December 30, 2001 - Go Pats! Tomorrow is New Year's Eve. That's pretty much all there is to say, for now, because there's planning to be done. Tomorrow's update may be a little late, but rest assured, it will be full of debauchery and (hopefully) not stories of running from the fuzz.
One note worth mentioning though: it's a magical thing when one makes $329 doing little more than picking football games. And everyone told me gambling was a bad thing!
Springfield 4 - 3 Providence Minor league hockey. Feel the excitement!
Course we did a little more than just shoot guns yesterday. After what was probably about two years away, I went to a Springfield Falcons game at the Civic Center. There was a pretty large crowd for minor league hockey (5,128 for a team averaging 4,200 per night), and by the grace of God, Springfield actually won.
Hockey and Springfield have always gone hand-in-hand, much like violent assault and Springfield do today. First there were the Springfield Indians of the 20s and 30s, who then folded in 1933. They were resurrected in 1935, bought by Eddie Shore in 1940, and then played on and off through 1967. '67 saw the team become the Springfield Kings, which then changed back to the Indians in 1974, who then played twenty more years before moving to Worcester and become the Ice Cats. To take the Indians place, the AHL created the Falcons in 1994, a team whose naming contest I entered but lost. Seems the Springfield Storm just didn't have the ring the Falcon thing did. On one of the city "skyscrapers," peregrine falcons nested on a windowsill for a number of years. It was big news out here: they even created a cable access channel that showed the falcons nest 24 hours a day. Course, one of the falcons, while divebombing prey in the city one day, flew head on into a panel of glass and died. That pretty much ended the falcon nesting... but they still call the team that.
Long story short, the only connection anyone would have to Springfield hockey is that in Snoop Doggy Dogg's video Gin and Juice, he wears a Springfield Indians jersey. That blue and green one with the big "S" on it? That's the one. That was when they were affiliated with the Whalers, who came after the Islanders. This ends your history of minor league hockey in Springfield, class.
Past history has shown that since '90-'91, the last time a Springfield team won the AHL's Calder Cup, the team has sucked hardcore. Yet whenever I go to games, they always seem to win for some odd reason. Indians/Falcons games are the source of some of my favorite hockey memories, topped out by New Year's Eve, 1993:
@ Spfld. - 12/31/93
Now that's hockey, complete with a penalty shot.
As for last night, it's sad to say that in the years I've been away, absolutely nothing has changed at The Nest. The music? The same. The fans? Same. The promotions? Well, they're a little different. It used to be "If the Falcons get hot (score five), you get chili!" Now, if the Falcons score first in the period, one fan gets an oil change, a filter, and a lube!
Yes, the whole crowd does scream, and a lube.
It was like every BU game I've seen this season: boring, except for a sudden burst of excitement that won the game. First six minutes of the third period, there were four fights and three Springfield goals. The fights are made byt the playing of Stone Cold Steve Austin's theme music. I'm convinced of this.
And as for the only BU alum playing in the game, Providence's Carl Corrazzini, he was knocked unconscious midway through the third and helped off the ice after the brawl that ensued. Good work.December 29, 2001 - Commercialized Think about this for a minute.
I saw a Victoria's Secret commercial today, for their big 50% off Bra Sale. The commercial was basically your cut-and-dry VS lingerie commercial: trippy dance beat in the background, while women spun around in bras while puffing their breasts out and crossing their arms. There was also the occasional rye smile, almost as if to say, "Hey. I'm wearing a bra, and I'm on TV."
Your average man has an innate fear of going into a Victoria's Secret store, and by average man, I'm referring to me. Yet these commercials are trying to appeal to men, as though men like to buy bras. Sure, every guy is gonna remember the hot blonde with that bitchy look on her face and an underwire on her chest, but is that really going to sell anything? No. Which leads me to come to one of two conclusions.
Victoria's Secret is either run by violent midgets who don't understand product placement, or is just trying to sell bras to lesbians and cross-dressers. You be the judge.
And another thing. These new Publishers Clearing House commercials, who the hell are they kidding? They show the prize patrol, baloons and flowers in tow, finding one of their winners on a plane in flight. So let me think about this: this plane was flying through the sky, calm as anything, until the flight attendants heard a knock on the exterior door...
I used to enter all those sweepstakes for the family, all excited when Dad's name was on the outside of the envelope. Course then we collected the neighbor's mail, and my innocence was lost forever.
In a story related to lost innocence, Cooch went to the shooting range. Yes, the Republican got his first chance to discharge firearms in a consequence-free environment. Truly a historic moment.
I didn't kill anybody, which is a definite plus. I also didn't make a huge ass of myself, unlike Jim, whose momentary lapse of judgment had him pointing a cocked and loaded gun at Mario. I knew it would be slightly harder than firing a lazer tag pistol, but I didn't know the hardest part of the whole thing would be my hands shaking from holding a deadly weapon in them.
I did enjoy myself, given the people I was with and given it was something I felt like I should do at some point. It was fun, but it's not exactly I plan on doing every weekend. There's just something about holding a gun and firing it that doesn't sit right with me. Probably my upbringing more than anything else, given that anything more powerful than a water gun was persona non grata * at the Couture house. However, if you ever need someone to load your 9mm pistol, I'll do in a pinch. * - I don't know Latin, so if persona non grata doesn't fit there, please go ahead and "bite me."December 28, 2001 - Worst Update Ever I'm often amazedat how the simplest, cheapest things can be so entertaining. Take, for example, the stupid little Koosh basketball hoop I have in my apartment. That thing keeps me going for hours, and is directly responsible for me busting up my ankle forever more.
Yeah, I have nothing to write about. Grand Theft Auto 3 is ruining my life, but in such a good way.
We embraced our nerdiness tonight, having a "video game party." Long ago, most of us realized we were losers, so now we just don't care anymore. Never have you seen a group so amazed by being able to pick up a hooker and have sex with her in the back of a car.
Tomorrow could hold a whole new excitement, as we're kicking around the idea of going to a shooting range. Remember, guns don't kill people, bullets kill people.
I have never fired a gun, nor would I ever have figured I'd shoot a gun. But, given this opportunity to shoot a gun with the odds of killing someone so low, I would be stupid to pass it up.
Also, please note I really didn't feel like writing an update today, but I feel obligated to for keeping the streak alive.December 27, 2001 - Driving Blind
It's been so long since I've actually had a video game system worthy of spending most of an afternoon playing. I've had many, and since little else happened today, we're going down memory lane...
It all started with the previously-mentioned Atari 2600, for which I had E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial. To this day, I don't understand what the hell that game was all about. Played it a handful of times, never got the point. After a few years, we upgraded to a Nintendo, for which the highlight will always be Tecmo Super Bowl, a game that I play through emulators to this very day. My only other system was a Genesis, which is where I first became hopelessly addicted to the Madden series though Matt got a SNES and N64 over the years.
He's always been into the role-playing, Final Fantasy, thinking crap, while I stick to sports and blowing things up. Yet GTA3 is a game we can share, because who doesn't love picking up a hooker, having sex with her for health, then beating her to get your money back?
Mom, you've outdone yourself this time.
Course I did actually leave the house today, for an eye appointment. There will continue to be no contact lenses in my future, but my eyesight is worse than it was last year. I'm balding, getting fatter and going blind. Ladies, the line for me starts behind Margaret. No pushing, please.
Next time somebody dilates my pupils, they better be damn sure I have glaucoma first.
[Coast to Coast Update: I've finished scanning in all the pictures I have developed from the trip - the Niagara Falls roll is somewhere in my house. Once the photos are toned, and I find somewhere to put them, I'll post away.]December 26, 2001 - No More Mall Santas It seems I'm making a habit out of going to shopping malls on days when you're absolutely not supposed to go to shopping malls. Some people collect baseball cards, others stamps, still others locks of hair from celebrities their stalking. Me? I collect all those things, and go to malls on days when you're not supposed to go to malls.
Holyoke Mall was a warzone yesterday; it looked like a day care center crossed with a crash site. But I did only hear one guy swearing, and boy, he had no idea what he was doing.
"Well, you are the manager of shit. If you would just give me my money, then I would get out of here." -- In Best Buy. This man looked confused and was clearly in need of 100 mg's of hospitaliano.
There seemed to be a lot of kids at the mall yesterday, most of which were just sitting on the floor reading instruction booklets to games they'd just bought. They didn't seem to have any parents; just 11 year-old kids, sitting on the floor. Charlie kept talking about how there's no recession in Western Mass. because the mall was full, but I countered, saying that no one there was actually buying anything, they were just there to hang out. Charlie then said that Western Mass. can't have a recession, because we're always in the economic shitter, so it never can get that bad.
I really should just shut up more.
Todd, meanwhile, was getting looked at by 13-year-old girls like he always does, which would be OK, if Todd wasn't a junior in college. I don't know what that means, but I will say the time a random pre-teen gave him her phone number is among the funniest things ever to happen in a Friendly's restaurant.
Friendly's would like you to know that their "thoughts and prayers are with the families and loved ones of the victims of the tragedy on September 11, 2001." I would like you to know that the thought of Red, White and Blue Swirl ice cream makes me want to "wretch" and "profusely slam my head into the wall."
[Eric Robinson, who most of us know as "the kid who always has to make an excuse when he loses at ping pong," has a new website at http://www.geocities.com/tivadar27. You'll notice the first two pages shake, it says he's a graduate of LaSalle, and it has a quote generator on it. One's annoying, one's a lie, and the other one talks about duct tape. YOU'RE WELCOME.]December 25, 2001 - Too Many Cookies Finally, a day for the pagans! I'm not Pagan, but hey, everyone should have a day, right?
So we were driving through Springfield today, to get out to my mother's mother's house in Wilbraham, and I saw this run-down house with "Jesus is the reasons for the season." written in lights across the front. Pair that with the poignant Funky Winkerbean comic which had the pizza shop "closed for a birthday," I was left to silently think one thing.
Christ was born in September. This great irony sounds like something Jon Rea would tell me, so much thanks to him.
I was also left to wonder that maybe if these people spent more time cleaning the exterior of their house, and not trying to push their religion on me with colored lights, they wouldn't have such, ugly, ugly children. Course even with them being poor, their kids probably have an XBox. This bothered me too, until I remembered I had a PS2. I then laughed. NOTE! - None of the preceeding thought process actually happened. It just made it easier to work in that I saw this house, went to my grandmother's and got a PS2. Have I mentioned I'm guilty about the whole affair?
Yes, no longer will I have to force Justin to lug his system across the alley when he comes over. I didn't really expect much more than clothes for Christmas, so when I got about 17 outfits worth, I was only moderately displeased... because really, how can you honestly show excitement when you get clothes? I don't care if you need them, they're clothes. Though that Whalers jersy last year made me inordinately happy.
So as Matt was given his Gamecube as a surprise last gift, I was given my system. My mother really hadn't planned on buying it, but given that this could be the last big family Christmas (there's a rumor floating around that I'm "graduating" from "college""soon"), she broke the bank. When I think about the inordinate amount of money spent this year on DVD players, video game systems, snowmen with little pots on their heads, boxer shorts, knife sets and a robotic cat, I feel amazingly guilty. Just like I feel after every time someone spends money on me. So what's the moral of this story? I think what I wrote inside Matt's Christmas card says it best:
"There's only one thing worse than winning a game of horseshoes: Realizing you play horseshoes for fun."
An alternate moral would be to go to my mom's mom's house as rarely as possible, since all the cat hair and dust has left me sneezing over twelve hours after leaving.
December 24, 2001 - Addicted to Shrimp In honor of the holiday's eve, I give you a few lyrics from Cooch Christmas Classics, to be released on Atlantic in the fourth quarter of 2003:
"Oh, you better watch out, and look to the skies! Santa's BAC is too high to fly. Drunken Santa's coming... TO TOWN.
Santa like scotch, he also loves beer, Says it fills him with the Christmas cheer! Drunken Santa's coming... TO TOWN.
He sees you when you're sleeping, even knows when you're awake. Probably cuz he's a know-it-all drunk who likes to... [something that rhymes with -ake]!
OH! Your better watch out, better not cry, better not pout, I'm telling you why. There's a drunken Santa, an angry drunken Santa, a bombed-out big-old Santa... IN TOWN!
Just out of curiosity, does writing this make me a heathen? Being that Santa's not a religious figure, I'm gonna assume no.
Christmas Eve used to be celebrated at Grandma's big house in Chicopee. There was something surreal about it, the whole paternal side of the family gathering to reminisce and share gifts. Everyone would eat in the kitchen, slowly make their way out to the parlor, and just linger until all hours. It was there I remember getting my very first present: an Atari 2600, with Pole Position.
At some point in the mid-1990's, we cut off the 12/24 thing, for familial reasons I'll never fully understand. We've since reupped the tradition at my aunt's house, but it's just not the same.
I suffer from a generation gap in my own family: there's a bunch of kids 17 and under, and a bunch over 25 or 26. It leaves me the ultimate middle child, which really is a very interesting place to fit in. I can't play with the kids or associate with the older folks: I'm exiled to the island of Televisionia, where I sit watching ESPN until being displaced by present-opening and carol-singing.
Don't get me wrong, I love spending the time with my family; it's something I wouldn't trade for anything. But it's just not the same as old times. Never is, is it?
Pardon me, I have to go fight with my drunken mother now. :) Merry Christmas kids!December 23, 2001 - Holidaze
"You hate to say it's in the stars, but for Philly to lose and for Tampa Bay to beat New Orleans, it seems like things are lining up for us." -- Giants tackle Lomas Brown, after a last-minute, 96-yard touchdown drive kept the G'Men in the hunt and put the Pats in the playoffs. I'm getting scared, cuz I'm starting to believe again...
Apparently, Nantucket's rich do this little thing every year just to remind themselves how cool they are. Every Christmas, when you buy $25 for a Nantucket merchant, you get this red ticket. The ticket enters you in this drawing for huge cash rewards; one $5,000 prize and ten $1,000 prizes. On Christmas Eve, they have this huge ceremony with fireworks, naked women, candy canes, the whole nine yards. My question, is there ANY other place in America that could get away with doing this and not have it be covered mercilessly by the press? Anywhere other than the little rich people island off the coast of the Cape?
(I thought it was a much worse idea until Bethany told me about the "buying from local merchants" part. Before that, I had this image of Mr. Burns with the $100 bill attached to the fishing line: running down the street as the poor try to catch it. Now that would be newsworthy, if only for comedic effect.)
"No one can be quite as ghetto as you Cooch." -- Bethany, quickly learning that the best way to get on this site is just to say something ridiculous and put my name at the end of it.
I'm slightly alarmed that tomorrow is Christmas Eve... no, not because I haven't started my shopping yet - for once, I'm done before panic time. I'm alarmed because it feels like it's April. When I was a boy, Christmas used to be circled seven times on the calendar with one of those big, fat Sharpie markers. We had the advent calendar on the wall, counting down the days. We had the lists on the refridgerator, way too long. We had the cookies and the assorted crap, the sweaters, the going see Santa and having him give you $5 because he was played by a downtown guy with mob ties...
(I'm not making any of this up. Every Christmas Eve, Matt and I used to get our picture taken at Santi's in downtown Springfield, because Dad was a friend of Mr. Santinello, a.k.a. Santi, a.k.a. the guy who owned the bar, a.k.a... you get the idea. He was a very nice man, considering he gave every kid who came to see him $5 in a little gift envelope. But I digress.)
Christmas just doesn't do it for me anymore. Don't get me wrong, it's one of the few times I get to spend time with my whole family, outside of funerals, so I love it for that. I love it for the time to relax, and to watch everyone else open the presents I so creatively bought for them. Yeah, I'm real creative, that sounds believeable...
There's just no magic in it for me anymore, no big toothy grins and cornball crap. I hate Raffi, I don't like shopping and I can't wrap a box without having all this extra paper left over at the ends. Plus, I consistently bankrupt myself on gifts every year, which I suppose is OK because I'm buying for other people. Then again it's not OK, because I'm buying for other people.
None of this has to do with me probably not getting a PS2 this year, I swear. No really, I'm not making this up. All I'm saying is I don't like Raffi. He could be dead for all I know, but all that matters is Mother makes sure his crap lives on year after year after year...
Nebraska-Omaha 4 -(OT)- 3 BU BU 4 - 1 Nebraska-Omaha The forgotten games, because really, who cares about Nebraska?
Someone want to explain to me how a team gets 25 shots in one period... AND ONLY SCORES ONCE?!
"Is it my imagination or does Jason Tapp suck?" -- Matt, my boss in Nashua and 1991 BU alum. Ain't no imagination involved... not in the least.
December 22, 2001 - Not Betting When You Should I don't know why this keeps happening, but another gambling website has given me free money to bet with. Just when I'm finally out of the game, they yank me back in. Honestly, I'm very lukewarm about this. I was just starting to get used to not having to think about pointspreads and research before watching football; now, for the sake of $25, I have to again.
My plan is simple: I'm going to bet my full amount every week until I lose the nerve to do it anymore. Seven wins in a row, well, that would be $3,200. Yeah, THAT'S gonna happen. If I win two straight, I'll be shocked.
Looking at the spreads this morning, I couldn't figure out how the Pats were favored. I'm used to the Pats being... well, a New England sports team. Frequently good, but never superb, and certainly never capable of winning the big one.
Can they really win the Super Bowl? Well, let's see if they beat Carolina first. I've been here long enough to know you can take nothing for granted.
Ask me about my ping pong skills.
"New Years Eve. 98 Mountfort. It's gonna happen, if only to spite Daryl."
December 21, 2001 - Editing Myself I can already see myself getting into trouble with today's bitchfest, so first, a few random quotes.
"Eeewwww Guinness..." -- Lisa, who followed this up with "I have Coronas for tonight." If you live in a world where drinking gringo piss is better than drinking Guinness, stop drinking. That, or move on to antifreeze.
"Kerry Collins couldn't find an open receiver with a Google search." -- Norman Chad of the Boston Globe, spreading lies. Kerry can find the receiver just fine, thanks. Just don't ask him to throw the guy the ball.
"Let me tell you, there is nothing like a fresh tortilla, only seconds old. NOTHING!" -- Meg. Something about that line just makes me want to scream "Shut up." I don't know what it is.
Every time I open up my web browser and my longstanding homepage pops up, I keep hoping to see some banner message about Osama bin Laden being killed. I fullwell realize that we are in a war, and that I should be keeping abreast of things in the world right now, but can you blame me for not giving a damn how many bombs we dropped today and how many leaders of Al Qaeda we killed?
In the grand scheme of things, it's more important that we snuff out this organization, in all its forms wherever it is. But the fact is a good percentage of the populace isn't going to care about this thing until Osama's body is carried out of whatever cave it's in. Last night, the family (sans Matt) gathered in front of the television to watch the NBC Nightly News with our plates of chicken and bread. Mom's never been a very big fan of the news, which is rather ironic given my future career is dependant on it. She incessantly complained throughout the broadcast about how "all they keep talking about is September 11th," and how they should "move on."
I'm not completely disagreeing with her. We've left the news happening stage, and have now entered the mushy sidebars stage: a time when no one really learns anything, but is depressed at every flicker of the screen. That said, we're in the middle of a God-damned war. Inform yourselves, people. For all we know GWB might bring back the draft.
How fucked am I if that happens...
Yeah, so I spent the night at an upscale restaurant, managed to blackball Crowley into paying for half my meal, went to a 19-year-old's birthday party and bought a laser pointer for $2. I'd tell you why all these things happened, but I'd rather be mysterious.
"Every year that goes by, I become less and less tolerant of stupid people. Some go to college to learn tolerance, to learn what they should be. Me? I've learned what I should never be: a teacher."
December 20, 2001 - Home Of The... Forget It And so began the Feeding Hills odyssey. If today is any indication, I'll be shooting myself sometime around December 29th, so please mark your calendars.
Feeding Hills, when one doesn't have a job or school to go to, leaves little in the way of social interaction. I had planned on getting up at eight, but upon realizing that I had nothing to occupy myself, I got up at ten instead. The only reason I go into this level of detail is because I could have gotten up at four in the afternoon, and still accomplished all the things I set out to do today.
I went to the bank and networked my PC to my brother's. Welcome to Agawam - 28,144 people, 3 places to have fun when Six Flags is closed for the season. Rundown bowling alley, the old candlepin lanes, McDonald's, mini golf course... that about covers it. Though the mini golf is closed for the season too, and even when it's open, it's become a bit of a... how can I put this... a shithole with mosquitoes.
Yeah, that about covers it.
Many fun memories on the pitch-and-putt course they've got there, with my being the resident golfer of the group. There was always a running competition going on that if anyone ever beat me, I would give them my car as a prize. It never happened, though my first girlfriend, Karen, did beat me once on the mini golf course. Unfortunately though, she was disqualified from the prize when the judges discovered she was a cold-hearted, cheating bitch.
I would love to discuss a certain Boston team's roster moves of the past few days, including being bought by a certain former Marlins owner, but I did promise I wouldn't talk about that team until April. So, in order to keep my word, I'll do like any good journalist: bend the rules to my liking. I like what I'm seeing. That pitcher who likes bowling should compliment the staff well, along with that guy who's not Jason Giambi, but played in his shadow on TV. I'm not so happy about losing that Japanese guy, or in us signing those guys I know nothing about (the pitchers and the first baseman, no links for you), or in trading for that dumbass, but hey, when you have a retard in the front office, what can you do?
GO ASTROS! If anyone can turn around that team, it's the craziest man this side of Don Zimmer.
And Giambi, it may be impossible to hate you, but I sure am gonna try.
December 19, 2001 - Grand-ite Return, Part Two Let's keep it real brief today.
I'm home now, Feeding Hills-ing it in all it's glory. Packed like a real woman to come home, bringing home essentially everything of value in my room. TVs, computer, you name it...
The BU office of Information Technology has deleted both the College Bowl website and the College Bowl e-mail account. Don't ask me why, but according to them, we're no longer affiliated with the university. I just want to know how it is that a school so proud of their vast number of student organziations makes it so difficult for them to exist and do business.
Course the day wasn't a total loss.
The American Military Experience
Production and Design
After seven semesters, I've finally gotten it right.
And let the photo scanning begin.
The couple of the year at the wedding of the year. Yes, I said couple.
You'd be surprised at the things that can dominate a rainy morning if you let them. I think what scares me the most is I remember watching about 90% of those shows. Were it not for yesterday's update, I'd have spent all morning writing New Year's* cards... thanks mediocrity! * - Before you ask, they're called New Year's cards when I realize there's no way in hell they're getting anywhere by Christmas.
Blanket Belief: People are not supposed to sleep until noon. I feel very strongly about this. If you sleep until noon, you better have a damn good reason, because you've wasted half of the day in your bed. I don't care if you were up until four a.m. drinking boilermakers with Jen Z., and it wouldn't surprise me if you have been...
Well, today marked a long-overdue homecoming for me. After four months of hard work that have yielded me, among other things, a 3.57 partial GPA (A in Sports Journalism, A- in American Military Experience), I returned today to a place which has greatfully changed both my life and the fields of employment I wish to pursue. I visited friends, gave the grand tour, all the things one does when they return home...
So I suppose you're wondering how I ended up in Nashua yesterday... this is what we call a plot twist, because you know, it was like I was talking about Agawa... never mind.
Faced with having to finish Christmas shopping today, least in my mind anyway, I'd proposed to Meg we go to the South Shore Plaza in Braintree, the biggest mall in Massachusetts. Few problems with this: 1) I have a natural aversion to it because it's bigger than the mall I spent my formative years in. 2) Meg had some convoluted way of getting to I-93 that I'd never heard of: getting on Massachusetts Avenue and just going. Who ever heard of taking one road to get somewhere, in Massachusetts no less!
So that plan was scrapped for going to the Pheasant Lane Mall, a.k.a. "the mall I never went to because I had $45 a week that didn't go to rent" or "the mall with the Chick-Fil-A in it." Dude, peanut oil never tasted this good, and any place that still has the balls to put their drinks in styrofoam cups? I respect that.
Ignore the fact all I bought at the mall was a package of boxes and a chicken club sandwich with waffle fries and a Coke. It's a very nice mall in a very nice city, which I then proceeded to spend the next four hours in touring. I hit all the high points: the strip malls and chain restaurants of South Nashua, the quaintness of downtown, historic Holman Stadium, the ghetto where I lived, The Telegraph offices... as usual, I only realize how great a place is after I leave it. Course, when you're living in a weekly-pay apartment in the middle of the city's slum, that'll tend to happen.
I am going to a Pride game next season, damn it. I wear the hat enough.
As for the evening, well, let's leave it at this for dignity's sake. Justin got his Christmas present, Meg learned a valuable lesson about vomiting and there's two more empty bottles of Arbor Mist on my windowsill. You fill in the blanks.
[Jen Niedziela has a new picture up on the Posse page. Personally, I think it's another case of the old one being better than the new one, but you know what? It's not my face, so I don't really care much. What about you there, you want on too? Well send me a picture, and fame can be yours! "FAME! I'm gonna live forever..."]December 17, 2001 - Idle Hands What better way to celebrate the end of the semester than throwing on the Hartford Whalers jersey and watching the new Card Sharks on UPN?! Please bear in mind that's a rhetorical question, meaning I don't expect you the list the many hundreds of things that are both better and funner.
Today was an absolute waste of a day, which is OK, with my being done and all. Handed in that final project at about 11, at which point massive celebrations began in my homeland of Feeding Hills, where the people realize that my return shall be swift and bittersweet. I had huge plans for today, dreams of the words "shopping" and "done" combining in long, flowing, almost pornographic sentences. But alas, I'm left to use words like "alas," because the rain meant I got no farther downtown than Barnes & Noble.
By the way, would it kill the B&N people to order more hockey jerseys? Now what am I supposed to get Justin for Christmas?! Liquor it is...
So because I spent the majority of today inside, well, before being whisked away to dinner with Vito, Rea and Meg, I have two passing thoughts:
The new Card Sharks ranks right up there with Saved By The Bell: The College Years as one of TV's greatest mistakes. Fortunately, this one is syndicated, so it's a little less noticeable. Gone are all "We asked 100 people..." questions, hell, gone are two rows of cards. Each round just starts with one player starting guessing on the single row of seven cards. They keep going til they're wrong, and if they want to change a card, they have to correctly guess the end of some retarded scenario like in Street Smarts. Guess a card wrong, it just passes to the other person, essentially rendering the show a hack job of one of my childhood favorites.
All I'm going to say is if your fuck with any of these shows on my watch, you better have a damn good reason.
I suppose the highlight of this whole thing is that the eye candy on the show is Tami from Real World: Los Angeles, which basically was the year Real World became the pretty-people bitch fest we know it as today. Is that a trivia question I smell?
Jon Rea is an idiot, if for no other reason than the following comments:
"I used to love The Onion.... admittedly haven't read it since this summer, so wasting time I looked into their September issues, and quite frankly it pissed me off, it was not funny I thought it stupid, and childish."
"For shame Onion and Boston in general, you have led me to do something I never ever ever thought I would do, you have inspired me to make my homepage the REPUBLICAN NATIONAL COM[mittee] website."
I am a person who leans Republican/Conservative in my beliefs, despite what the town clerk in Agawam will tell you. I also have the utmost respect for Jon Rea, because he's well informed, a rational thinker and a hard worker - all I ever ask for out of anyone. But if you start criticizing The Onion for being stupid and childish, when that's clearly the point, I have to wonder if all your synapses / spark plugs are firing.
And don't worry, once I get the message board installed on here over Christmas Break, you'll all be able to pass judgment on me whenever you want. Do I have an ego problem or what?!December 16, 2001 - Rare Is The Day... ... where I don't shower for the entire 24 hours. Rare is the day I don't even change my clothes. Rare is the day I never even step outside of my apartment door, doing nothing more strenuous than analyzing crime data and vacuuming.
Even rarer is the day I admit to any of the things you've just read.
"We're getting so fucked up Tuesday night." -- Meg, on alcoholic depravity. You heard it here kids; go home to your mothers lit up like the tree. E-mail me for info.
"And now, with a special sermon on the sanctity of deliciousness, The Noid." -- Why is The Simpsons so great? Because there's just not enough Noid references on TV today.
I do actually have an excuse for not doing anything today... well, an excuse beyond the fact I've a slovenly human being who will board up his room door if he gets a PS2 for Christmas. Today was the last day of academic work for my seventh semester at Boston University. Yes kids, another one is falling towards the record books, as just after midnight, I finished up my crime story / addendum for my Journalism Research class. I'll edit it in the morning, then get it in by noon and that'll be it until the 14th of January.
Usually, there's a feeling of overwhelming relief after you walk out of that last final: I remember it from when I was a first-semester freshman. It was a sunny day, and I just came out onto Commonwealth Avenue flying. I had a real sense of accomplishment, kind of like a pro golfer feels after they finally win on the PGA TOUR. A sense that you belong, that it's not a fluke that you're there. Granted, I only got a 3.26 for the semester, but I was in. And given that my roommate Jet ended up with a 1.1 for the semester, things worked out.
That reminds me... I really haven't watched any golf since I was out in California. I remember seeing Tiger playing in something on Saturday, I watched him hit a decent flop shot, and turned it off. There's goes all my college bowl knowledge of the game.
I'm rapidly coming to the realization that I'm going to end up like a majority of the golfing population: never more than adequate. There was a time when I really did think I was going to become a great player... it all changed when I chose BUCB over trying out for the golf team my sophomore year. Suppose I saved myself getting cut, but regardless, fuck you College Bowl! :)
There's not much else to say, given that I now have nothing to do over the next three days but shop for Christmas presents and commit felonies. Not working, no classes... I can't remember the last time I had a weekday off and I didn't have to work. I'm getting stir crazy just thinking about it.
[Heather, Geoff's friend who I've met once, sent me her picture to be on the Posse page a few days ago. I've been thinking about what to do with it, and I've finally decided to add her. If she wants on, I'm not going to stand in her way. The spectre of my having fans I barely know is the biggest ego boost a loser like me could ever get. Send away!]December 15, 2001 - What A Terrible Waste Last season, I was perhaps the biggest Kerry Collins fan you could find. I'd always thought he was a great player, but after watching him in the Giants 41-0 NFC Championship Win*, he came near deity. Drafted him for my fantasy QB, debated buying a jersey, preached his greatness to children... you know, all the normal things fans do.
* - Hereafter, the 41-0 victory will be referred to only as "The Greatest Football Game Ever." When I die, the first two-and-a-half minutes of that game will be played over my casket. I'm serious about this.
As I sat watching the first-half of today's debacle against Ari-fucking-zona, I can only wonder at what point the madness of this season will end. Please view the following example as a reason I'm losing my hair at 21:
The Cardinals, realizing they're a team so bad their kicker hurt himself while celebrating, screw up a field-goal snap, which leads to Jason Sehorn running the ball back to the Cardinal 29. Taking the field, Kerry Collins leads the Giants on a four-play drive. Two-yard loss, fumbled snap, eight-yard sack, punt. I'm going to cry.
"Osama Bin Laden comes out of his cave, with his hands up... I shoot him." -- Bill O'Reilly, making me even madder I missed him when he was here last week.
Today was essentially a wasted day: not that I really have that much work left to do, but given that I didn't even attempt to do it, that's not what I was hoping for. The last project I have left is a crime story for my Journalism Research class. It's a matter of poring over the state's crime data for the past twenty years, finding statistical anomalies that would qualify for a readable news story, researching those anomalies and writing a story.
And you're shocked I'm saving it until the last minute. Shame on you.
No, I felt today was better spent watching the Giants and eating dinner with the College Bowl team. Every semester I've been in charge, we've had some sort of get-together on the night of the semester's last practice: usually dinner, occasionally Jillian's... you know, something to feign that we all like each other and are a cohesive unit.
Given that I was buried in work the night of the last practice, the festivities got moved to tonight. Unearthing an old team tradition, we went to the Vinny Testa's in Brookline, where I guess the team would always go before I cam along. I was glad we went, because it made me remember all the reasons we had stopped going there in the first place.
I can understand them being a little miffed about nine people showing up without a reservation on a Saturday night. That said, we met there at 5:30, intentionally before the heavy dinner rush. Of course, I couldn't make a reservation because CBers tend to have a problem with flaking out of showing up somewhere they said they'd be. Would Vinny's have liked it better if I made a 17-person reservation, then come with 9? I didn't think so.
Everyone tends to cut Vinny's slack because they give you buckets of food, but to be honest, they've never really impressed me all that much. The staff was rude to us, our waiter wasn't really all there... general stuff that starts to happen when a place starts to lean on its reputation a little too much. I only wish Coen's idea of ordering stuff from the Olive Garden menu had actually been put in motion.
It was a pretty quiet night as well, as I ended up just going over to Justin's with Meg - sitting here knowing I wasn't doing my work was making me pissier than normal. No Arbor Mist downing tonight, but gaining experience on the mountains of SSX: Tricky will help me in the job search, I'm sure.
If nothing else, Justin and Meg seem to have made up after their shoving match on Newbury Street. Just a note to the ladies, only certain men can take being called gay, no matter how hot you think the waitress they were ignoring was.December 14, 2001 - Bring On The Pot
"I kind of wished that Carl and Duquette would be a matched pair, and that they'd travel the bigs together, Sisyphus to the other's Tantalus (or Statler to the other's Waldorf, or even Ratso Rizzo to one's Joe Buck). Perhaps they could bring in Izzy [Alcantera] and they could tour the major league parks, solving crime." -- Coen, who really should apply for the GM job in Boston after The Duke gets The Ax.
"We asked them who won the Beanpot last year. They were telling us Clarkson." -- FleetCenter security, on how they could tell homeless people were being sent to buy Beanpot tickets for scalpers. Apparently Clarkson graduates a lot of homeless people...
If December 11th could be classified as a "bad day," December 14th could be classified as a "good day." For lack of any better summarizing cliche, things just fell into place all over the map today.
The hockey posse will be watching the Beanpot in style this February, from the lovely club seats at the FleetCenter. Tickets went on sale at 11, and by getting there by quarter past 10, we were second in line. Only a Dunkin Donuts stopoff kept us from the Justin's dream... being first in line. He was all excited about it, I didn't get it either.
We heard the story about the homeless people both in the line from the guys in front of us, and from another guy on the T platform afterward (we were out by 11:05, suffice to say I made my 12:30 final with ease). I guess because ticket sales at the window are limited to 4 per person per night, ticket brokers will recruit homeless people to go buy tickets, then sell them back for a little booze money. So security, to pick them out, will ask if they can identify who won the Pot the previous year. Not a bad little system, though just looking at the tattered winter hats and shopping carts should probably be sufficient. I guess we just missed a large dispersal of the crowd while we were getting our "Egg & Cheese With Meat" sandwiches.
I wonder if they have just a blanket thing they call "Meat," or if you really do have to specify Sausage, Ham or Bacon. I should ask that, along with using my overstressed syllable pronunciation of "Cool-ah-ta."
So we got seats, got on the train, and were back to campus in time for my Military final. I'd been panicking at the Fleet, poring over my nine pages of handwritten definitions, just knowing the 15-20 of them I didn't know would be where the 14 on the test were pulled from.
It's funny, before every exam I take, whether I feel prepared or not, I get all panicky and have to go to the bathroom. Then I feel fine until I go into the class where the exam is, see everyone else drilling, and freak out again. Usually it's unwarranted, as it was today.
We had to do ten of fourteen ID's and then two of three essays. I knew thirteen of the ID's and felt good enough on two of the essays, so I think I'm alright. It was an easy class all-around, and when you take 163 pages of notes over the course of a semester, odds are you're going to have a pretty good grasp on the concepts when you need to.
With the site now having an established reader base, and my having free access to a copier, I'm going to start selling my lecture notes. No one will buy them, yes, but I keep them all and they do little good in my dresser at home. Some are absolute masterworks, as I never miss class and have managed to maintain a 3.3 GPA while never reading any course books. Once I get am inventory of what I have, I'll post it here, because I can never have enough money.
Oh yes, while on the subject of learnin', my first grade's in: I got a B in Production & Design. How this happened I will never fully understand, given my average wasn't even a B going into my disaster of a final project. I suppose it's only fitting, given that I never understood how anything worked in that class, why should I understand the grading system?
This is one of those times when I really do start to believe that I am invincible.
To celebrate today's successes, as well as my finishing up a 7th semester at the Mail Room, I bought alcohol for freshmen.
"I didn't really, officer, I just say it so the kids will think I'm cool..."
Meg, Justin and I went back to the CambridgeSide Galleria, so I cound finally buy some damn wires to hook up my VCR. We did, as well as peruse the wig store, Old Navy (where I did successfully continue my streak of buying something every time I go in) and other places I shouldn't reveal because they deal with Christmas purchases. We also ate at Houlihan's, which has really shitty fries for somewhere trying to be an upscale pub restaurant. I will say though, Justin got this colossal BLT that was essentially two sandwiches. There was enough thick Cajun-spiced bacon on it to give about 75% of Congress a heart attack... and those guys have affairs with interns like, every freakin day!
This is getting too long, but all you have to know is this: After we got home from the mall, Meg drank a whole bottle of Arbor Mist, Justin ordered a pizza at 1:30 in the morning and I am the hockey-posse Jeopardy! champion. Man, am I going to miss college.December 13, 2001 - Since When Do I Study?! I can't remember the last time I worked a 9-5 in the Mail Room... it used to be a habit for me during finals time. Because I'm in COM, and thus have no actual work to do during the finals period, I'd pack in the hours so in the middle of break, while I was sitting at home stuffing my face full of Cool Ranch Doritos, I'd get a paycheck for some obscene amount of money. This year though, I amazingly hadn't worked one until today, especially when you figure:
a) I had three days with no classes from 9 to 5 this semester. b) Joe's so dependant on me, the sheer thought of me graduating makes him cry. CRY, I tell you.
Anyway, in a journal where you're reading about the excitement and tribulation of my days, there really wasn't much of any today. Yes, there never is, but that's beside the point. Lisa felt the need to point out to me today that the only two things I ever talk about here are College Bowl and the newspaper.
Well, duh. I suppose if I was a UMass-Darthmouth cheerleader, or if I had once been convinced there was a train going through my backyard, or if I'd once tripped over my own sandals while running, or if I'd tried to date my way around the Agawam High golf team... I'd write about that. But I'm not vengeful or anything.
I think the greatest shame is that I have no pictures of the night she called me convinced someone was robbing her house because there were cat food cans in the driveway. Babe, I know I'm making you look bad. I apologize in advance. ;)
Around this time of year, every department in the university seems to have a Christmas party. You know, call up the folks at catering, get them to wear their tuxedo vests and little yellow bow ties while all the department uppity-ups stuff their faces with shrimp, meatballs, chicken quesadillas, brie, sandwiches, etc. etc. Maybe talk a little about business, a little about the family, but mostly about how great they are and why they're going to "change the world"... as Engineering's new marketing slogan so proudly touts.
They put it all over everything: denim shirts, painter's hats, coffee mugs, travel mugs... We CHANGE the way THE WORLD works. Boxers sold seperately.
Anyway, the point of all this is Joe, who gets invited to about 13 parties every holiday, took me to the Electrical and Computer Engineering party. As it ended up, he told us all to go over, just slide in, grab some food and slide out. Must say, this school does it up first-rate. All the above, plus cookies, apple crisp, whipped topping, scallops with bacon... God bless the laundered military funds and top secret bomber experiments that built the Photonics Center.
Yeah things weren't perfect... they overcooked the shrimp, the crisp was too hot and (I'm told) the scallops were a little too heavy on the oregano. But hey, if Jon Westling makes an appearance at the festivities, how bad can it really be?
Can you even imagine how much weight he must put on over the holidays, hitting as many holiday bashes as he damn well pleases? Oh man, he'll be 450 by the end of Kwanzaa... yesterday, I was right by the door when he walked in. He's two of me, honest to God. I could hide behind him...
Other than that thrillfest, yesterday was actually used as a study day. Only having one actual final exam, for The American Military Experience, I've taken to writing out definitions of all the terms from this half of the semester. That's my studying. Sounds inadequate til you realize there's like 150 terms.
I have that final at 12:30, but my plans to actually sleep past 8 for once will be dashed again. See, general admission Beanpot tickets go on sale tomorrow at 11 a.m. Not the student seats, those aren't til January, the lower-level stuff available to the public. Hypho wants to go, and since he was there at the Beanpot '99 spectacle, he asked me.
Let's just leave it at Elmer and I were congratulated by people on the level below us because we were screaming so loud, we almost got beaten up by drunken BC fans and almost told BU Chancellor John Silber to fuck off. So many crises, so deftly averted.
Anyway, Meg, Justin and I will be venturing down to Das Fleet to try and secure sweet tickets. Having watched last year's Beanpot from Brookline, I miss the fistfights on the North Station T platform.
BU Hockey - Unbeaten in Beanpot games I've attended. Now that's a meaningless stat if I ever heard one.
December 12, 2001 - What's Your School's RPI? Ah, the study period. A time when most students sleep until noon, feign fingering through their notes for a few hours, then go get drunk. Or the exact opposite - the people who did that all semester freak out, rip the plastic wrap off of their pristine textbooks, and start the cramming that will eventually win them the coveted C they wanted on the first day of the semester. I wish I could be irresponsible, or more accurately, I wish I wasn't such a money-grubbing bastard that I feel like I have to work every single day.
I was up by 7:30 today, which is exactly why I feel like I'm going to pass out right now. See, the only chance I had to get anything printed out from the Mac Lab, and thus not fail my Design class, was to get there right when it opened and be the only one in the lab.
Mission accomplished, which is unfortunate because it means I acutally got to see what my magazine looked like on paper. For some reason, margins are cutting stuff off after I was told they wouldn't, pages are different sizes, the colors suck... honestly, I didn't give a damn. Brought the crap home, cut it to size, and handed it in with a note saying, "I don't care, just grade it. Please be merciful, oh God, please be merciful." I guess that's a paraphrase...
Joe's training our new employees for the break period, so work has essentially become "do nothing while the new people are getting trained." It's the greatest time of the year; the only time I have to do anything is when people are getting overwhelmed, and even then, there's like 6 people in the office so no one's working hard. It's funny, one of our intersession employees is a guy who was preplaced here with me in the fall of '98, left the school and is now back as a sophomore. My only thought is this kid's been off to San Francisco, running around the country... and I'm still here. How much of a loser must he think I am? :)
I had three hours off for lunch today, and managed to get absolutely nothing non-Cooch's World related done. The thing that scares me is I know this site is the greatest time suck in my day, and yet I consistently let it be anyway. Every time I find out somebody new is reading it, it makes me that much more motivated to not do anything of substance. For example, I should be defining terms for my Military final on Friday right now. Instead, I'm asking you to sign the guestbook if you read this, even if you're like Chris Rosenberg and only read it to find excuses to call me a jackass.
"I miss head more than a home-cooked meal." -- Bill's friend Kurt, sounding an awful lot like Bill, come to think of it.
"Rock on, waiters!" -- Justin, cheering on the waiters at Friday's as they sang Happy Birthday. This was before our waitress called him cute, Justin saluted the Italian Navy and we got our meal essentially comped. Those really aren't related at all, I don't think.
Six of us went and saw a preview of Not Another Teen Movie, really a perfect film to see for free with hoarded Free Press movie passes. It reminded me a lot of my old columns from freshman year: spent every second trying to make jokes, so the net effect was that it was too much to handle. Every review I read about the movie was that it's the worst of 2001 - that's a load of bullshit. But it's not something I would have been satisfied paying to see: never did I think I'd be saying this, but some of the humor was just too gross. Is it possible I'm growing up, or do I just not need to see a teacher get covered in shit? You decide.
I don't know what it was about the group last night, but we were very volatile. I screamed at Bill (which led to him walking home), Meg and Justin exchanged blows (to a point), Rea and Kurt... well, nothing happened with them, but I'd imagine they were very angry and wanted to kill someone.
If you ask me, it's never a good sign if, after watching a gross-out teen drama mock-up, a spontaneous political/abortion discussion breaks out. Finals have everyone a little edgy I guess...December 11, 2001 - Cornucopia Of Stupidity Today was not a good day. I think I used that line a few days ago, and I hate repitition, but it applies and I don't feel all that creative. I had a better idea of how to open this, but since I forgot it, you'll just have to deal.
Today was supposed to be a glorious day; classes ending, and my getting two projects in and away. One of them Sports JO, which is sad, but a sadness overrun because the other was Design, the worst class in the history of the universe.
I've never actually rated a class "poor" on an evaluation form before today. I managed to not rate it "very poor," just because I believe that should be saved for classes where the professors physically beat the students. There's must be some of those somewhere in this university; probably the School of Theology. Think about it.
Anyway, the day started with extreme promise. The day started with breakfast - a swig of milk and a Centrum caplet. (My fridge will be empty for break, damnit.) I printed out my paper before my last Military class, and as I was going to hand it in, I ran into Professor Falla. Saved me the trip up the stairs. Class went well, my short stint in the mail room went well, and then everything went to crap.
The printer in COM 211 is inundated this time of year, because every ad major and magazine major in the school has to print out final projects on it. So the printer gets overloaded, especially when people who know nothing about computers (read: EVERYONE) send their jobs seven times because that'll make it print faster, dumbass. Long story short, in the three hours I was in the lab for class, none of my work printed out. Zero.
Nevermind the fact my bitch of a professor hates my magazine, because she knows nothing about sports, and wants eighteen things revised in it. If I can't print the magazine out, then I can't see what it looks like on paper, which past precedent has shown is drastically diffferent than it looks on a computer screen. So I can revise it on screen, but have no idea what the final product will look like. And when I went back at night to work in the lab, it was closed. At 6:30 p.m. when it's supposed to be open until 9. Fuckers.
So in lieu of working in the computer lab, I did my laundry. Decided to go to the neighborhood's other laundromat, because I'm told it's better. It's not better, it's more expensive. And some guy got all up in my grill because I "tried to steal his dryer." Yes, I just said "got up in my grill."
The rest of my bitching is FreeP-related, so feel free to tune out starting now...
"The DFP is like a mind-boggling cornucopia of stupidity." -- Photo Assistant Jason, giving me a new favorite "FreeP Sucks" quote.
To understand what I'm pissed about, you would have had to see Tuesday's final issue. It was very much Sept. 11th-based, and on the whole was full of excellent stories. They sent the new news editor Dan down to NYC over the weekend, and he wrote something like four stories. It was a very good issue, but they half-assed the one thing that should not have been half-assed.
They did a center spread on all the BU victims of the attacks, and proceeded to spell at least two of the victims' names wrong.
I'll even give them the benefit of the doubt on the layout looking like garbage - if you're going to put pictures behind the text, you might want to lighten the pictures so people can actually read the text. The center spread could have been something very special, something a victim's family could have cherished if it was well done. But it wasn't even done average; it was rushed, done like shit, and it showed.
I alerted this to Bill, along with all the other spelling errors that seemed more prevalent than usual. Bill then told me to stop "bitching at the choir," essentially to fuck myself, and immediately ran off to the DFP final dinner for the privileged circle.
Part of my incessant bitching about the paper is the way I was shoved aside after working my ass off covering everything asked of me. Covering lectures with twenty people in attendance, call stories on studies no one cares about, sitting in that newsroom on nights when my work was being neglected... then getting told I wasn't good enough, wasn't ready. If I never worked in Nashua, I probably wouldn't be so angry about stupid proofreading errors like forgetting cutlines or misspelling names.
But I did, and I know how simple it is to catch these things. I looked at that center spread, and within 20 seconds of reading it, I found the mistakes in the names. If I'm noticing it, other people are noticing it, and it's taking away from all the work that I and the rest of the grunts put in there. It cheapens the work I do for the paper, and to have to listen to the upper echelons joke about it, it's the most maddening thing in the world.
I think it's time for me to start looking for an internship for the spring semester. Bill, you may have done what no one else in the newsroom could ever completely accomplish. You may have gotten rid of me once and for all.December 10, 2001 - Many Quarters, Fewer Nickels Few extra notes from yesterday:
My adopted British soccer side, the Bluebirds of Cardiff City, have drawn the Premiership's Leeds United in the third round of the 2001 FA Cup. To explain to the non-soccer fans, the FA Cup is essentially if all the baseball teams in America, from rookie ball to the majors, played in one giant tournament. CCFC is in the second division, Leeds in the Premiership - it goes Premiership, First, Second, Third, Conference.
Leeds having to play at Cardiff is essentially like the Yankees having to play at the Trenton Thunder, in Trenton's home park. Sure, odds are very high Cardiff will be slaughtered, but I still think it's pretty sweet.
There really is nothing sweeter than getting an e-mail that essentially says, "I've been thinking about you, and I miss you." I highly recommend both sending and receiving some of those.
Today was a day to get a lot of work done. And it did, in fact, get done. Since it has to go be handed in now, I will do that. More later.
[Editor's Note: There will not be more later, because I don't feel like writing it. Know I got my Sports Journalism project done, and worked at the FreeP on my magazine project for long enough to get it into submittable condition. Also know that I was the only one in the DFP office who could be bothered to teach Meg how to use Quark; the rest just assumed their three-second synopses were enough.]December 9, 2001 - R.I.P.N.Y.G. George Young, the architect of the great Giants teams of the '80s and '90s, the man who brought in Simms, Taylor and Parcells, died on Saturday night. So it seems only fitting that on this weekend, the Giants officially go in the tank for 2001.
Yeah, know they're not officially "out of it." But when you've got Seattle, Green Bay and Philadelphia left on your schedule, and you can't beat Dallas, the season's over.
So the streak continues - the Giants have failed to make the playoffs the season after all three of their Super Bowl appearances. Even worse, the Coutures won't be making a trip down to the Meadowlands this year, which really makes me sad. Giants Stadium is an incredible place to watch a game, because the fans are rabid and the noise just echoes in the stadium bowl. Insanity. We were at the last game of the regular season, against the Jags, to clinch the No. 1 playoff seed. Incredible game, if only because Matt had the balls to wear a Jacksonville jacket into the stadium. I still marvel that he wasn't killed, after I saw what happens to Viking fans at the game in '99... but enough about that.
My depression over the G-Men is tempered by the improbable success of the Patriots. I've always been a Pats fan, but if they even played the Giants in the Super Bowl, my alliance would probably sway to the south. Despite my hatred of what's happening to Drew Bledsoe, I can't argue with the fact that Tom Brady wins football games. Until he loses, you can't pull the guy, but Bledsoe is running Hall of Fame numbers. Yes, Hall of Fame. No, I can't believe I'm saying it either.
Isn't it ironic that I just spent four paragraphs talking about football, on a day I didn't actually watch more than an hour of football. Missed all the huge games; Pack-Bears... Rams-Niners... missed them all. I didn't even play football today, though some of the FreeP gang did. In the slush.
No, I went shopping. Yes, me. Shopping. At an actual mall. Course it was my kind of shopping; I only bought two things and spent the rest of the time in the food court or playing video games at Best Buy.
Meg and Ellen were off buying clothes, trying things on, the whole nine yards. Justin and I were looking at stuff in Electronics Boutique, looking at stuff in Best Buy, talking about nothing, going to the board game store, going to the wig store... you get the idea.
Course I forgot to buy the one thing I went to get in the first place: video cables so I can actually use my VCR. And they wouldn't take my coupon for the stuff I did buy... it was one of those coupons that gave you 10% off three certain items in the store, but nothing else. And since I wasn't going to buy a refridgerator, 87" television or a lunar rover, I got no discount.
I can't wait for the day when, in my own mind, I allow myself to spend money on clothes. I swear, there's going to be one day when I just go nuts and spend like $1,000 on a new wardrobe. I can't even buy jeans without feeling guilty.
Some would call that cheap, but then I would call you assholes.
BU 3 - 2 UMass-Amherst We won, though I'm not sure how.
Well, we're going into the holiday break with two big conference wins, but it sure doesn't feel like we won. Or that we should have won. Of course, if you listen to Coach Parker, we played well enough to win the 2nd Cornell game and the Lowell game, so I guess it's karma evening itself out.
Still though, holy crap.
The first period today may have been the worst period of hockey I've seen a BU team play in my four years here. I mean, they were terrrible. Hideous. There aren't even words to describe how bad they were... well, bad enough to get booed off the ice.
Their first power play? UMass outshot them 1-0 and scored shorthanded. On the day, BU had seven power plays... and five shots on all of them combined. Looking back at it now, their third period success can only be traced to not having any power plays in the period.
And don't go giving me any crap about their first goal being on the power play. Statistical anomaly; ask anyone who was there.
Midway through the second period, the shot total was 9-9. Eighteen combined shots in thirty minutes of hockey, and we were down 0-2. It was the first time I've ever seen Section 8 dull; the entire arena had been silenced by a last place team and five of their fans. Yes. Five. They were clustered next to the UMA bench, and every time one of them thought a penalty should be called, the fattest one stood and just held his arm straight up in the air. It was one of those moments where I wish I'd followed through on my plan to smuggle a megaphone into the arena.
"Sir. Please put your arm down. No one wants to see that."
Watching them do the Sieve chant was worse, but I can't blame them. UMass only scores about three, four times a season.
There are three things I'll never understand about the '01-'02 Terriers:
1) Why it takes them two periods to realize if they shoot the puck, they'll probably score. 2) Why they'll never completely grasp the above concept. 3) How they'll always come up with these bursts of brilliance to win games - today, 26 seconds, two goals. Justin and I almost knocked each other unconscious, and I think I had three coronaries. It was very exciting.
10-3-1 for the half... third in Hockey East, top eight in the country. That'll do, pig, that'll do.December 8, 2001 - Reality Bites I'm very frightened right now, so if this update comes off as rambling, please understand why. I just looked out my window, and saw the most horrible thing I could ever imagine.
There's anthrax falling from the sky.
Everywhere I look, flaky white powder is coming down, collecting on the streets, heaping over cars. BU Physical Plant workers are out there with shovels, God love them, but I just don't think they're going to be able to stop the onslaught. Whatever unmerciful bastards did this to us, rest assured, you can't kill us all. We will find you, and you will pay.
That seemed a lot funnier when I thought of it earlier.
I almost made it all the way through this week not talking about the weather once, but even by New Englander standards, this one warrants mentioning. On Thursday, the high temperatures in the Boston area were hitting 70 degrees. Now it's snowing; not just a dusting, not just thinking about snowing, but inch plus on the ground snowing.
It's a wonder this city hasn't falled into the sea yet.
Today's high school tournament went as well as I could hope for, considering Agawam's two teams finished in the bottom half of the draw. We started fifteen minutes late, and yet still finished on time. The new playoff system I added made for the best final we've ever had (Hanover, N.H. High over Burlington, Vt. High in three), and we didn't have to deal with any of the freakies who use all the rooms at night so they can pretend to be vampires.
I forget just what triggered it, but I remember actually being sad that this was the last time I'll get to run the BSQBC, presumably. I really feel like, as queer as it sounds, that this tourney is my baby, nurtured from my supple breast and now sent out into the world. I pray that I'm wrong about my successors, but without Coen there as a guiding influence on them like he was on me, the future frightens the crap out of me. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's making fun of people. But if there's two things I'm good at, it's making fun of people and organization.
The FreeP gang wants to play football in the snow tomorrow. As cool an idea as that would be, having a three p.m. hockey game makes hypothermia at noon seem like a bad idea. That's right, I think I'm taking my ball and going home.
"Jon - Many thanks for the fine job you all did... You did great, thank everyone for us." -- Burlington's coach, because I'm nothing if not an egomaniac. ;)
December 7, 2001 - Pearl Harbor Day You know it's the end of the semester when my weekend schedule actually sucks more than my weekday schedule. When it reaches the point where I'm fully prepared to do work, for real, you can almost feel reality slipping out of your hands. It's alarming the levels of laziness I reach on an everyday basis, but I can still "buckle down" when I have to. And thank God for that... otherwise College Bowl would be taking a trip to the crapper a little earlier than scheduled. :)
Tomorrow is our high school tournament, my legacy, one of my favorite events of the year. Matt and Dad are coming with two AHS teams, plus a host of others who I won't even bother mentioning right now. All day was devoted to getting tournament preparations done, along with my actual job and my Sports JO project. Scary as it is, I was actually moderately successful on all fronts:
Job: I didn't get fired. Sports: I wrote my sidebar story and a little more of the feature, meaning I'm 2/3rds done with the second of my four projects. BUCB: I eventually did get all the questions copied, after the machine stopped chewing up the pages and I punted a stack of box tops across the office.
Plus, I got to go over to MIT and borrow two buzzer systems from the home of Monsieur Chris Luhrs, who if you've read our controversial Constitution, is the father of the jaunty beret. He wasn't wearing it when I stopped by... very strange to see him in a non-prickish context.
I would bitch more about College Bowl if I had the time, but as I have to be to CAS in about a half hour, we'll save that for the next time I get all pissed off about it. Because if yesterday has taught me anything, it's that nothing reads better than an apology. Well, except for this.
BU 5 - 2 UMass-Amherst That'll teach Anna to get mouthy with me.
It's nice to know in a world where UMass-Lowell has become irrationally unstoppable, the Minutemen are still the hockey doormat that the makers intended them to be. Mullins Center is a beautiful arena, don't get me wrong. I love it, and I still feel a strong connection to UMass basketball from my youth, but if they ever start being good at hockey, something will definitely have torn in the time-space continuum.
Coach Cal, Lou Roe, Tony Barbee, Edgar Padilla, Mike Williams... hell, even dumbass Marcus Camby. Those were the days...
Anyway, this win is huge. If we had lost, not only have we lost three in a row, but we're giving away points in the conference that should be gimmes. You know a situation is dire when I take the trouble to listen to the crackly radio feed, which I've determined is impossible to get in clear from anywhere outside of the WROL studios.
Hey, remember when UMass won the Div. 1-AA national football championship? You can tell you're truly a child of Western Mass. if you not only remember watching the whole game with Georgia Southern, but that it made you feel inordinately proud of your part of the state. Course maybe that's because I'm just psycho.
OK, enough segues. Last night was a must-win on the road, and we won. The boys came out to play, and really, it was never in doubt. Even when UMA tied it in the second, there was no real sense of panic as to us coming back. Just a solid win: Justin Maiser finally scored, Pandolfo had a pair, Fields was strong, my boy Ryan Whitney had a couple of assists... I could go on.
If ever a sweep struck me as crucial in December, this would have to be it. And finally, I'm going back to Walter Brown come Sunday. The hockey posse rides again!December 6, 2001 - A Treatise On Yesterday
"Like the pyramids and the Bermuda Triangle, how a tool like you ends up with so many attractive friends willing to let themselves be dragging into some cyber-connection with you is one of life's great mysteries." -- Chris Rosenberg, whose bitterness and resemblance to me has earned him the nickname Dad, asking the question I've wondered since I was old enough to grasp such things.
I'll cut to the chase because, even on a scale of my life, today was pretty boring.
It came to my attention that yesterday's entry could be perceived as callous and prickish - being that three different people said Meg had every right to punt me in the nuts, the point was well taken. Sparing the gory details, things have been discussed, lists of grievances have been aired... it's like some psycho cross between Vanilla Sky and Festivus, only one of which was made into an ice cream. Well, so far anyway.
When I write these updates, I'm essentially doing it for me, so I have a record of what's been going on in my life. Every so often I'll go back and read some of the ones from June or July, and it just reminds me of everything I've done in the past seven months... making me smile, laugh or grumble as appropriate. Why do I post them here for everyone else to read?
1) If I kept a paper journal that I let no one else see, I would have to beat myself up for being a fairy. 2) Some of you may find it entertaining, informative or inspiring, depending on your level of stability. 3) It's new, updated content everyday, something that, given the amount of FreeP stories I've done this semester, would otherwise be rare. 4) It helps me keep in touch with all of you, at a time when I don't have six hours a day to sit on Instant Messenger.
That said, I can understand how the things I say could be blown out of proportion by someone who doesn't know just what I'm thinking when I write them. I can understand that there are certain things I shouldn't be putting up here, because it's embarassing to the others involved. In the future, I will try to exercise a little more care in posting what some could perceive to be stuff not fit for the general public.
I'm not going to start censoring excessive parts of my day though, because this is a site about me and I plan on writing about the things in this world that are relevant to me. If there's something or somebody that pisses me off, I'm going to put it here probably before I confront the actual person with it - that's just the way I am.
Enough about that, it makes for worse reading than my usual bitchfests. Just know Meg and I have discussed things, all is calmed down, and I do thank Bill for pointing out to me that, yes, even he would kick me in the nuts if he were Meg.
Granted, if Bill were Meg, I'd probably ask him to shave the goatee because I'd imagine it's bristly. I just don't go for that.
We finally have our trophies for Saturday, and in classic Student Activities Office style, they were behind the counter all along. So when I was talking to the student there about where the box might be, all she would have had to do was look down.
There's something about SAO that, no matter how low I set my expectations, they always seem to find new ways to disappoint me.
"Why is it that boys have the skinniest little ankles and these HUGE feet? I mean, really, sometime while you're bored in class (like I was today in compressible flow) take a look around you." -- Lonnie on her new LiveJournal, which I'll update when I get around to it. Note how I completely avoid even commenting on what she's talking about.
December 5, 2001 - Poor Performances Today really wasn't a very good day, when I think about it. And because of that, I'm going to rant, so please tuck in your children... this could get messy real fast.
I am by no means a perfect specimen, but I like to think I maintain my physical appearance as best I can. That said, I know that I should not be wearing muscle shirts, because my body would not look flattering in muscle shirts... you might say, I do not have the body to wear that type of clothing.
Which brings me to the topic of bare midriffs, or tummies as the girls call them. I understand that because Britney Spears wears shirts that shows off her bellybutton, you all have to. But you all have to understand, Britney Spears does not look like you. You do not look like Britney Spears... unless your name is Lauren DeLuca, but that's a whole other story. What am I saying? Simply put, put a god damned sweater on. I have a small gut, and it is not cute. Neither is yours.
Contrary to what you may think, this is not aimed at anyone in particular. Well, it is, but the odds of her reading this are about 50 to 1. Non-posse member, non-BUCB member... you get the idea.
Anyway, why am I pissed off? I acutally had a good day at work, goofing around while doing data entry. Only one class, and it was Research, which I actually like. Got some free nachos from Taco Bell, along with my dinner of chicken tacos. Wasn't at the Free Press for too long today, and nobody there mistaken thought I'd taken a story to write... a welcome change from the day before. Life's all Peaches and Herb, right?
Not quite. As those in the BUCB loop know, Saturday is our high school tournament, the event I've basically molded into my legacy over the past three years. The one event where if anything goes wrong, I go nuclear.
I got a call on Tuesday afternoon from BU's Student Activities Office telling me our trophies were delivered and available for pickup there. Whew, they're here, relief. This afternoon, I go up to the office to get them.
SAO doesn't have them. Elmer doesn't have them. Ellen, Robin... they don't have them. Where are our fucking trophies? I don't know where they are, because somebody walked out of the Student Activities Office with them. And do we know who that is? No, because you don't have to sign packages out of SAO, you just take them and look like you know what you're doing.
I encourage you all to go up to the Boston University Student Activities Office, whenever you're bored, and steal a package. Hell, steal six, seven, eight... I don't care. Don't worry, no one will ever know. Why? Because at SAO, you have to fill out 17 forms to blow up a balloon, but you can waltz right down the stairwell with my trophies. [Cooch's World does not endorse stealing from student groups, because theft is illegal, immoral and most student groups buy crappy things to steal.]
Oh, sit down, I'm not done.
Bout a week ago, Meg, Justin and I wandered into the Free Press for some-odd reason... probably involved me having to buy booze. This was the day I'd had lunch at College Publisher, and had decided to make my Online Services Director position a nighttime position. I'd just told Meg the news, and she was distraught enough to say she needed a job at the Free Press. So I told her we needed a Wire Editor, to sift through the AP copy every night. I keep going back and forth as to how serious I was, but at this point, it doesn't really matter.
Yeah, so Meg's the new Wire Editor.
I think if I was either staunchly for or staunchly against this development, I'd feel a thousand times better. Of course I'm not. It's a blended feeling: like a Whipper Snapple but without tasting so disgusting. I'm happy for her, I really am. I'm happy she's working at the paper finally, and I'm happy I'm going to get to see her there.
Still, she's over here 3-4 nights a week. She's in College Bowl. She works in my building, though our contact there is negligible. The FreeP was my place, where I had my friends, my jokes, my thing going on. So, naturally, I putz it up.
And I can already see reading this is going to make her cry again, so I'm shutting up.
I remember a long time ago, when putting on local news at five o'clock was just becoming a new thing, thinking that someday an inevitable race would start... that would result in the nightly news being on at something like 1:30 in the afternoon. Well, today I watched FOX 25's News at 4:30. It's getting closer people, I'm Nostra-freakin-damus.
Tonight was a strange night. Given that three hours in the computer lab working on my stupid magazine took all the energy out of me, I could do little more tonight than work in my room, play a little basketball and watch television. It amazes me to say this, but tonight is the first night in a long time I've actually sat down, by myself, and just watched TV. I never get to do that anymore... I really shouldn't be doing it now either, but whatever. If I fail out now, I'll just sue the school. That seems to be how people of my generation deal with their own fuck-ups, with lawsuits. I'm looking at you, Kristin Roslonski.
Anyway, I sat through the whole FOX syndication line-up: Home Improvement, 3rd Rock From The Sun, NewsRadio, Seinfeld and The Simpsons. Few observations:
1) Tim Allen should not be talking about ovarian cysts and hysterectomies... EVER. 2) Super Karate Monkey Death Car. Everyone who has to get that, already did. 3) Twenty-five years from now, episodes of Seinfeld and The Simpsons will still be funny. They will never age.
They came the crap, as FOX aired the 2001 Billboard Music Awards. I was amazed that in the entire listing of stars at the beginning, there were about three people/acts I would pay anything more than $5 to see. If someone had bombed the MGM Grand Ballroom and killed everyone in that building, the talent loss to the music word might have been close to negligible.
I think at the point I saw Carrot Top sitting with 'N Sync, it became clear to me Rupert Murdoch has finally going completely insane. Perhaps the greatest irony of it all was Heineken was a sponsor. Heineken... the average age of the people in the crowd and watching must have been about seven.
Seven-year-olds and Vito.
Because the Billboard awards just sucked that hard, I had to find solace on the WB. Smallville was on, and honestly, I kinda liked it. Which scared the hell out of me.
And on an unrelated tangent, is it possible for a show to jump the shark before it even airs? In the pantheon of bad ideas, That 80s Show is sipping from a fountain of Coke II.December 3, 2001 - Lil Cooch Hits The Web Powwow Celebrates Culture has been added to the writing section. Horrible, but it's mine. Also note two Matty-related items: he's got a new picture AND he's set up his very own LiveJournal. Revel in the glory.
"An Indian prostitute distributes red ribbons Monday during an AIDS awareness campaign as part of a build-up to World AIDS Day in Calcutta. The United Nations said in a July report that AIDS killed 310,000 people
in India in 1999. World AIDS Day is celebrated on Dec." -- Boston Metro cutline from Nov. 28, 2001.
Ignore the fact the date is cut off; it's not even worth talking about. A picture of a prostitute handing out AIDS ribbons is equivelant to a burglar selling ADT security systems. There's comedy, there's high comedy, then there's the Metro.
Each day, I attempt to craft the events of my life into readable, enjoyable copy. Like The Onion, but real. Some days, like Saturday, are easier than others. Today would be one of those others.
You tell me what you could do with this lineup: woke up, went to get hockey tickets, was 40 minutes late for work, gave Justin back his ID, gave Meg back her ID, went to lunch at the GSU with Meg, went to the Free Press, came home, tried to do work at COM, came back home, did work here, went to College Bowl, cancelled College Bowl, went to COM and did work, came home.
I can almost hear the submissions pouring in.
I'd like to thank Globe Columnist Dan Shaughnessy, who has officially jinxed the Patriots with his latest column, I'm Ready To Punch Their Ticket. You'd think having written in New England for umpteen years, he'd know better than to screw the monkey with four games left in the season. Yeah, I don't know what was the motivation was behind "screw the monkey." But I like it.December 2, 2001 - I Want Drew It's a rare day when a person sets their alarm for 11 a.m., because if you're sleeping that late, odds are you don't give a damn about when you get up. Course, we're talking about me here. How many people you know were vacuuming within 90 minutes of getting up today? That's what I thought.
Is it really such a crime that I'm cleanly? Just because my mother raised me to keep things neat and tidy, I'm branded fancy. Just because my mother ironed creases in my cargo pants before freshman year began, I'm branded fancy. Just because my mother... hey wait a minute, this isn't my fault at all!
It's nobody's fault people. If my mother didn't raise me so well, I'd be like you. And no one needs another you.
Today was a FreeP day in so many ways, with football around noon and a story to write later. Yes, I did actually have to write about the pow wow... but we'll get to that.
FreeP Football was a disaster this week. We only had six people, so it was three-on-three on a field far too large for three-on-three. Every kickoff that didn't go out of bounds? Run back for a score. Incompletions? You bet. Winded people? Like you wouldn't believe. Bill managed to parry his drunkenness in to being automatic QB, meaning I again didn't get ot do it. Course his tripping over himself on a spin move before the game was convincing enough for me as well.
We had the staff picture right after the game, so not only was I disgusting from having played football, I hadn't showered. Yeah, I'm reeeeeaaaal fancy. Asses.
Somehow, I managed to get 500+ words out about Saturday's pow wow. The story essentially took the best of one person's quotes, and mixed it with a FAQ about pow wows. The Pulitzer committee will not be calling.
So that was Sunday. The next two weeks will prove to be the crux of my semester, and the penalty for three months plus of light lifting. It all starts Wednesday, when I'm writing a 1-2 page paper for a public records group project in Research class. My group, which includes a graduating-in-December guy and a computer-illiterate woman, have been nice enough to let me ride work-free since the beginning of the semester. Yes, guilt is making me write this synopsis. Guilt, and lack of faith either of them will do it.
Next Tuesday, das 11th of September is the biggest day, with final projects in Sports JO and that fucking Design class. The Sports one is just a matter of sitting and doing it: combo of query letter, feature story and sidebar. No biggie. The Design class, though, that needs four designed pages of a magazine. I currently have proofs done for two of them, and they both suck. I should have had four proofs done, what, two weeks ago?
In the history of the universe, there could not be a class designed to spite me better. It has everything I hate bottled into three-hour increments: fruity design people, a foreign professor who tries to be funny, stupid girls who like to pretend their smart... I could go on, but I'd have to put my fist through a wall to let off steam. That or eat a child, ala my hero, Mike Tyson.
"Tyson has remained true to his roots, recognizing how important it is to 'BE REAL'." -- Tyson's website, which apparently feels eating babies is a proper way to "be real."
The last assignment is December 17; an investigative story on crime using real data, real reporting and real... things. This worries me, given my track record calling the police. I tend to be a crap interviewer to begin with, but put me calling people who carry guns and deal with criminals and paperwork all day, it gets ugly. Pray for me. That, or get yourself arrested so I can interview you.
I also have a final in my Military class. Please note it's getting a two-sentence mention, because really, that's how concerned I am about it.
The best part about the Giants having a bye this week? It's the only thing that ensured they wouldn't lose again. If at the beginning of the season you had told me the New England Patriots would be overshadowing my other favorite football team, I'd have slapped you across your stupid face.December 1, 2001 - Of Pow Wows And Par-tays
"I'm recovering with some TV... leave me a message." -- Caroline's away message on Sunday morning.
"Mmmmm... I am Justin Toxicated." -- Justin's away message.
"I'm selepnng... will I be up for FreePP footballs... I doubtb it." -- Bill's away message.
I may be balding, falling out of shape and unable to make myself do work, but can Cooch throw a party or what?!
The day started so innocently, with me covering my first event for the Free Press since April 16th (in Hopkinton for the Marathon) - yes, all call stories since the best event EVER. Anyway, this is what my assignment slip read:
"Hi. The Boston Fire Department is having this pow wow on Saturday at Hynes Convention Center. It's going on from 10 to 6, but if you go by noon you should hear all the speakers. You should only have to be there about an hour. We're not sure if there's going to be Native Americans there, but it is called the 'Native American Pow Wow' so just cover it."
1) It's a two-day event. 2) Boston Fire may be sponsoring it, though they're mentioned nowhere other than a card table with a brochure on it. 3) Hynes listed the event as the "Pequot Pow Wow," which would have been nice to know for background before I actually went. 4) Had I gone for just an hour at noon, I would have missed the only part of the event worth covering: tribal dances and song.
Yeah I'm going to write a story. Yeah it's going to suck. We won't talk about the pow wow anymore.
Today's story was the party, a bash mentioned in passing months ago, but a reality last night. I've always said I have an apartment for entertaining, and my Feeding Hills parties are the stuff of legend (thanks to Sunny's bounce houses and dunk tanks). It seemed only natural - with the new TV included - that I try a legitimate collegiate evening of drinking and debauchery.
Things started innocently enough - with Meg, Lonnie and her new guy Jeremy getting here to watch me play Grand Theft Auto 3, the greatest video game in the history of the universe. Anyone who tells you otherwise is probably a Communist, or an idiot. Or both.
Pineapple pizzas were ordered and eaten. Asshole was played, masterfully by Bill. NCAA Football and Madden saw use, with Bill going unbeaten and young Josh going winless - sorry buddy, Stanford sucks at football. Through all that, booze was drank. Was it ever. The corpses are now dominating a corner of my kitchen - soldiers who served their grainy countries well.
Twelve Smirnoff Ices. A couple of Harps. Half bottle of Bacardi. Half bottle of Southern Comfort. One bottle of $5 White Zinfandel. Two bottles of Arbor Mist - taken out by Meg and Lonnie almost exclusively. One bottle of Smirnoff Raspberry Twist vodka - taken out by Jen Z. and The Rimjob Freshman, which would explain why the first passed out in my bathroom and the other passed out on my bed.
Please Note: Cooch's World does not condone sexual intercourse in his apartment, especially if he's not one of the parties involved in the aforementioned sexual intercourse. The Rimjob Freshman was so nicknamed because of a joke made in Bill's direction. In his defense, the girl's excessive whorish tendencies turned off even him - previously thought to be scientifically impossible. In Rimjob's defense, I thought she was nice enough.
Also note that Amanda, a mutual friend of Renee and I, was at the party as well. She just didn't do anything stupid enough to warrant mentioning.
Things finally started to break up once Bill noticed it was four in the morning. At 4:20 a.m., the lights finally went off and Lonnie, Jeremy, Meg and I all went to bed - and no, we didn't all sleep together you damned pervert. Thanks to my excessive fanciness and obsession with cleanliness, all the dishes were already washed. I really am just that good.
Hope everyone had a hell of a time. Another celebration's in order before Christmas - whether it comes through or not, that's up to the workload - a story for a school day if I ever heard one.
UM-Lowell 3 - 2 BU It's another afterthought game!
With the party carrying on like it was, it's no wonder I forgot about this game completely until Sunday afternoon. Let's just leave it at I'm glad I didn't go; the soiree was a better alternative for all involved (not named Jennifer Z.).
Three shots in the third period? Yeah, let's not do that again.