to complain that he couldn't understand what Phil Simms was saying because Simms needed to take Peyton Manning's dick out of his mouth."
-- Matt Bruce, explaining the concept of "broadcaster fellatio." Funny because usually Peyton's the one with the dick in his... nevermind.
BU 6 - 3 Vermont
We're 2-0, BC is 1-3-1. Whoo!
|@ VT - 10/20/01
I wasn't there, as the game was in Vermont and I was busy getting buzzed. I heard the results from sports guy Nick Cardamone at the party, who also told me of BC getting whipped on Friday. We were pleased. You want more details, I suggest you read the game story.
October 19-20, 2001 - The Pro-phy-lac-tic Toothbrush
The title of this mega-update comes from an old ad in the bathroom of the Watertown Ruby Tuesday, an ad that also assured the toothbrush "had not been fingered" before you bought it.
No update yesterday, as with tournament preparations, we were a little busy. But rest assured you'll get it all here, including news on the best weekend in college hockey for some time.
Friday, well, I don't remember much of Friday. See, I've been drinking tonight, so anything beyond the last 24 hours could be anything. I worked, came home, met up with Elmer to work on scheduling and stuff, went (with Meg) to Ghetto Star for prizes, went to ENG to make copies... and the rest I forget. We had a hell of a time at the supermarket, because I mean when you're going out looking for crap like grass jelly drink and pregnancy tea, how can you not go wrong?
Oh yeah, and the team bought us dinner. But you didn't hear that... because we would never use a purchase order to pay ourselves back in groceries...
"Dinner, drinkin' and babies... partially funded by your undergraduate student fee."
-- Elmer or Meg, on the tortellini, Kaliber Non-Alcoholic and Pregnancy Tea making their way to the cart.
Alrightm on to Saturday, quite possibly the bestest day of the year thus far. Yes, few days have been gooder than Saturday was.
"Me fail English? That's unpossible!"
-- Ralph Wiggum, with one of The Simpsons' finest quotables ever.
Tournament days are always long ones, but it's not something I've ever regretted doing. Waking at 7:30 to a phone call from Elmer, I threw together a statsheet, some invoice forms and a hairstyle to get myself over to CAS in well enough time. As always, we had a couple teams not show up, but we managed. Teams were late, short people, annoying, disgusting... but we managed. That's what makes us the best tournament hosts in the whole country, I think... no matter what attempts the teams make to screw up our days, we can manage better than any other college bowl team in the country. Going on three years at the helm, I'm finally ready to declare us the best around. Anyone who doesn't agree can file their complaint with my ass.
I'd go into the details of the tournament, but it's so much easier to gloss them over. Harvard's one team won, with loser bracket wins going to Columbia, Dartmouth and Delaware. You had to pity the team from Delaware, who brought two teams all the way up here and then proceeded to finish last and dead last. Course since they did win the "We Suck" Osama Bin (there was a bin theme), they took home a lovely six pounds of parting gift. Other than the abovementioned and the gefilte fish, we gave away the likes of toilet seat covers, knockoff Spam, liquid sweetener, and the list goes on...
When we had gone to Costco in Waltham on Thursday, the trip back had been dominated by trying to find a rumored Arby's in the city. Rea and Vito longed for the roast beef goodness they take for granted in Pennsylvania, and just the thought of it made them goofy. At the tourney, Vito made it a point to talk to one of the Brandeis players, who seemed very sure of the restaurant's location. So the previously mentioned, plus Elmer, went for a drive to find it. Suffice to say, the Arby's has been leveled, and we were not happy.
"You figure a fat, greasy kid would know where Arby's is."
-- Vito, with an assist by Elmer.
Still needing food, we ended up at the aforementioned Ruby Tuesday at the Arsenal Mall, narrowly skipping over an Old Country Buffet. Whenever on OCB gets mentioned, I have to harken back to May 1997 and the day I took the SAT. Having locked my keys in my car in a driving rainstorm, I ended up having to hitch a ride with Daryl (now at MIT, being a superhero), Brad Tilden (at Amherst, being a homosexual) and others. After a brief period of causing havoc driving through the woods and a vacant field, we went to OCB. Since it was around the breakfast to lunch changeover, we got to eat both meals, getting mass quantities of both. I don't remember the circumstances, but I know that I ate an entire plate of bacon. By an entire plate, we're talking like two pounds of bacon. Amazingly more disgusting than the 13 Taco Bell tacos in two hours that happened later that year... but we'll save that story.
Back to yesterday - after Ruby Tuesday, we went to the Best Buy across the street, because never had there been a Best Buy built that I can resist going into. Elmer and Rea bought DVDs, Meg a CD, Vito nothing. Me, I finally bought All That You Can't Leave Behind like I should have done months ago. That done, we finally came back to the city, and the push for me to buy everyone booze began.
"I want alcohol, not attention."
-- Elmer, RA extraordinare.
"Liquafood! I want some liquafood!"
-- Vito and Cooch, mocking Elmer by promising the likes of beer-battered onion rings and items from the Jack Daniels Grill at TGI Friday's.
Long story short, I did not buy alcohol for the underaged. I instead went to the Daily Free Press' annual mid-semester bash, Humpfest, and drank alcohol next to the underaged. Now I'm the first to bash the FreeP for going in the toilet since its glory days of the early '90s, but I've never known a group able to drink and create palpable sexual tension so efficiently in such a short period of time.
A few highlights, in bullet form to shorter this already-too-long update:
We (myself and three ladies) were the first ones at the party. I hate that. Things didn't really get started until about a half-hour later, when the ENTIRE FreeP braintrust arrived drunk. I remark to Bill, "Wow. If a bomb had hit that apartment, the paper would never publish again." Upon Bill saying news editor Ray Henry wasn't there and would have been spared, I repeat my statement.
As I'm sitting on the futon just nursing a beer, in walks Schulte, my neighbor from last year in Danielsen who I haven't seen since May. Does he write for the paper? No. Does anyone care? No.
Someone discovers that access to the roof has been left unlocked. So I'm on the roof of 115 Bay State Road, trying to hold up drunken girls while Bill is off macking it with something that would make it with a fire hydrant if there was an input hole. Unlike the actual composition of the Free Press, the party is nearly all hot girls. Note I said nearly
Right around after we got kicked off the roof, I sit down with Scott Brooks and Nick Cardamone, the only other guys at the party not trying to find somthing to lay. We watch the carnage unfold before us. At some point, I also tell Schulte I will buy his great American novel about being a hopeless romantic, just as soon as he writes it.
A group of twelve of us are pulled into a huddle by Managing Editor Chris Cassidy. With 13 drinks in him, he then proceeds to ask us how each of us are doing. We then give a rousing "Fuck 'em up, Fuck 'em up, BC Sucks!" chant and break the circle. With a 7-2 home loss to Lowell on Friday and a 4-3 road loss to Northeastern on Saturday, turns out they really do suck.
Around 2 a.m. when we finally did decide to leave, it marked the only time in college thusfar that I've had to physically carry somebody down a flight of stairs. Let me tell you, it was not fun.
That's all you're getting, since you've already stopped reading.
October 18, 2001 - The Whaler Generation
There is something to be said for diplomacy, for sitting down, talking out one's differences, playing the game, doing what you're told and keeping it all on the level. However, there is something to be said for reaching for the phone, calling your hardcore Guido mobster friends currently laying low in the Albany countryside and busting some fucking kneecaps.
Guess who's group got their SUAB funding requests back today?! And guess who now hopes Emily Saunders goes bald like me?!
Hair Loss Update: That's something I never figured I'd be saying... Anyway, the general consensus among the populace is my hair is falling out due to malnutrition. Much as I hate to say it, this is what Meg has been saying since the beginning, though Mom was the one that sold me on the idea. She compared me to Liz Filarski from the last Survivor, or as she put it, "that girl going out with that guy from BC." She went bald from not eating, so what does it mean? Means I'm trying out for the next Survivor!
I feel fine. I don't feel malnourished, none of my ribs are poking through my clothing or anything. I feel the same as I always have; my hair is just missing in one place and thin across the whole front of my head. I thank God I'm not developing the spot in the back, but I should shut up before that happens. I'm going to buy some multivitamins and make a conscious effort to eat three honest-to-Betsy meals a day, and see if the Brillo pad grows back in properly. Til then, I ask you not to laugh at me. Though come to think of it, maybe I've just evolving to a higher life form....
Costco Trip #2 was today, with Sirs Vito and Jon Rea, and the lovely ladies Ellen and Meg. Only spent $70 this time, on more pineapple, much juices, turkey burgers and a little something I like to call "Chickarina." Plus the first three rolls of Coast to Coast film got developed: Kansas, Santa Monica and PNC Park. Unfortunately, the film I used was "shit" so all the night pictures came out like "crap." And the day ones... they aren't much better. Guess my memories of Dodger Stadium will have to do...
No diatribe about the Whale or my midterm today... just have to leave you with this:
"It doesn't matter how much they suck. When Army and Navy play each other, they are the best teams on the field."
-- Jon Rea over Chinese. The food, not the people.
October 17, 2001 - Recessions and Hairlines
-- Ironic, being that I distrust the man so much. As ex-Devils coach Jim Schoenfeld once said to referee Don Koharski, "Have another doughnut, you fat pig."
(You'll have to pardon me if I seem a bit distant today. See, I'm feeling a little startstruck, because a major publication has published a profile on me in their most recent issue. Don't believe me? Read it for yourself!)
I was walking down Cummington Street to work today when I saw the darndest thing. Guy pulls up to parallel park in a jet black, tinted windows, buffed chrome, spotless new Mercedes. Asian man gets out. Pressed black suit, black tie, polished shoes, combed hair, all of it. He feeds the meter nonchalantly, whips out his cell phone, starts chattering away on it. Only he is abruptly cut off... when I beat his miserable skull in with a bat. NO ONE should have things that nice. No one. Unless it's me.
OK, that story wasn't entirely true. But I assure all of these are:
Annie, one of my co-workers at the Mail Room, in the wake of the anthrax hoax at the office, has bought herself a box of latex gloves to use when sorting the mail. Honest to God. An $11 box of gloves, because someone mailed an envelope full of sugar; something we couldn't detect without opening every envelope one at a time. Another department in the College now has a mandatory antibacterial wash for when the mail sorting is done. You know what I think of said policies? Said procedures? Said bullshit, knee-jerk reactions? Well, Kristen and I spent the last few minutes of work filling said latex gloves with water and left them on all the office door handles. $8.90 an hour, kids. To make water balloons. You hate me.
When Meg and I went to the wedding a week and a half ago, my Scotch tape got brought along, because we had to tape the card to our gift (well, I bought it... my gift :)). Never did tape the card... ANYWAY, it got left in her car, so Meg took the tape into her apartment. Upon my asking her to bring it back to me, she refused, saying I would have to go to her place to get it - I don't like going to her place, just because it's so... well, not my apartment. Last night she was over here. We hung out, chatted, lived through the innuendo-filled "pants staining" incident and she left. At some point duing the evening, so took two of my Blur CDs. Took as in removed from CD rack, put in backpack, walked out of apartment. Now, in her window at 34 Buswell St., there is a display. My Scotch, my two Blur CDs and the simple message, "Got Tape?" I shit you not.
[Please do go read her little update about me on Live Journal. It really is precious.]
My hair is falling out. Yeah, that was about my reaction too.
"I AM A SPONGEBOB HOE!"
-- Anna, winner of Dumbest F'ing Quote of the Year. No doubt.
October 16, 2001 - Clueless
"Hiya papaya. What's up in Coochville?"
-- Renee, greeting me on Instant Messenger
Over the last few months, I've been laying off the IM more than in past years, due to being buring in things to do on a daily basis. Gone are the Rich Hall days of leaving the thing on for twelve hours straight, just talking to people about nothing incessantly. Apparently, my sudden lack of appearances has made me a hot commodity to talk to, which amazes me because my conversational skills have always been right around this level.
While defining military terms for my Thursday midterm, I put IM on, for a reason which now escapes me (though I think it may have been to see where Meg was - more on that later). Put up the away message, sat down to do a little work. Bill says hello, and gratuitously plugs his new Cooch-esque web site. So I start talking to him. Within the next two minutes, seven people are talking to me. Lonnie and Renee and Lisa and Anna and Vito... the list goes on. It was nice to talk to people, but it wasn't so nice to watch any hope of my working go out my window and on to the train tracks.
I think that's God's way of telling me I shouldn't be studying. Ever. Though there is the small possibility I'm reading a little too much into this.
Anyway, yesterday Meg was, how can I put this, "made aware" of her pseudo-girlfriend status. What exactly does the term pseudo-girlfriend mean? Well, Webster's Online defines "pseudo" as "being apparently rather than actually as stated," and "girlfriend" as "a frequent or regular companion of a boy or man." And when you put "pseudogirlfriend" in the dictionary, what do you get? The definition of "stage whisper." Trust me on this one.
"Pseudo girlfriend? That’s the last time I let you mess up my white pants."
-- Meg. Honestly Mom, I don't know what she's talking about.
"Because there aren't girls like you around, anywhere. No one else that I've ever met could be a supermodel, if only she wasn't busy building freakin jet engines."
-- Myself to Lonnie, because sometimes you just have to be blunt.
October 15, 2001 - High Comedy
"Is there a 31st day in October?"
-- Meg. She's so precious.
I've been sitting here watching what was to be the worst football game since the last strike, the 0-4 Redskins at the 0-4 Cowboys. I didn't make a bet on tonight's game; I nearly put a little on the under; the number was 37, so both teams would have to total less than 37 points for me to win. Given the score after three quarters was Dallas 3, Washington 0, I'm a little regretful.
Best part about this game so far? The fact that ABC is treating it like the high school game that it is. Purported game highlights from past games, commercial cut-ins by a bespangled Richard Simmons, repeated mentions of next week's blockbuster... EAGLES AT GIANTS. I'm telling you now, the party will be here next Monday night, as my G-Men take their tenth straight over Philly.
Today began the preparations for my only midtern, American Military Experience. Yes, I have one midterm. Yes, you hate me. To solve the "Jon doesn't read textbooks" problems, the next three days will be spent defining every term given this semester thusfar. Would it be easier for me to just read, given that I only have two books total? Yes. Should you shut up now? Bingo.
We revised the BUCB Constitution tonight, to hopefully end that soap opera for a few weeks. Think they'll know the "Sankping Machine" is just a typoed "Spanking Machine?" Hey, it was borderline profane to begin with, we're entitled to a little slack. Especially given that this school funds groups like this.
Last thing -- least before Dallas wins this battle of the futile. Agawam High's "As Schools Match Wits" team lost to Central tonight, 140-125, marking the end of the Larry O'Brien's coaching career. The school's last title came in 1981, with both the Couture kids failing to deliver the silver back to a man who so rightfully deserved it. It truly is one of my genuine regrets, to have not won that trophy for my school and my mentor. Mr. O, you'll probably never read this, but I don't think you'll ever truly know just how much some of us have benefitted from your guidance over the years. My hat's off to you, and it's not just because years of wearing hats is making me bald.
9-7 Boys makes me 5-9 for the week. 5-3 Yanks makes me absolutely fucking ill. Seattle, I've never needed nothin like I need you now.
October 14, 2001 - My Giants
First to clarify from yesterday's hockey update, the Boston Globe reports RPI's last-second shot last night hit the post. Since the press box would have had a much better view than I in Section 6, I'll buy it. Nevertheless, Fields was still beaten like a rented goalie.
As for the homecoming activities...
The Parade - I've now seen two of these, and both times I was left to wish I just wasn't there. Reflecting back now, it doesn't seem like it was such a bad time -- some of the floats/golf carts were even attractively decorated. But standing on the side of the street, listening to the girlish screams of the representative schools and groups, I just wanted to start shooting. Not to kill, nothing like that. Just into the air to calm them down, because honestly, no one should be THAT proud that they're in Crayons Glue and Scissors.
[Non-BUers: CGS is a two-year program designed to replace having to do work in high school. You too, for just $35,000 a year, can just spend your time smoking weed and banging cheerleaders, knowing that your collegiate ticket is already stamped! At CGS, you'll learn all the remedial subjects most of us have mastered in years past... spelling, smoking, how to walk in seven-inch platform sandals, and more. Then, after two years and a large, mysterious project called "Capstone," you can enter the normal University community and bitch about how you get no respect. JOIN TODAY!!!]
The Barbeque - NO ONE does catering better than the fine folks on the Charles River Campus. BBQ chicken breast, hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, chocolate chip cookies... (insert drooling here). It's a pity my shrunken stomach and increased awareness of fat people don't allow me to gorge myself, because I think I could be really funny trying to fit the equivelant on three chickens in my mouth at once.
And speaking of fat people, there was this one cheerleader in the parade... OH MY GOD. Remember the 10/9 rant about dressing out of one's league? If you have a gut, COVER YOUR DAMN STOMACH! What's the best part of this story? Come Monday, this girl's going to be the Free Press Homecoming photo spread!
Today began waking up to a $80 breakfast at the Swissôtel, because if there's any family that can afford to gorge on hot chocolate and eggs. it's the one with the cooler full of booze in their room. No activities today, so most of it was spent here as a family, watching the Giants nearly SHOCK THE WORLD, as they lost to the Rams by a single point. BU wins Saturday night, and it feels like a loss. G-Men lose Sunday afternoon, and it feels like a win. "Greatest Show on Earth" my ass.
Through the four o'clock games, my game picking record this week is a dismal 4-8. My fantasy football team is on its way to an 0-5 start. I feel like a total ass, except for one blissful thing. The 49ers come-from-behind, touchdown-in-OT victory today has run the betting streak to EIGHT in a row. EIGHT. Almost up enough to buy one of these, but I won't right now. Paying off the credit card would be the first order of business, after the hookers and the booze.
October 13, 2001 - Homecoming Hoopla
As I need to be on my way to our downtown lodgings with Little Cooch, talk about the parade, BBQ and family's visit will have to wait a few more hours.
BU 6 - 5 RPI
To quote Homer Simpson, "What was THAT about?"
|@ WBA - 10/13/01
Revenge was sweet, but hardly angst-free...
Two minutes into the game, BU was on the board. The goals were coming in bunches, with the Icedogs making Nathan Marsters look like I was between the pipes. 2-1 after the first seemed far closer than it was, and 4-1 after the second was barely respectful. Three minutes into the third it was 6-1, Marsters was gone and the rout was on. Rensselaer's frustration was boiling over in slashes and shenanigans, as Sasquatch led a raucous Walter Brown in a chant of "USA! USA!" People were scoring between periods, the band brought back the "Fuck 'em up, Fuck 'em up" song, the crowd was chanting "Yankees Suck!" It made me wonder if this is what it was like during the salad days of the early '90s.
At the ten minute mark of the third, it was still 6-1. And the game took the 180 degree spin my Bostonian sport instincts have taught me to have.
After the referees took nearly ten minutes to sort out a stack of penalties and game misconducts, BU went on a five-minute power play... and flat as a pancake. Their psyche shifted from "win the game" to "don't lose it," and every smart sports fan knows what happens when the prevent defense comes in.
So with eight seconds left in the game, it's 6-5. Faceoff in the BU end, after Fields snatched a slapper out of the air and froze the puck. Puck slides to the back boards, scrum ensues. Four seconds. Engineer emerges, and he's all alone, point blank. Two seconds. Holding, holding, and firing. Puck slides under the right arm of Fields clean, slams the back twine...
... a half second too late.
As promising as the first fifty minutes of play was, the last ten brought back all the memories of the dark days. The skill players are there, the chemistry is forming, but Fields pulled a Tapper. The Good Doctor has some work left to do.
October 12, 2001 - That'll Teach Me
Someday I'll learn to shut up. No sooner do I request, nay, demand, we all go one with our lives does something terrorist-related directly affect the course of my day.
We were evacuated for over two hours today, as Boston Fire, Police, HAZMAT, Bomb Squad, the Mass Casualty Unit, the World Council of Credit Unions and the New England Patriots cheerleaders were on the scene to investigate what ended up being a very cruel anthrax hoax. In the end it proved to be nothing, and my being interviewed by WBZ's Carl Stevens and New England Cable News amounted to little, but just the thought that a letter containing biological weapons passed through my workplace, through my office, through my hands, is more than a touch spooky.
Tonight is the start of Homecoming/Parents Weekend at the BU, and my family's arrival will make them the only one in university history to attend four football-less homecomings. The only event on the dance card this evening was the Family Dinner at 808, the automobile dealership turned ballroom - the conversion has gone well, believe it or not.
If there's one thing BU knows how to do, it's crack out the catering and throw a party. I said it after the Miracle On Ice screening and I'll say it again now. Salad, beef stroganoff, tortellini, turkey, salad, apple crisp, YEAH BABY.
I finally now understand this year's football-less theme, "Lost In a World of Fun." The ballroom was decorated wuth gigantic board game pieces: lollipops from Candy Land, slides from Chutes and Ladders, and my personal favorite, humongous Monopoly pieces. If there was a subtle way to sneak a seven-foot-tall iron out of the room, it would now be in 98 Mountfort. Alas, we had to settle for four tubs of PlayDoh, which Meg had been coveting since she saw them.
For purposes of the dinner, the Couture family was Matt-less (he's taking the SAT Saturday morning and busing it up in time for the hockey opener) and with 35% more Meg. I'm not sure how I feel about that, given that I'm not really a big fan of the "dating scene," but learning the lesson of 4-5 graphs ago, I'm just going to shut my mouth and see where this leads.
TIME TO KICK SOME ENGINEER ASS, BECAUSE HOCKEY'S BACK!
October 11, 2001 - One Month Later
Today's Good News: Got our first paper back in Sports Journalism today. I wrote mine on groundskeeping at the golf course... thought it was total shit when I handed it in... got it back, graded by a guy who's written dozens of cover stories for Sports Illustrated, the holy grail of sportswriting...
"Nice job - a publishable piece in a regional paper. Well reported, good color elements, sound mechanics." -- A
Today's Bad News: Next class, American Military Experience. Got back our pop quizzes from last week... I got a 5 out of 5 on the first... This time, got caught not reading the book... 0 out of 5. Most excellent.
It never fails, every time I meet with my advisor, I always leave feeling better than I did when I went it. For those of you in COM, I don't care what you have to do to get Jon Klarfeld as your advisor... take his classes, sleep in his hallway, eat raw chicken, date a fat girl, whatever. Just do it - the man is amazing.
I go in there with all my internship paperwork from Nashua, all panicky about my impending push off the collegiate cliff, and he tells me I really don't have to start worrying about jobs until Spring Break. Plus, the job market now, contrary to everyone's belief, is not as bad as it could be. Plus we reminisced about Springfield and the salad days from when I was in his class. Good times, good times.
And tonight, it was more good times as I broke the promise I made myself. I went to the Free Press, bought the alcohol, ate pizza and watched baseball. But you know what? Who needs to do work? IT'S MY SENIOR YEAR! For one, I made $23 on the purchasing, because everyone overpays every week. For two, the people there are my friends, even if my workload there has been limited to cutting and pasting for the moment. But the big one, for three, IS THAT THE YANKEES ARE DOWN 0-2 AND CAN CONSIDER THEIR ASSES CANNED.
Plus! Matty Cooch and the rest of Agawam High School's "As Schools Match Wits" team won their opening match tonight, 160-100 over Ludlow High. Let's hope he can win the promised title I never could.
(You'll note that though today is the one month anniversary of the attacks on America, they receive no mention here. I've gone on with my life as before, and you know what? Much as you can, you should too.)
October 10, 2001 - The Emptiness
My fridge and cupboards are reaching panic status. The pork chops are gone. Pineapple too. The pizzas, juice, pears... also gone. We're down to turkey burgers, soup, pasta, rice and the desperation foods... turkey slices, Spaghetti O's and Ramen. I need Costco like I need a clone. And yes, I do need a clone, if only so I could freak people out with him.
"OK Cooch 2, you go do all the miscellaneous bullshit College Bowl needs done, go cook me some pasta, go do all the work I have to do that gets me nowhere... while I go write and start looking for a job."
Talking to Lisa tonight, who's burning it up writing for UMass-Dartmouth's Torch, got me all depressed. It's hardly her fault, I'm glad somebody called me on it. You see, I'm a writer. It's what I'm good at, despite all the errors and meaningless diatribes I put you people through on a daily basis. Yet, my schedule prevents me from doing it, and that doesn't bother me. I don't know why that doesn't bother me, because it should, and not just at times like now when I'm dwelling on it.
Making sure BUCB doesn't implode on itself is my responsibilty, but it's not going to help me get a job. Getting my busywork done for classes won't either. Nor is working in the mail room. But they're all things, for one reason or another, that I have to do. So is reporting... but it has fallen to the bottom of the pile, because it was that or my ability to get out of bed.
If any of you have family members or friends who've got connections in the sports industry, please drop my name. You've seen my stuff, you know I can write, you know I desperately want a real job in the real world. I've given you so little, can't you do the same? :)
In happier news, my Internet sportsbook has been bought by a bigger Internet sportsbook. And due to the "inconvenience," they gave me $20. You know what that means... THE STREAK HAS HIT SEVEN STRAIGHT!
Meeting with my kickass advisor tomorrow morning bright and early... maybe he can guide me to job nirvana, a happy place with ample pay, little work and free cookies. Cookies with those white chocolate chunks... mmm, white chocolate chunks...
October 9, 2001 - Skateboarding Is Not A Crime...
...but you know what? It damn well should be. Why?
1. It's inefficient. - Now I'm no Lee Iacocca here, working a factory full of Mexicans like a factory full of Mexicans, but I'm someone who appreciates doing a lot of work and having it get you nowhere. You kick your leg, you roll five feet, you kick again, you roll five more feet... it's like a scooter. And Razor aside, we all know how successful scooters have been.
2. It's childish. - Hey, I think all that stuff Tony Hawk is sweet too. But you know what? You there, doing jumps off the steps of the Tsai Center all night? You're not Tony Hawk. You'll never be Tony Hawk. Hell, I'd take the spread on whether or not you could spell Tony Hawk. I see skateboarders on campus, I think of when I was a kid going to Springfield Falcons (nee Indians) games at the Civic Center, and the street rats would be doing jumps off the sculptures in front of the building. I wanted them to fall then, like I want you to fall now. But don't hurt yourself, because then I'd feel guilty.
3. It's a gateway. - I'm well aware there are exceptions to every rule, but how does that saying go again? "I'm not as think as you stoned I am..."
Thanks to the guy in the hemp backpack who had this patch on there, thus giving me the inspiration for this tangent I'm on...
Other Things That Aren't A Crime, But "Damn Well Should Be"
1. Faking sports knowledge to make people think you're cool. If you refer to "goals" as "points," or think Pete Sampras should suck it up and play in the Ryder Cup, we're on to you. Related Felonies: Anyone who seriously watches the Super Bowl just for the commercials (and turns off the football) or anyone who goes to sporting events just to look at player's asses.
2. Dressing out of one's own league. I have no problem with people trying to look their best given what they've got; hey, I do it every morning. I'm just saying if you're 5'3" and weigh 350 pounds, put some fucking clothes on. Related Felony: Wearing inappropriate clothing and then bragging how your low-cut neckline gets you things for free.
3. Not knowing when to shut up. The world's College Bowl players, I'm looking at you... Related Felony: Not knowing when to wash.
October 8, 2001 - Cock Pride
Not that kind of cock, Bill. I'm talking about USC football, and not that USC, Meg. South Carolina Football, mired in suckitude for decades prior to last season, moved to 5-0 on Saturday with a 42-6 win over Kentucky. Unlike BU Hockey, which began sucking when I arrived on campus, Cock Football has blossomed and made a fan out of Jim Crowley (forgetting that they went 0-11 in 1999). #12 Carolina will now be the college football team I live vicariously through the remainder of the season.
Hey, I got accepted there. I could have gone there, I just fear the South and being away from my mommy!
Before we continue, I'd just like to commend the City of Boston for having an online system to pay parking tickets. Very simple and very convenient. Of course, I'd like to tell the Boston Transporation Department to fuck off for giving me a ticket in the first place - two hours parked on the wrong side of Mountfort Street SHOULD NOT COST ME $30.
Today was cleaning day at 98 Mountfort #2. Aside from the normal vacuuming, the issue at hand was the stack of assorted empties in the kitchen, which have been wallowing in their own crapulence since the night Bill, his now ex-girl and a cacophany of others drank the place dry. I also had a wedding present-less Target box to deal with.
Empty box + non-returnables = A happy marriage.
The box is currently honeymooning in the lobby thanks to the fine folks in South Campus Res Life, because damned if I know where to take them. That'll teach me to try to recycle...
We're dancing in unprecedented territory people... the Rams 35-0 demolition of the Lions tonight has run the Cooch's betting streak to SIX in a row. You know the last time I've had this much success doing anything? Probably has something to do with this.
My six-day sabbatical from classes rages on.
October 7, 2001 - Football Takes A Backseat
Can't say as I expect that to ever happen again...
It's rare any actual news makes it into the daily update, because in my mind, the fact that I ate seven rolls at the rehearsal dinner last night is more important to you, Jeffrey Q. Internet Reader, than anything CNN could say on disgusting levels of overeating. However, a front page story on today's Globe is worthy of a mention on two levels.
"This is Harvard's dirty little secret: Since the Vietnam era, rampant grade inflation has made its top prize for students - graduating with honors - virtually meaningless." Read the rest here.
It's a good story because, hey, who doesn't love ripping on a school full of bastard yuppie children. That said, tell me something I don't know. I've met people from Harvard and I'm a brighter bulb than they are. Now THAT'S saying something, since my greatest academic accomplishment may have been cheating on an ethics test sheerly for irony's sake.
But enough about that, because today was a special day for two very good friends of mine. Matt Harper-Nixon and Allyson Mondoux, who've been dating for as long as I've known them, were married in Slatersville, R.I. It was a freezing cold day, but a beautiful ceremony nonetheless. Even I, bitter jackass of much renown, couldn't help but smile when it was over. Mercifully, my reading went off without a stutter, and I successfully managed to not embarass myself and Meg in the church -- though she did have to stop me from eating Skittles during the ceremony. Plus it was great to see BUCB alums Bruce and Beezer, friends from out of the area who only make it up for events such as these. To have eight of the coolest current or former BUCBers in one place, all dressed up no less, is not an opportunity one often gets. Hope the pictures come out well.
I've been thinking about today, and I dare say it was the perfect day. The wedding went off flawlessly for Hypho and Allyson (just what they deserve), I got to hang out with my mature friends and dress up (took 20 minutes to tie my tie...), I didn't make a fool of myself on the dance floor (too much), I had a good time (and a Heineken), my betting streak has hit five in a row (Dolphin bet in groom's honor), spent the day with Meg (who looked dare I say stunning all dolled up), everything. Man, it was one of those days where I can just look back and think that college really has been the best four years of my life.
But it's over now, at least for me. Tomorrow's a big day in its own right, as the BUCB Constitution remains under attack. I just can't help not caring though... today was awesome. Awesome. Awesome.
October 6, 2001 - Where Was I...
OK, now to get the proverbial shit in order...
BUCB - As formerly stated, the SUAB chair e-mailed me late Thursday to say the College Bowl Constitution was "not the arena for profane and suggestive language and content." Given until Monday night to come up wit ha suitable Constitution, the panicking began in full force Friday morning.
Thanks to Meg, I got a meeting with Zach Coseglia, who's on the Student Union and is a friend of hers. He looked things over, verified that our Constitution is infact ratified and accepted by the University's Student Activities Office and said he's try to help us out. Help he did.
I got another e-mail from the SUAB chair today, much calmer and much less seeming of "impending doom." Things are by no means over and done with, but I can never again say the Student Union hasn't done anything for me. :)
Wedding - Last night's bachelor party was not what all you disgusting little dirtbags are thinking of when I say 'bachelor party.' There were no strippers, but it was at Jillian's where all the waitresses may as well be naked. There were about a dozen of us, though most with from the Harper-Nixon or Mondoux family, or from Lawyers Weekly where he works. I spent most of the night talking to Coen, the grand dame of BUCB and the guy who first introduced to the bliss of Mountfort Street. He beat me at bubble hockey, we went 1-1 as a team on the dartboards, then watched the slow devolution of everyone else into drunkenness. As usual, I showed off the Couture alcoholic roots, having a whopping one Guinness and a celebratory Kamikaze, which for having vodka in it was damn good. The video games there really didn't impress me as much as they used to, though Daytona USA 2 got a good deal of my money.
As previously mentioned, we went to B.B. Wolf's around 11, to eat ribs and compare level of drunkenness. When we walked in, Barry Bonds had hit his 71st home run about 30 seconds before. When we left, he hit his 72nd home run about 30 seconds after. Fuck you, Mr. "Why Can't America Love Me?"
I actually have a role in tomorrow's wedding; I'm reading a Bible passage to start the ceremony. As in everyone enters, there's ooh-ing and aah-ing for the bride, all the teenagers drool over their favorite bridesmaid, everyone sits down and I open the show with a passage from Genesis. First time I saw it was at tonight's rehearsal: it's the "be fruitful, multiply" one. After being complemented by the priest for my lovely speaking voice (I kid you not), I did what I do best... read aloud. Success was moderate. I'm nervous as hell, and it's not even my wedding!!!
There's just something about churches that always gets me nervous. I think it's because religion has never been a priority at my house, so I always feel uncomfortable when I'm in a church, since I don't know how to act. NOTE: Casula dropping of f-bombs in conversation gets you looks when you're in God's house. Seriously, I have to cut this casual shit out. Fuck.
Please pray for me on Sunday, because I'd really rather not be the one to get the wedding of two good friends off on the wrong foot. And if anybody ever offers you a Rhody family-style chicken dinner, just shut up and go. Thank me later.
October 5, 2001 - It's 1:15 a.m.
I'll fill you in tomorrow on the fight over BUCB's Constitution, the battle over Meg's wedding dress (no, not that kind of wedding dress) and the bachelor party which ended with me eating ribs. Mmm, ribs.
Barry Bonds. Meh.
October 4, 2001 - 70!
Tonight was to be a night I spent working on my internship essay, relax a little, maybe watch a little SmackDown. Classic night off.
So of course I go into the DFP and stay there til 12:30, later than I ever stayed when I was a News Assistant. I can only begin to think how my old editor must have felt about the whole thing, since my reason for quitting was "not having enough time," and I've been in there doing nothing for two out of the last three nights.
1. Watching the Bruins (you know, Australian for "Can't Beat the Thrashers"> win their season opener against Team Disney, riding a high from having raised No. 77 to the vaunted Fleet rafters. It reminds me of the first Celtics' game of the Rick Pitino era, when a young Antoine Carter and friends beat the World Champion Bulls, sparking frenetic "We're goin' to the Finals!!!" calls to WEEI. And we all know how the Pitino Era turned out, don't we...
2. Watching the Smackdown main event, a six-man tag featuring The Rock, The Dudley Boyz, Chris Jericho and two referees. Yes, the referees were wrestling... the WWF one gave the WCW one the People's Elbow to win the match. If there's one the thing the terrorist attacks haven't shaken, it's the World Wrestling Federation. Amen. (Come to think of it, I haven't seen the Springer show since before September 11th. Has he done his America's tribute show yet?)
3. And yes, in the dingy FreeP upstairs with about a dozen of my colleagues, I saw Barry Bonds, America's newest sweetheart, hit his 70th home run when the Astros were forced to pitch to him. All it took was him leading off in the inning in a 9-2 ballgame. We screamed, we pointed skyward, we mocked Carl Everett. It was beautiful. (And Josh, the new frosh News Assignment Editor, kept screaming "SEVENTY!" at every commercial for the next two hours. That was classic, almost as much so as me drinking beer from the penis of a drink dispenser. But that's neither here nor there.)
So when I finally decided to come home, I was all smiles and flying high. Of course, that lasted about 26 seconds.
The president of the Student Union Allocations Board here, the group that funds our club and essentially allows us to exist, said that the BUCB constitution (a document that has been in use since 1992) is no place for suggestive and profane language, and we have until October 8th at 5 p.m. to submit a new one.
To all of you out there reading this, I ask that you please review the BUCB constitution, posted on out website here. Do you find it offensive? Seriously, I would like to know.
October 3, 2001 - Mystery Man
There is another guy living in my apartment. I have not met, and I know not whence he came, just that he used a plate to have a meal of peanut butter crackers and Swiss Rolls.
I'm backing up the train for a minute. A few days ago, Brendan's alarm was going off on a night when Brendan didn't even come home (a.k.a. every night). So I amble down to hall to shut it off. Get to his room, and there's a guy sleeping on the floor. My initial reaction is, of course, to run back to my room, close the door, and pretend it never happened. This afternoon, there's a note on the door:
"B, I am locked out. Call me on cell, 538-0454." -- I
The first "I" name to pop into my head is "Ingrid." Therefore, let's play What do we know about Ingrid?
1. He likes doing the Free Press crossword puzzle at our kitchen table, orders Chinese food, then places leftover food in the refridgerator.
2. He has very messy handwriting and lacks either the motivation or intellect to complete said crossword. Judging that he didn't complete his meal or his puzzle, I have deduced he has ADD.
3. Ingrid uses styling gel in his hair, Afta on his face and neck following shaving, and eau de toilette for masking body odor. Thus, I have decuded he is greasy to the touch.
More as this develops.
As I was walking home from my 6 to 9 class tonight, I was stoppedby a girl sitting in an SUV:
"Excuse me? Can you tell me how to shut off my... haz-ard lights?"
Please bear in mind on the top of this girl's steering wheel was a three-inch long, flashing red button, with "H A Z A R D" written on it. It's a good thing that long ago, I gave up my faith in the human race.
And thank you, U2 ticket gang, for letting me know a) that you were buying tickets and b) that there were extras. I appreciate it.
October 2, 2001 - Forever Fruit
Ladies and gentlemen, the pineapple is gone.
Exactly seven days ago, I opened the much-vaunted six pound, ten ounce can of pineapple and began a consumption I thought would get the best of me. Tonight, around 10 p.m., the last droplets of juice were drank, and the pineapple was no more. 106 ounces of sunshine in a can, now eaten, filling me with more Vitamin C than I've gotten since I was cute.
Have you ever heard such a dramatic description of a man's sick eating habits before? And the scary thing is, YOU WERE CAPTIVATED BY IT. I guess I'm just that good.
By 8 a.m., this day, traditionally my worst of each week, was well on its way to having me on the commuter rail tracks by lunchtime. After having written the majority of my sports feature the night before, I woke up this morning and finished it like I've always done. Printed it, proofread it, printed it again. Little did I know the first printing used the last ounces of ink in my resevoir. Children, can you say "fucked" for Daddy?
So here I am, running down Cummington Street to get to my office and print the paper. I'm lugging around twenty pounds of art books for "Queers" class, so the Olympic discipline of 'running' became akin to 'fat kid running for last chicken bugget at buffet table.' I get to class ten minutes late... to find out papers aren't being collected until the end of class...
I only work an hour and a half today, the smallest amount I do all week, so of course today is the day we get a humongous care package of brownies, cookies, breads, everything that makes America the fattest country in the world. I would have stolen some of it if Joe wouldn't have shot me on sight of food leaving his mail room and it not being in his stomach.
This is getting a little long. To brief form:
1) After weeks of putzing around queer class, it was good to be the one who knew what he was doing when it came to knowing Quark. Nashua baby, I love ya!
2) I officially quit my Assistant News Editorship at the Free Press today. So how did I spend five hours of my new night off, just because coming home would have equaled doing work? You figure it out.
3) My fantasy football team is 0-3, and in last place. Last year I started the season 0-10. Next year, I'm taking up knitting.
And come to think of it, I was never cute.
October 1, 2001 - Coach Til Armageddon
Today's update will in no way regard all the work I have due tomorrow, and how I'm going to bed with exactly none of it complete. It will not mention how I picked (note: picked, not bet) San Francisco's upset tonight. It will mention the news that Jack Parker, the man who is Boston University hockey, has signed a contract extension through the 2011-2012 season. Seriously.
If he serves out his entire contract, which at this point there's no reason to think he won't, Jack Parker will be the coach of the BU hockey team when I turn 30. And he won't even be done! He already has 630 career wins... he could have over 900 by then!
Hell, I could be dead by then! Can you imagine how big the headlines will be when Parker steps down from behind the bench? How would you like to be the guy who has to take over for a man akin to a God? I remember when I wrote the story on the 1980 Miracle on Ice screening here, and how I saw Coach Parker at the after party. I could not bring myself to go over to interview him, because I knew as soon as I tried to, I would become a blabering idiot drolling on his steno pad.
Indiana has Bobby Knight, Penn State has Joe Paterno and we have Jack Parker. I think we win that battle.
OK, it's late, and I just found this out about two minutes ago from the Yahoo! club I read every so often. Granted, I spend the rest of the time amazed that grown people care this much about college hockey, but that's not the point.
I'm all congested, and I can't write. Well, I can't write a kicker anyway. And I hate my Design class... like you haven't heard that before.
2001:  -  -  -  -