It's All French To Me

Leases on Life

2010-01-08T11:01:00.002-05:00

I've decided it's time to revert back to that tangential-esque thinking that got me started on this blog in the first place. You know...short, punchy quips with absolutely no point whatsoever.

I got up at 4:30 this morning (due in part to a slight hangover) and decided that sleeping was a futile effort. So I showered and walked to Starbucks around the corner. Pretty typical stuff for me, in terms of morning activities but even more so now that I got a $25 gift card from my brother Mike for Christmas. Thanks, buddy. No, seriously. Good gift. Anyway, as I stood waiting for my coffee and breakfast sandwich, it occurred to me just how much I hate the phrase "new lease on life".

Generally, this phrase is relegated to those who suddenly change something drastically in his or her life. Maybe they have this great new job, or this great new significant other, or this great new drug habit...who knows, could be one of many things. And when this shift occurs, you might hear someone's mom utter the phrase "hmm, sounds like he/she's got a new lease on life".

"Yeah, for sure he does. He got a sweet deal on an 18-month term but I'm concerned that once this lease is up, he'll revert right back to his old ways of panhandling on the streets of LA and eating meals consisting solely of crack and throw-away bear claws from Yum Yum."

A new lease on life...why is it a lease? A lease is finite. It has a definite beginning and more importantly, a definite end. It suggests just what I've alluded to in the interjection above...that at some point, the lease will be up and renewal will not be possible. Why don't we say a new "mortgage" on life? That way, there's at least the possibility of paying it off and eventually owning that life. If we choose to make another change, we can simply "refinance" this "mortgage" on our life and do something different. Because it's not a lease, you see. It's a mortgage, and it's an equitable proposition. It's an investment in one's future, is it not? And theretofore, shouldn't pretty much everything we choose to do or not to do be classified as an investment into our futures? My morning coffee is an investment into my very near future, ensuring I'll have that quick burst of fake energy that it takes to walk my lazy ass back to my apartment, no more than 200 yards away. This is where I choose not to give seventy-one more examples of inane activities that are preposterously alleged to be "investments" into my future.

Ahh...feels good to write a bunch of nonsense again.

Resolutions

2010-01-04T16:13:00.002-05:00

Why do we make New Year's Resolutions? What, so we can look back a year from now and realize that we most likely failed miserably in attaining any of those lofty goals we set for ourselves in a drunken haze on NYE? I love those people who vow to be a better person this year. I'm sorry, what? Yeah, generally people who make that resolution have NO SHOT of succeeding in holding it up. Once a bad person...

I did make a couple resolutions and quite frankly, I set the bar pretty low for myself in 2010. Hey, it gives me a better shot of looking back next year and gleaning some modicum of pride from the accomplishments. I want to work harder; I want to get back into a routine of working out, rather than the 1-2 times-per-week routine that I've been mired in for over a year now. I'm not totally out of shape, but if I'm not careful my body will end up resembling that of Stu from the Hangover...it's in my genes and Dad, you can attest to this. I want to write more. This one won't be too difficult, since I've pretty much ceased all writing (for the public eye) for the last several months. And this entry is a good start. I am also resolving myself to making less bets with my lady friend, Ms. Renee. I'm like 0-for-16 since mid-2009 and there's one bet pending that could prove DISASTROUS if I lose. I will not divulge the stakes, but I drunkenly bet her that the C's would beat the Lakers in the 2010 NBA Finals. Yes, I realize all the contingencies involved here, but when both teams are healthy they're clearly the two best in the NBA. I'll say this: if I lose this bet, you may be seeing a new blog entitles "Homeless and French in LA".

Highlight of my holiday season: mushroom hunting on the central coast of California with Renee's father, Alex. We got up at 5:30 and drove to Cambria to hunt porcini mushrooms. At 2pm we had gathered about 25 pounds of various types, most intriguingly being the amanita muscaria; or more commonly known as a psychadelic shroom. But we managed to pick about 6 pounds of porcinis and they were fantastic. We promptly dried most of them for soups, but the small batch we immediately sauteed in garlic, butter and olive oil and consumed. Amazing. I'm telling you, if you're in search of a low-maintenance, low-cost hobby, go buy a book on mushroom hunting and get out there in the spring (if you're in MASS). It's relaxing, fun and you can most certainly eat some of what you find. I'll try and remember to post some photos later on of the haul from last week.

That's about it for now, but I hope to remain in contact with the one or two loyal souls who still check back to see if I'm writing again. If anyone cares to view another blog that I've recently started (written as my current roommate), give me your email address and I'll add you on. I will not be making it public, though.

Here's to a happy, healthy and prosperous New Year to all in the blogger world.

Saude.

After All...

2009-06-10T20:25:00.002-05:00

Ramon Ramirez was due to get touched up a bit. I haven't seen him pitch more than a few times on the season, but I know the numbers. When you rely on box scores, numbers become deliveries and swings. They define what you remember most about a given player. The guy has been lights out, much like the majority of the Sox bullpen this season. Tonight, he challenged both Damon and Teixeira and gave up two blasts. Francona never flinched, outside of chewing a bit more anxiously than usual. He's not out of the inning yet, but I like sticking with RR here. Anddddddd he's been pulled. Never fails.

Damon is impressive and I wish I didn't have to say that. Banned substance investigation (pending?) aside, he has 13 HR's on the year and he's arguably the MVP of the Yankees this season. I really must say that living outside of my beloved Boston has allowed me to get a totally different perspective on the Yankees (or all sports team, for that matter) and it's kind of a relief. You do lose a lot of the stressful anxiety by removing yourself from the thick of things in Boston; I still love the hometown boys across the board but the placebo effect of surrounding yourself with people who are equally as rabid and excitable as you can be detrimental to one's health and psyche. I'm just saying, it can.

I'm giddy about Buchholz returning to the staff. Speaking of lights out, he has been absolutely dealing (albeit at an affiliate) lately. The Braves may want Penny, the Sox should probably swap him out...On paper, the rotation when all are healthy could be laughable. Beckett, Lester, Matsuzaka, Wakefield, Buchholz/Smoltz. Good gravy. Who matches up in a series? I don't know if the All-Century Team matches up, 1-5. Well, ok...but you get the point. The bullpen isn't anything to sneeze at, either...to say the least. Also, Wake is the MVP to this point for the Sox. Or Co with Youk, injury time included. It's to the point where I focus on Youk's at-bats because he ALWAYS has a good AB. He gets knocked for being a baby when he makes an out, but I think I'd be the same way if I always had quality ABs. Advantage: hitter; in those situations.

Simmons' article on a certain #34 in Boston might have actually worked. He's looking sharper of late...I'll say no more.

I'm saddened by the state of affairs for Glavine and Pedro. These are two of my favorites of all time to have taken the mound and I can't decide if it's more on them or on the teams who aren't interested. It's not quite Favresque, but it's in the same book.

Channing Crowder has inquired about a cage match with Rex Ryan through the UFC. You heard it first here, remember that. Because he did...Crowder. He did. He asked them. Straight up.

Rex Ryan agreed to the match eagerly, based on the assumption that the UFC will allow him to use a chain gun.

7-0.

Up For Air

2009-06-09T21:06:00.003-05:00

I typically have a very difficult time complying with the occasional assertion that I should be posting more/something/anything. I had no defense of the latest one, as it caused an audible "wow. fuck." Thanks Bowen...very effective words. Maybe...

I have a few announcement to make, thus this entry will be of the chronologically ordered variety. Side note here: I feel as though the chronologically ordered entry is oft ignored and markedly unappreciated.

1. I'm OFF suicide watch. JESUS. It would be this particular barb that catalyzed the "wow. fuck."

2. I'll be the first to admit that I've passed on several opportunities to post in the recent past. Let's see, April 7th was the last post...over two months ago. I really should have written about my Coachella experience, but I read enough reviews and reminiscent euphoria to assure me that my words would never suffice in delivering an appropriate recollection. Seriously, that's not simply an excuse. There's just way too much to cover. My only note is that everyone should try to make it to Coachella for all three days at some point in his or her life. It will change it, if only temporarily. If you have a chance to view any of the Cure videos on YouTube, do so. It's a big part of what I just noted.

3. I moved. Again. I've held more addresses in the past year than your average vagrant. Although, a vagrant doesn't change his address with the USPS and take advantage of the coupons they mail you. Of course, most of them are available in any Sunday paper but still. It's convenient. Shit, anyway...I live across the street from the Staples Center now, in a part of LA that they are desperately and unrelentingly trying to build up and populate. It's kind of working, and they built a veritable Faneuil Hall-on-Steroids next to Staples. Well, maybe not. It's more like Route 1 in Saugus smooshed into a ball.

4. It's true that there are hordes of beautiful women in this city, but the majority of them are about as fun to talk to as LeBron after losing Game 6 to the Magic. It's comical, though...I'll say that. I like to lie to them about who I am and what I do, get them interested in my faux fortune and then invite them to Carl's Jr. for a value meal. I don't get it...Carl's is soo good.

5. I hate the Lakers. I've always hated them, but now it's just beyond any reasonable consideration. It's really more to do with hating Laker fans, though. I'll be the first to praise the historic franchise that is the Lakers, sure. I know what they've accomplished. I remember the 80's (errrr...). How can you pay no love to the Celtics franchise? It's just so absurdly ignorant that I shouldn't waste any emotion on it whatsoever. But it alarms me to no end.

6. I haven't watched much television in the last 6 months and my sports fixes have been few and far between. I had the regional sports package for a while, but the games on NESN were always blacked out. I suppose I could get the MLB package, but I'm not there yet. I've become very close with GameCast, which really isn't that terrible at all, but I miss watching the Sox on weekend afternoons. I'll probably break down and order the MLB package. Anyway, watch "Californication" if you get a chance. Highly entertaining. Duchovny had to go to rehab for booze and sex addictions after shooting Season 2 of the show. I'll say no more.

7. I'll close by saying that you can find a good woman in LA. You should steer clear of Hollywood in order to do so, but there are instances where it's possible to come across a young lady who's "just along for the ride" and prefers a place like the Edison Hotel. If you find yourself in downtown LA, don't miss it. Seriously. Maybe the best place to have a drink in California.

Oh and in case you're wondering what I did with the noose, I gave it to the super. He's a d-bag that suspects I'm gay and makes no effort of discretion in asserting that. His name is Mr. Roper and...did that work? Most assuredly not.

Thanks again, John. Dick.

This Seventh of April

2009-04-07T23:09:00.002-05:00

I guess I have weekly shots of reality, wherein I'll audibly utter an alarmed version of "fuck" wherever I am. Not always an appropriate thing, like the time it happened in front of the avocados at Ralph's on Lincoln. I know, I know. I seldom forget about self-cognizance of little kids, but when it's February and the avocados still just get pumped out in delicious mass quantity...tact escapes me.

My shot of reality arrived at 1:05 pm this afternoon and thankfully I was in the comforts of my own apartment (yes, clothed AND sober). I had anticipated this day for months, but it was actually this day that was supposed occur yesterday. And then something happens that NEVER happens in Boston: inclement weather in April. I'm not sure there's anything worse than an opening day rainout. Disppointment lasts about nine seconds and then sharply breaks into vicious anger, followed by bouts of incredulous eating (note: incredulous eating is when you find yourself eating something you don't want, tastes terrible and makes you lightly ill...and you actually say "why am I eating this?" as you continue to consume) and finally, the inevitable toss of the arms skyward.

Any inkling of resonant anger from yesterday was suffocated the second I heard the sweet baritone of Mr. Don Orsillo. Wait, no. It was the sight of the increasingly attractive Heidi Watney reporting from inside the park. But yeah, Don's voice was cool, too.

I can't say I sat through the whole game because it was the middle of a Tuesday afternoon...there it is. That's the minute I was blasted by the weekly shot of reality. It's 1:05. I'm not watching Sox in 2 or Classic. It's 74 degrees outside. I'm wearing shorts. The avocados. Where am I? Oh, right. I'm LA. I'm watching NESN in fucking California while Joe Maddon dons some kind of earflapped chapeau and Beckett and Shields blow on their pitching hands incessantly. It's not going to get any less shocking any time soon...the whole baseball thing, that is. I had to order my 2009 Sox shirt online instead of taking a stroll onto Yawkey Way. I'm seeing more games in Anaheim and Oakland this season than at Fenway, which is mightily saddening but remarkably exciting at the same time. Not quite equal parts, but close.

My thoughts from the 9 who play 9:

-think Pedroia was pumped about that delivery in his first AB of the season? There's one thing a back-to-back R.O.Y./M.V.P. thinks leading into the season and during that first game or first week or month of the season: make sure you prove it's not a fluke. Maybe that solo shot doesn't make the season, fuck no. But you saw how quickly Pedro got around those bags. Weight lifted for a few days, perhaps. Also, I fucking love Pedroia.

-the pitching displayed precisely what I knew they would. JB was strong, accurate mostly and overall dominating. That's why he's still our number 1. Pap was electric. Oki was...well, Oki in a lot of ways. We all know that he'll give up baserunners, but he's still steady. It took him 2 batters to settle but the Crawford at-bat was vintage. Masterson is really raw. And talented. And his delivery is sick. I hoped to see Ramirez, but we'll be seeing plenty of him this season.

-honestly, I was totally floored when 'Tek homered. I literally expect nothing from him offensively this year. Nothing. So when he offers something, it's magical. Defensively, he was flawless. Naturally.

I guess that's all for now. I thought I had a little more in me for the inaugural baseball post, but overall I'm satisfied. You might not be, but alas, who the fuck are you? If you're my dad, you need not dignify this question. All else: soul-searching time.

Pacific Purification

2009-04-07T12:08:00.003-05:00

Swimming in the Pacific is like an enema. It's uncomfortable to the point of tears, the initial shock is enough to send a man's genitals upwards into his body and you find yourself asking why the fuck you are doing such a thing.

However, the aftermath delivers an invigoration and rejuvenation that few other things can afford. I suppose you do kind of waddle around for a while...but it's all part of the experience. Of swimming in the Pacific...not an enema.

March of Dims

2009-03-18T02:03:00.002-05:00

You got it right, dims. As in dimwitted.

I'm pretty sure I first heard the word 'dimwit' from my father. Dad, feel free to refute this allegation. Regardless, I knew that a dimwit was on par with a twit, a numbskull or a turkey. Sure, each has its own little nuances thrown in with the literal meaning, but the commonalities are in the majority. Personally, I can't think of a better way to insult someone than to call him a turkey. It has all the undertones of a 'chicken', but it's faaaaaar worse. Don't just listen to it...hear it ringing in your ears: "You're nothing but a turkey."

I've come upon some unfavorable circumstances since I've been French in LA, or land of a thousand people who think they're really a million but they're really only a five-spot, at best. I'm sorry, I don't know what that means either. And now I'm beginning to get self-conscious about my commas, which isn't good, but isn't necessarily bad, but either way, is bad. Oh, the horror.

Listen, the point of this whole thing is merely to point out the consequences, should you find yourself waffling after calling someone a turkey. What not to do:

Don't start making turkey noises and movements, as if you are indeed a turkey yourself. Don't gobble and pull at the skin-laden portion in the front of your neck. Don't form wings with your arms and flap them while bending slightly forward and jutting your head forward intermittently, yet consistently. And under no circumstances should you engage in the act of laying an egg, although facetiously.

Do not back away, however. Do not utter the word "turkey" in order to offend someone and then just run away in cowardice. If he's indeed a turkey, he must be treated as such. Inspect his rib meat and the fatty parts under the armpits. Ask him about Thanksgiving and if he'd prefer baking slowly at 350 degrees or being tossed in a vat of scalding oil for 45 minutes to and hour, depending on weight. Tell him you like to eat your turkey with a bit of cranberry sauce and oh-so-tiny of a bite of mashed. Paw at his skin and tell him you hope it gets nice and crispy, because that's your favorite part.

Lastly, you should probably refer back to the previous paragraph and do the exact opposite. Run as far and as fast as you fucking can. This isn't the fifties, when you could really insult someone by calling them a butthead or a maroon. Call someone a turkey and you're most likely going to be beaten to death. Bludgeoned. Dental records will not be able to help in identifying your corpse. I feel for you.

Well, I hope this has been informative. Tune in next time, which could very well be in 2011.

Researching "...For Dummies" Books For Dummies

2009-02-18T21:06:00.002-05:00

I'll admit that I own a copy of "Personal Finance For Dummies". At one point in my life, I came to the realization that I was about as responsible with money as Magic Johnson was with his penis. I'm still trying to figure out what it means that I never actually read the book after purchasing it...that's right, bask in the glow of the fucking irony. Mmmm...feels good.

I went to a local Barnes and Noble today with three objectives: buy a map of San Diego, buy some new reading material for my flight to Boston on Sunday and finally, find the most ridiculous Dummies title out there. Not to toot my own (french) horn, but I was wildly successful on all counts. Let me add that these successes were most imperative because I was fresh off a fucking deplorable haircut, courtesy of Liliana at SuperCuts in Marina Del Ray. If you're reading this, Liliana, there's hope for you yet. There's still time to pick up a copy of "Giving Someone A Trim When He Asks For One For Dummies". Take your $20 in tips for the day (I'm being incredibly generous in my estimation here) and go buy it.

In no way am I devaluing these books, because I am fairly certain that myriad individuals have benefited from the likes of these offerings. How am I so certain? Oh, I don't know. Could be the fact that there are such categories as "Happiness" within this line of self-help publications. This tells me that following their initial successes, the publishers of the Dummies books got a little loopy and started to take full advantage of the impressionability of Americans. Side note: right next to "Happiness For Dummies" was "Depression For Dummies". Hooray for product placement! Way to go, guys. Genius.

I spent a good amount of time perusing the Dummies offerings in the self-help section. Two titles in particular struck me. First, Sex For Dummies. I didn't open this one, in fear that I might realize that I've been doing it wrong for the last ten some-odd years. But I'm fairly certain this one included a cartoon-like sketch with arrows and captions like "insert here" and "not so much here". But I wondered if they make such assertions as "sex is reserved for married couples", or "it's not sex if both parties don't reach climax". Well shit, if that's the case I think the lot of us dudes are actually virgins. I may or may not fall into this category...not saying. Sex For Dummies. Are there chapters on ways in which to get your partner in the sack? Do they talk about the wonders of alcohol, or the sweet sounds of Barry White? Do they offer assistance for the occasional awkward locale, like the bathroom at a Howard Johnson's (with a preamble about disinfectants used by the corporation) or the back seat of a Ford Festiva? Wait, does a Festiva have a back seat? (note to self: write "Ford Festivas For Dummies") The final question: who the fuck qualifies him or herself to write such a book? Ahhh, wait. Co-authored by JC himself. Phew.

The second title that drew particular intrigue from me was "Schizophrenia For Dummies". I couldn't figure who they were targeting with this one: those who are living with a schizophrenic or schizophrenics themselves. Look, I know and understand that this is a real and serious condition but isn't there something horribly fucking wrong with a book for Dummies on such a subject? I'll say this. If this book was meant for schizophrenics themselves, I think there's an inescapable paradox here. Which personality is going to read the book? Oh, fuck me...I think I just figured it out. The aim is for all personalities to read it. Then once they all understand the condition, they can work in harmony to rise as one against it. Well, I am impressed, authors of "Schizophrenia For Dummies". Now, if they could only award Noble Prizes to those who truly deserve it, this would be a truly great world. Truly great.

The religious section contained titles on Christianity, Mormonism, the Bible, Buddhism, Judaism...Zoroastrianism...ok, no. I'd have bought that one if it existed (dear Santa...). Does anyone else see some issues with making a conscious decision to purchase a book on a particular religion that also includes the word "dummies"? How do you simplify the Bible? Which bible are they referring to? Although, I suppose that if JC can co-author the Sex edition, he best have been the top advisor to either or both of the one on Christianity or the Bible. I then started to wonder if religious studies classes might be employing these publications as their text of choice. I'm trying to imagine sitting down at my first Sunday School class and instead of receiving a copy of the Bible, Sister Anne slaps down a bright, yellow copy of "The Bible For Dummies". Maybe then she gets up in front of the class of budding Catholics and says something like "ok class, I'll save you all the knuckle lashings when you laugh about the burning bush by giving you this how-to on the holiest book of all." That's the point where I raise my hand and demand an explanation of how she can refer to the Bible as the "holiest" book of all, only to ask that we read a book for Dummies explaining such a book. Hey man, sometimes knuckle lashings are inevitable.

I encourage all of you to venture into your nearest book dealer and take a look for yourself at all the ways in which a total fucking birdbrain can learn about anything he or she can surmise. Be sure to check the shelves in Summer of 2009 for "Admitting To Steroid Use For Dummies". No, A-Roid was not consulted for advisory on this matter.

Zing.

3rd Floor Cance

2009-02-02T14:19:00.006-05:00

I have several partial blogs in my inventory here, so forgive me for posting multiple entries on the same day. And don't forget to read one more down after this one...I just put that one up a minute ago. No, you don't HAVE to read it, I'm just saying...listen, do what you want, man. No need to get flip.

I'd actually suggest reading the previous entry first, since these are chronological and all. I guess reunions are the theme of the day.

I went up to Oakland/San Francisco back on the 29th to see Ponch. I hadn't seen him in a few years, but we'd kept in constant contact for the most part. I had planned on driving up to Hayward to spend a long weekend with him...meet his girl and hang out with his roommates. Basic stuff. What I wasn't prepared for was seeing Jason Burkle, who lived across the hall from me in my freshman year at Umass. Him I hadn't seen since 1999...very little contact as he moved out here right after college, pretty much. It's just amazing how friends can pick up almost directly where they left off after you get the requisite "what have you been up to"s out of the way.

I spent a good part of the weekend with Burkle as Ponch had some school shit to tend to and girlfriend time to partake in. Burkle showed me around Rockridge/North Oakland, Berkeley, a bit of Alameda. We went to a huge flea market/antique show and shot the shit for about 3 hours as we perused other people's old but interesting shit. He collects vintage boomboxes, so there was a bit of an initiative there. Anyway, following the weekend I headed down to Monterey where he lives and spent a couple days there. It was phenomenal. Immaculate coastline with rocky outcroppings, big breaks, lots of surfers and amazing sunsets. We kayaked around the bay on the first day and saw a bunch of seals....one of which followed us nearly the whole trip. It was pretty incredible.

Anyway, enjoy the shots from the weekend below.

Me and Burkle at District in San Francisco

Me and Ponch, same locale.

And finally, the three of us back together after 10 years. Weird shit, I'm telling you. But fucking awesome.

Another Country Heard From

2009-01-26T22:48:00.003-05:00

Spring of 1999

I returned home following the Fall semester at Umass bearing the knowledge that I would not be welcomed back for the upcoming Spring semester. Apparently, a 20:1 ratio of weed/booze/sleep and actual school work is not conducive to maintaining a (ahem) 2.0 GPA. Some of us learn the hard way, I guess.

The next 8 months would be an amalgam of hauling horsehair plaster for my uncle Don, slinging Big Mouth Burgers at Chili's for my cousin Jeff and hanging out with one of two long-time best friends. Kev and I were both living at home and working for whomever would agree to hire us. On the side, we were playing pool nightly and choking down enough cigarettes to fund 50% of the advertising for Camel. It was the best of times, it was the...ok, OK. I won't complete the thought. But fuck, it was kinda the worst of times, too. I'd lose my job with Uncle Don by way of too many late mornings marred by a hangover. My waiter gig at Chili's would come to a screeching hault as a result of receiving the lowest secret shopper score in the history of the company (42%). I guess swearing at a customer because you forgot to put in his order for an Awesome Blossom is not such a great idea. I was doing that dude a favor though, come on. But I was better off not wearing the bright red polo with the Chili's logo on it. Wrapping my dad's blue volvo sedan around a pole in a parking structure should have been evidence enough, but I was 19. I was living off of double cheeseburgers and Red Stripes from Charlie's Kitchen in Harvard Square. I had a girlfriend back at Umass, a girlfriend from Chili's and random girls from Tufts that really admired my beirut skills. I was living the college flunkie, pothead, underage alcoholic dream.

Kev and I shared the same ambitions back then. To reiterate: weed, booze and girls. And pool, sure. We had a grand time of it, implanting indelible memories on my mind...such as the time we woke up on couches outside the ZBT house at Tufts. It was visitation weekend for prospective freshmen and Kev, Nate and I were shirtless and still drunk at 8am. The sun was hot, our odor was horrendous and our voices were loud: "Hey! Yeah, send your daughter to Tufts! We'll take good care of her." I wonder if our words were effective...no matter. We did a lot of dumb shit and probably deserved to be either incarcerated or hospitalized on more than three or four occasions, but we endured.

I returned to Umass in the Fall and would eventually finish up my degree. I never really dug out of the academic hole I dug for myself but I managed to do enough to flip my tassle in May of 2002. Kev, on the other hand, hit the road on a pilgrimage to find isolationist respite...at least, that's my take on it. His path would lead him down to the sandy beaches of the eastern Floridian coast and ultimately west to the Californian beaches of Santa Monica. Kev left in 2000 and I hadn't seen him since...until 3 weeks ago.

I got fed up with the lack of email response from over the years. It was sparse at best, and gleaning any pertinent information from him was like defending MJ in the clutch. So I took the path of least resistence. I called him mom and demanded to know where he lived, worked and how I could reach him. Sonofabitch...turns out Kev had been working down the street from where I originally lived upon arriving here in the Golden State. I never had cause to go into the hardware store, though. But on the last Sunday in January I did.

I showed up at his place of work late in the afternoon and walked around a bit until I spotted him. He stood in the back, talking to one of his employees. He looked about the same, aside from the ever-apparent salt and pepper mane he had developed over the years. Kev started going gray at the age of 11, I believe. I stood about 10 feet away for a good 5 minutes until he looked up at me. One take, no reaction. Second take, minimal reaction. Third take, a hard pause and a puzzled look. Fourth take, he looks at me for about 10 seconds and looks floorward, shaking his head and laughing in a way that only Kev could laugh after seeing me after a 9-year hiatus. I threw my arms up as if to say, "are you fucking kidding me, dude?" He put up one finger, telling me to hang on one sec as he finished up with his subordinate. I took that time to peruse the bathroom fixtures...truth be told, I'd feel more acclimated in the Mekong River Delta.

Finally he heads over and we exchange the requisite man hug of a familiar, snapping handshake and quick one-arm embrace. It's a strange feeling...seeing one of your oldest and formerly closest friends after so long a time. But little had changed...his face looked the same, his voice sounded the same. He said I looked taller, then asked if my shoes had lifts in them. He also offered that I looked skinny, but maybe only because I was a bit pudgy when we were 19 and 20. But he had to finish his shift. I took his number and gave him mine and he agreed to come by after work.

And that he did. I made some dinner, we had some beers and began what would turn out to be 8 hours of surface-scratching on the way to getting a combined 18 years of life experience out of the way. And just like old times we headed out to a bar nearby and shot pool, played darts and that quick-shot basketball game. I took particular pride in smoking him at quick-shot, but he made short work of me in the other games...much of the same, as some things just never change. The night would end at 5:30am as it just seemed like a good time to call it. I knew we'd pick it up again soon enough, now that I knew where he worked and lived.

It's a strange thing. You find yourself digging your way out of a cavernous hole in a foreign land where nothing is familiar then all at once, everything is familiar again. Maybe I've mentioned it to Kev by now or maybe I haven't, but reuniting with him after all these years and all the bullshit we've both been through since our last gathering changed everything for me. You meet new people everywhere you go, sure. You forge new relationships and you develop new habits, beliefs, ways of life. But the things you learned with your best friends in your adolescence, when you're most impressionable...those things never leave.

Good to have you back, buddy.

Monsieur Green Thumb

2009-01-08T17:49:00.002-05:00

I'm growing a mint plant in my apartment as of Sunday. I must say, I've never really appreciated the process of photosynthesis until now.

I've been watering the thing daily since Sunday but only today did I allow it to have a spot on the window sill amidst a bath of sunlight. Two hours in the sun and there's two inches of new growth on three of the stems.

I don't know how recently markets started peddling Mint plants in mass quantities, but we can thank the rise of the mojito for this. My plant came with a recipe for the classic mojito, only the recipe is for a pitcher of mojitos. Is it not possible that I might be using the mint for something other than an alcoholic beverage? Does it not stand to reason that I could actually be using the mint in my cooking? Maybe I just like the smell, what of it? I guess pretty much everyone is a booze hound these days...these times. The economy is in the crapper, let's get drunk. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a libation or two from time to time and I think the mojito is a mighty tasty drink. I just find it humorous that the selling point for a mint plant is that it can be used to help you get drunk in a tastier fashion.

Hey, it's mint. Mint.

Wait For It...

2008-12-28T13:47:00.002-05:00

WAIT FOR IT...

Ok, so this isn't going to be one of those classic French update posts, wherein I carmelize several inane and few pertinent points of (non)interest. But it's coming, hence the "wait for it..." I'm itching to write it, though. Just ITCHING.

But before I can, I have to take care of some business on le blog. Chuck, you there pal? (not to be confused with you, Pop...another Chuck altogether and anyway, the day I start calling you "Chuck" is the day I start going by "Chazz", with two z's) To give everyone else a little insight into this beckoning, Chuck and I sat together on my recent return trip to LA, and I/we have a story to tell. I mean I do, but I need Chuck's help. Email me, big guy. cab1979@gmail.com

My bedroom is a cool 59.3 degrees Fahrenheit this morning. I woke up with a cold, wet nose and the shivers. Where the fuck am I, Massachusetts? Oh that's right, I left the icy tundra for the blue skies and palletable temperatures of Southern California. So why the fuck am I wearing long underwear INSIDE MY APARTMENT??? Please help.

Yours,

Frigid and French in Venice

Yet another...

2008-12-11T21:31:00.002-05:00

http://frenchinvenice.blogspot.com

I know what you're thinking, and you're right. Can it. pal.

an ode to thanksgiving

2008-11-26T21:53:00.003-05:00

you'll have to forgive my lack of capitalization in this entry. you see, spilled water into my keyboard yesterday and suddenly the i have no use of my caps lock, left shift or left control key. i do realize that i could use the right shift key, but my hands are not trained just yet. so let's pause here and give thanks for the dual shift keys, for without them we'd have zero shift keys. yep. hang on, just let me check something here...ok, yeah. i remembered to take my medication today. phew.

thanksgiving...a truly american holiday, if ever there was one. sure, you'll argue that independence day is the one truly american holiday, simply based on the spirit and enthusiasm of the day coupled with the meaning. but we're talking 1776. i'm talking about 1620, or thereabouts. plymouth rock, the mayflower, pilgrims, native americans, corn...perhaps turkey, ok. that shit is american. it's north american. it's...well, it's basically a cartoon, in my opinion. i don't know about you, but i have this image of a cartoon turkey running in circles around a bunch of pilgrims in golden belt buckles and those top hat things; they're all trying to corral our friend tom, but even the turkey himself is kind of smiling. the cartoon eventually leads to a slaughtering, defeathering and beheading and finally, a roasting in some pilgrimesque oven or some shit. everyone eats, pilgrims and indians alike clink versions of cups, they reminisce about how a close indian relative was scalped by thomas j pilgrim but everyone stops laughing when chief gone-too-far makes a comment about said scalped indian relative's sexual carnival with thomas j's virgin wife-to-be. it's your standard t-day table talk.

this will be my first californian thanksgiving. i will be amongst another version of family and the person who i love the most and i hope to enjoy some white meat and several starchy options. i will miss my immediates and the table they sit at, which is all i really know to this point. it's got me thinking...something i've been doing a lot of, but not of subject matter that happens to be blog appropriate. well, i reckon it's time to pen down. i give thanks everyday, but today i will do it cyber-publicly.

i give thanks to the hardly variable pacific coast weather. granted the last few days have brought something called rain and sub 70-degree weather, but it sure as shit beats the ball-shriveling cold of the northeast. i don't miss red ears and runny noses, nor do i miss getting to work with hathead. that's a bit funny, though. i now 'show up' to work with bedhead, wearing nothing but mesh shorts and some eye crusties, but i'm warm. i win.

i give thanks to my new family out here who have treated me with love and kindness from the start. in this same light, i give thanks to my closest friend these days who happens to be a mutt named roxie. she's my only company on most days and while she can't speak or really fend for herself, she's one of the great eaters of our time and i respect that. i also can't discount the consistency of her wagging tail, which greets me every morning with a metronome-like pounding on the floor.

i give thanks to the simple foods that are newly established staples in my diet. v8, hummus and cottage cheese. for the most part, this is my lunch daily. i may only weigh a scant 157 pounds these days but these tasty morsels are packed with the necessaries of any sustainable diet and for that, i am thankful. although, v8 has way too much fucking sodium. this most likely accounts for my constant dry mouth.

i give thanks to the fashion of los angeles because without it, i may not have much left to laugh about. last night i was having a tall budweiser with my new buddy colin and he was preparing to go out for a night on the town. he asked if i would be interested in coming and i remarked that my flip-flops would probably hinder my ability to get in anywhere. he then sauntered out of his room wearing a pinkish-orange knit scarf and peacoat, noting that showing up with that exact garb would undoubtedly attract various women to his side. i held in my uproarious laughter in favor of keeping my beer in my mouth, but it made me very thankful for my own fashion sense. more power to these people out here, man. i left my scarves in boston for a good reason.

i probably have much more to give thanks for but my back hurts from this back-less chair i'm sitting on. so i wish you all a very happy thanksgiving and may you all have tons to be thankful for.

When Do We Let Go?

2008-11-04T19:20:00.002-05:00

Don't worry. I'm not going to post about letting go of anything significant. At least, not to me anyway. I want to know when it's okay to let go of old t-shirts that once had some kind of meaning. There's got to be some parameters set here, because I have so many fucking t-shirts that it's ridiculous. True, I request t-shirts from occasional travelers like my folks and friends. Well, I have...maybe not so much lately (except for this summer when I asked for a t-shirt from Mt Rushmore since my folks were visiting...I had to settle for a postcard which really isn't the same but hey, you can't hang a t on the fridge) but as a result of this and a former addiction to t-shirts, I have managed to stockpile enough t-shirts to outfit a small village in the Congo.

I figure there's gotta be some categorical listing for the types of t-shirts that I have, so I will break them down into various groups as follows.

1, Jerseys

I used to have a ton of jerseys, and by jerseys I mean replicas of pro athletes either past of present. Over the years, I've had Jalen Rose's Michigan jersey, his Nuggets jersey and his Pacers jersey; Steve Francis' Rockets jersey; Todd Collins Michigan jersey; a Brady Pats jersey which has mysteriously vanished sometime recently; Charles Woodson's Michigan jersey...that might be it. I have zero now. I know where two of them are because I gave them away to Ponch and his brother Scwartz for sentimental reasons. So I know they're in good hands. However, it is not my nature to throw jerseys away. I just remembered that I was coaxed into giving my Jalen Nugs jersey to another college roommate who was in love with weed. He figured wearing a shirt that read "Nuggets" would further his display of affection for marijuana. Anyway, I digress. This category need not be mentioned since I have none of these to sift through. Moot point. For the record though, the Woodson jersey is the best one in this group.

2. Number tees

Any t-shirt that represents a team from my past has been kept. I cannot part with these, at least not in terms of throwing them out. For some reason I feel it necessary to wear a t-shirt from a team that went 0-8 in college flag football. I just can't get rid of them unless they are passed on. Between Nate, Josh, Ponch and myself, I have to think we've cycled through upwards of 50 of these things over the course of 15 years. They're keepsakes, aren't they? Yeah, keepsakes. That's the one.

3. Old Championship tees

Examples in my drawer right now: 2004 ALCS Champions T-shirt and a C's 2008 NBA Champions T-shirt. I've honestly done work to whittle down this collection over time, and now I'm a little upset that I did. Occasionally I'll see someone with an '85 AFC Champions tee or a really old school C's NBA Champs tee. They're vintage and they're awesome. I'm not sure why I hold onto the '04 ALCS tee and in fact, I think that's gonna go in my next batch of donated clothes. I guess these need to be determined on a case-by-case basis.

4. Random team tees

I feel as though these always have a place in my drawer because for the most part, I bought these kinds of tees on location. For instance, from our voyage cross the motherland I picked up a KU tee, a San Francisco Giants tee and a Vail, CO tee. I know, the Vail tee has no sports meaning but still. I like to wear it because my resident headmaster Neal will call me an elitist yuppie when he sees it. I have to laugh, since we stayed there off season and on a Hotwire.com rate at the Lodge. Economy lodging, bro. If I'm an elitist, then I just voted for McCain. I also have a few USC tees courtesy of the headmaster and his son's status as a matriculator there, and a few NYU tees for the same reason. I don't think I'll find cause to part with these; at least, I hope not. Obligatory plug for Lauren here: hi baby.

5. Gym tees

Generally my gym tees are those of the ripped sleeve variety. I'd like to say that I do this because it's easier to move my arms without the sleeves, but that's a bunch of boloney. Or bologna. How the fuck do we get bah-low-nee from that? Anyway, I like to see my muscles at work at the gym, even though I'm a super far cry from being "big". It makes me feel like I'm making progress. So I have about four or five of these and they're on rotation. They'll hopefully always have a spot in my drawer.

6. Plain tees

Due to the poorboy price points of H&M, I've added 6 colored tees in recent times. I can't seem to pass up a $5 tee, and they're very comfortable. I also have about 12 others from various shops and they have no expiration date. I've also found that a plain tee and a pair of jeans is kind of the unwritten law of the male wardrobe out here in LA. It's acceptable to "dress up" out here in the aforementioned attire, which is pretty great. So as far as I can tell, this ever-growing staple in my wardrobe may never cease.

All of this having been said, I had a problem justifying the conglomeration of tees today. I parted with a dozen or so tees that probably fit into one or two of these categories, but I hadn't worn them since I've been here and more than likely, I haven't worn them in years. That's grounds for dismissal.

---

On the odds-n-ends front, I noticed last night while watching the Office that 'Scranton' backwards spells 'not narcs'. Kinda weird.

Halloweenies

2008-10-31T15:49:00.002-05:00

Since I might have the distinct pleasure of handing out candy to the children in my new neighborhood, I'm thinking about boiling a bunch of hot dogs and serving them up on buns with orange mustard. I'll answer the door and say "Hey! Who wants a Halloweenie?" I wonder how many parents would promptly instruct their kids to get the hell away from me and further, how many would call me a sick bastard? I don't know, Halloweenies sound pretty fucking good to me. They'd be turkey dogs, first off. You'd think that with all that candy and general sugar running through the systems of these trick-or-treaters, they'd be relieved to come to a house that's offering a meal of sorts; a break from the rigors of chewing Sugar Daddies and various forms of nougat and caramel. Either that, or there will be that one kid who sort of straggles along at the back of the pack. His dad didn't want to come and his mom left town years ago. Most of the kids don't like him because he wears the same yellow sweatpants every day, but he's got every XBox 360 ever made, so they keep him around. He doesn't really like candy because he has been brought up to think that candy will turn him into lump of shit, so he takes the hot dog from me and thanks me for dinner. He's a good kid, leave him alone.

I've got more gym stories today, although they're now a week old. No matter, they're just as pathetic.

Lauren had two days of training down in Manhattan Beach last week, so we stayed in a hotel down there to avoid getting up painfully early to fight traffic two days in a row. It turned into two nights since we wanted to try and enjoy to the hotel a little bit before leaving town. The training was held at the flagship branch of her healthclub, which happens to be Spectrum. This place was ridiculous. In comparison to the club that Lauren has to sell for, this place is PS3 and her club is Coleco Vision.

The first day there, I was immediately drawn to the ball courts on site, also home to the Clippers as their practice facility. Awesome. There's Clipper logos all over the court and huge banner announcing the court's status as their second home. What this also meant was that the 3-point line was the NBA 3-point line. No college line in sight, and that does not bode well for me. I can hit college threes at maybe a 35-40% clip when completely unguarded at standing at my favorite spot in the floor. I took 30 NBA threes on day one, and I hit 4. 4-for-30. And I was dog-fucking-tired after this little exercise, because it's damn far to the hoop from that line. I had also never taken an NBA three before; at least not knowingly. Disaster.

As I'm shooting my threes, another dude was taking jumpers and free throws at one of the side hoops nearest me. A few minutes after I finished my comedy act, he challenged me to a game of horse. My first mistake was accepting. My second mistake was admitting that my achilles heel is the NBA three.

We stayed even through H-O, and then the rains came. He began banking threes from all angles and put me away in a very quick and quiet fashion. Well, quiet minus the squeals I was making as I heaved up every three I took. It was a bad scene overall, but he was a good sport. His name was Tony and he was probably in his late 50's or early 60's. I promised him I'd get him next time, but that promise was about as empty as the one Anthony Smith made last year before the Patriots played the Steelers.

Day two at the gym: 2-for-20 from beyond the arc. Talk about an exercise in futility. It's just too far, and quite frankly, I'm just not a very good basketball player. I've always played, but in high school I was the guy they put in for defense. I have zero handle, not having benefitted from the tutelage of Ponch back in my UMass days. However, there will just always be something inherently fun about shooting around and playing horse. I just have to lay off the NBA threes.

Here's wishing all of you a safe and happy halloween, especially those taking their little ones out to build their empires of candy. Gilbert, don't eat too much of Joey's candy, bro. You can do without it.

The Weighting Is The Hardest Part

2008-10-18T18:55:00.002-05:00

A weird thing happened on the way to the free weights this morning. As I prepared for a standard workout, this dude asked me to give him a spot on the bench. Now, this particular dude is someone I don't usually see at the gym. He's about 5'7 and very stocky. He's almost totally bald with the exception of a rather mangy band of hair around the bottom half of his dome. He appears almost completely out of shape and overweight, but after one look at the plates on his bench bar, it's clear that he only works his chest at the gym.

The man had three plates on each side and a 25lb weight as well; so 365lbs. This was quite alarming to me. As I approached him to help him out, he instructed me to add a 10lb weight to the side I was nearest, which would up to the total to 385lbs. Trying to make light of the situation, I joked that it was a lot of weight. Bald dude not amused. He ignored my comment and told me that he was going to count to 3 and then I should lift up and guide him forward. He said he was only looking for one rep. Sounds easy enough.

So he counts to 3, and I lift. Now, I am not the strongest guy out there. Let's face it, I go to gym with the hope of some muscular definition as well as an with the initiative of staying in shape. I probably shouldn't have accepted the invitation to spot the stocky, bald man but spotting isn't supposed to be a crazy, difficult task. Anyway, the first try was wildly unsuccessful. I didn't get the weight out far enough for the guy be clear of the racks, so he put it back. And it felt like I was lifting all the weight myself, which was not only an incredible struggle, but also pretty fucking painful. After the weight was settled, I told the guy that he probably should ask another dude to help him, since I was not having an easy go of it. But he didn't think it was necessary.

"I want you to ease the weight up. It's only 20lbs. heavier than the previous weight I had on there, and I can get that up on my own. So you're only helping me with 20lbs."

Great. Make me feel like a pussy, you bald d-bag. I decided it wasn't the best time to tell him that my arm hurt from the first attempt.

Second attempt...3-2-1...and UP! Except, up was a shaky endeavor at best. I was literally quivering at the sheer mass of this lift and the second attempt failed to clear the racks again. Bald d-bag is now looking mildly perturbed and this time, he stands up to instruct me on the spot.

"You're shaking. It's throwing me off when I go to control the weight. Just lift up and push out lightly...I'll be doing most of the work, so you really don't have to work so hard."

Pearls of wisdom from the petulant puffball. Once again, I offer that he really won't be offending me if he was to relieve me of my spotting duties in favor of a one of the three other dudes in our general vicinity...all of whom were visibly buffer than I. But no, baldy wanted to stick with me, for whatever disturbingly unobvious reason. On to attempt number 3...and UP! It's up this time, and I'm guiding it outward to clear the racks. This time, he utters "nope, nope" and we set the bar back down. He rises again, this time to remind me that if I don't release the weight simultaneously with both hands, it will throw off his balance and he'll drop the weight. I salivate at the thought. At this point, my left arm is throbbing and shaking, I'm sweating profusely and panting and this bowling ball with arms is just bullish about me getting this weight in proper position. I started to wonder if this was some kind of covert exam and maybe he's recruiting men for a secret society. Surely I had failed at this point, so why not let me go about my business? What possible, sane, credible reason could this asshead have for making me be his spotter?

Attempt 4...I lift up, I push out, it's smooth and I release the weight. Stay Puft eases it down and completes one rep, then puts the bar back on the racks, only he misses one of them. There sits the weight now, awkwardly hanging down on one side with me pathetically trying to support it so it doesn't come crashing down on something or someone. Thankfully, one dude had been watching this humiliation the whole time and he ran over to grab the bar and help me put it on the other rack. Totally exasperated and exhausted, I tell the bald man that he did a good job on the lift and that I was done. As I walk away, the dude who helped me with bar tells me to get some water, take a rest and go on to my next exercise, as he is assured that I have just endured a very difficult arm set. He laughs at my futility and I offer a wry smile. I want to say something horribly offensive, maybe about his wristbands or his white tube socks but I remind myself that I am not in any place to be a nuisance. Lauren's place of work and all...bad idea. Plus, what am I gonna do, fight the guy? That's a resounding no.

I'm not sure what lesson is to be learned here, but I guess I should have politely turned the bald man down when he asked me to spot him. I'll know better next time.

Ray of Might

2008-10-17T10:17:00.002-05:00

You know the old adage in sports. We all know it. And that would be that when you have a team on the ropes, you have to go for the jugular and put them away. When you have a team pinned after a flying suplex (little help here...wrestling terminology not my strong suit) and they're unconscious and barely breathing, you break the windpipe and erase all doubt.

The only problem with this analogy in relation to last night's epic cage match between Boston and Tampa Bay is that Tampa didn't exactly let up. You could make the argument that their pitching failed them a little bit, but JP Howell and Dan Wheeler have been lights out all season and all through the playoffs. They were victimized not by errors, necessarily. Longoria's error was big but it wasn't ultimately the deciding blow in this game. They were victimized by something that has fueled this Sox team all season and helped them get to where they are. Red Sox hitters are very patient in most cases, but more importantly they are patient when it matters most. The most beautiful thing in the game of baseball is the epic battle between pitcher and hitter...when the count runs full but seems to never end...when pitch after pitch is fouled off, only prolonging the inevitable. Coco Crisp's at-bat in the eighth last night was a great example of this scenario, though he didn't need a dozen pitches to get to Dan Wheeler. I feel like I can tell when a guy is locked into a pitcher in an at-bat. The way Coco was fouling off high fastballs indicated that he knew what Wheeler was coming with, no matter what. Before long, he had to throw something over the plate to get him out. If you're Wheeler, you'd much rather pitch to Coco in that situation than Pedroia.

So eventually, the patience paid off and you know what happens next. And while most people watching this game thought Coco made a mistake by going to second on the play, that was the best decision he could have made in that situation. By doing this, he not only forces Pena to cut off the throw and enable the run to score (which was a terrible throw, mind you). He also opens the possibility of getting into scoring position for the go-ahead run. And if he's thrown out, tie game and the Sox hit in the ninth with Pedroia, Ortiz and Youkilis. It's a win-win and a great decision by Crisp in the right situation. Veteran guys who have been there before and know the game and all the little nuances make plays like this. Tampa doesn't really have the quote-unquote veteran guys who have been there and seen this stuff before. That's a big deal; a really big deal.

So now what? Back to the Trop for Game 6 tomorrow night. Beckett against Shields, which is now looking like a much better matchup for Boston than Beckett against Kazmir. Tampa used its bullpen a lot last night, as did the Sox. However, this is huge for the psyche of the Sox moreso than for the psyche of Tampa. This marks the first time that 'pen has shown signs of fatigue and beatability, if you will. And those Tampa relievers have now got to be thinking that they're not bulletproof anymore. Because you know full well that this victory shot a much needed dose of adrenaline into the hearts of those Sox and you also know that they cannot wait to get back on the field on Saturday and let loose.

We know this much...Game 6 is going to be fun to watch, no matter where you're sitting.

Game 3 Journal

2008-10-13T16:37:00.002-05:00

2:38pm: It's the bottom of the third inning at Fenway and the Rays just went up 5-0 in the top of the inning. I'm getting a late start on this running journal but maybe I can start to change the face of this game. Notes from the first 2.5 innings: they'll have to wait. Craig Sager sighting...another ghastly sport coat selection from the king of cheesy blazers. Sager is a renaissance man. He kinda dresses like Richard Dawson, circa 1975.

2:41: Ellsbury continues to struggle and hit the ball in the air. He's got to get on track and get on base. Manufactured runs start with Jacoby in this lineup. He's now 0-for-his-last-19. Maybe a bunt next time.

2:42: Pedroia hammers another one off the wall. It still baffles me that pitchers continue to challenge Petey with fastballs. He's becoming one of the best fastballs hitters in the game. 2 for 2, both fastballs that were absolutely hammered. Here's where we need Ortiz to lock in and make Garza work.

side note: I feel like they can get to Garza with patience. He can get wild and if they can work some counts and scratch together some hits, they can get back in this game quickly. Nice, it's now 3-0 to Ortiz.

2:47: Ortiz is in a full count but he's fouling off pitches and making Garza work. I like it. Now there's a towering, fading foul ball that Longoria makes a great effort to get...he misses. Longoria is a great looking, young player.

2:48: Ortiz pops out to shallow center. He missed a fat breaking ball that was left over the heart of the plate. As has been clear for some time, he's just not the same hitter we're used to here in Boston (or LA).

2:50: On a replay of Youk's check swing, I see something strange in the seats...a fan is wearing what appears to be a sock on his head. I think it's a mechanism to keep his ears and head warm, but I can't be sure. I'm not familiar with such a thing.

2:52: Youk strikes out on his third check swing of the at-bat. It's looking like Game 3 might be a long one for Sox fans, and an equally long one for readers of It's All French To Me. I fear the game log that Simmons does so well might turn out to be incredibly and painfully boring a la French.

3:03: Lester gets out of the 4th rather easily...one hit but he makes Iwamura look silly on a curve for strike three and the third out. The Sox have to plate two in the bottom of the 4th and build a little momentum.

3:06: Just talked to my dad who is listening to the game on ESPN Radio 710AM. He gets Vin Scully, I get three boneheads on TBS who suck at their jobs. I miss Remy and Orsillo. Oh, my father also offered his obligatory "the Sox suck" just now. I'm sure he hopes as well I do that he'll eat those words.

3:11: Kotsay smokes another Garza offering for his second hit of the night. I wish I had even the slightest modicum of confidence in Jason Varitek. I'm predicting a strikeout.

3:12: Ok, it was a popout to first and boos are starting to come out at Fenway. Really? Boos? It's the fourth inning of Game 3 of ALCS, people. Calm down and have a little hope, would you? This isn't Wrigley.

3:16: Upton singles and the Rays have the leadoff man on for the fourth straight inning.

3:17: Pena bunts, a beauty away from the shift. Youk has no play, except Upton rounds second and Youk throws him out...Cora lays down the tag. I'm reminded how young the Rays are and I'm also reminded that something as small as that play could light a fire.

3:20: "If this was the NBA, the Red Sox would need a :20 timeout." I don't know which announcer it was and I don't care. I only wish I wasn't listening when he said it.

3:25: Lester is through five and at the very least, he's saved some of the bullpen by not folding after his early inning issues. The Sox have 15 more outs and they have to score in this inning. They need to get men on in front of Pedroia and with Cora leading off the fifth, Pedroia is due third. No better time than now.

3:31: Cora grounded out and once again, Ellsbury lifts a fly ball for out number two. Petey hits again with no one on and two out. If the Sox have any thoughts of a comeback, it's not showing in their offense...no energy and no urgency...yet. I'm beginning to get bored with my own writing. This promises to be a great blog entry at this point.

3:40: Top six and Lester k's Aybar for out number one. All things considered I like how Lester has settled down and managed this game after such a rocky start. When it comes down to it, if your team isn't scoring at all, it doesn't matter how many runs you've given up. But Lester hasn't folded and somehow I still feel like the Sox are still in this game. Then again, I also still believe that Brady will be back by the end of the season to commandeer the Pats into and through the playoffs. No, I haven't started drinking yet but perhaps it's time.

3:44: Lester's night is over after 5 2/3. He gives way to Paul "Swinging" Byrd who has serviced this team well in eight starts since coming over from Cleveland. I only wish he batted more often so that I could hear "Byrd flies out" once in a while.

3:46: Byrd gets the third out and the Rays are retired in the sixth. The Sox have to score here in the...you know what, fuck it. I sound like a broken record. Yes, they need to score at least five times over the next three-and-a-half innings.

side note: I got a really bad haircut this weekend at SuperCuts in Santa Monica. I know it's bad because Lauren typically has no response to my haircuts unless they're really bad or really short. This time it was something like "what the hell happened to your hair?" I would have been better served to stand near an open flame and hope for the best. Stay away from Laura at SuperCuts in Santa Monica.

3:51: Garza is still dealing and looking tough. Youk grounded out to begin things here in the sixth and Drew is behind 1-2.

3:52: And Drew just looked silly on a three-quarter swinging third strike. I give him props for running out the dropped strike, though. Way to go, JD. You'll get 'em next time.

4:00: After a walk to Bay, Kotsay works the count full but flies out to Upton in center. I'm annoyed.

4:01: My annoyance level has just gone through the roof after the Nikon commercial with Asthon Kutcher taking pictures at a wedding. I recently found out that he coaches high school football out here in California. Riveting.

4:19: Bottom seventh now...I've attended to some other things since the last useless update. After walking Tek, Garza gives up a bounding single down the first base line to my man AC. Tek goes to third, Garza goes to the bench. I mentioned before the fact that the Sox need to get some men on in front of Pedroia and this could be the right time. Ellsbury needs to put his last 20 at-bats behind him and make something happen here. It'll be against JP Howell who has been very effective in both the regular and postseason.

4:23: Ok, a sac fly from Ellsbury is as productive an at-bat as we could have hoped for. Shutout averted, Pedroia now has to...not hit into a double play, which is exactly what he did. So much for getting men on in front of DP. Shit.

4:32: With first and third and nobody out, Pedroia fields a sharp grounder off Navarro's bat and fires home...Crawford bangs into Tek, but he holds onto the ball and gets the out. Keeping this a four-run game is a small victory in this situation, especially since there were no outs with men on the corners.

4:35: Baldelli just blasted a 3-run job off the Sports Authority sign. Well, this has been fun. Except no, it hasn't.

Fast Fingers Freddy

2008-10-13T10:10:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was an eventful day for me. My parents met Lauren's grandparents and a host of other people somehow related to the Goldstein-Greenberg clan at a very nice dinner hosted by the aforementioned grandparents. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of eating and a healthy amount of drinking as well...all good things. Unfortunately the defining moment of the evening came at the expense of two cupcakes.

We know where we made our critical error. Lauren and I bought a fine selection of eight gourmet cupcakes to serve as part of dessert, and they were displayed on a crystal cupcake platter as you might find at a nice family dinner. However, we failed to remove this display from the dinner table prior to sitting down for the meal itself. Typically you don't put dessert on the table until the dinner part of the meal is finished, but then again, you don't expect that anyone besides a undisciplined child would actually make a move for a cupcake until dinner was over and everyone else was ready to eat dessert. Let me set the scene here:

The majority of the group sat the large dining table in the kitchen of Lauren's grandparents house, a table that seats 10-12 depending on the seating chart. Last night it was 10. As it was, the dinner was buffet style and everyone grabbed their plates of food prior to picking a seat at the table. All was well and good until about 15 minutes into the meal when Lauren tapped me on the arm. Next to her sat Freddy, a long-winded, grandstanding man with a penchant for the dramatic. Lauren and I had endured a painful session with Freddy before dinner, as he rambled his way through some truly uninspiring and monotonous stories about a football game, a wedding and something about a company in LA that I have yet to determine what in the sam hell he was actually talking about. I digress...after the arm tap, I looked over at Freddy and didn't immediately notice what had caused Lauren to direct my attention his way. She finally alerted me that a cupcake was indeed missing from the tray (which sat about eight inches in front of Freddy), and there sat Fred, furiously devouring a cupcake as if his life depended on it. Further, it was the one cupcake the Lauren had hoped would be available to her when it was time for dessert. No sale.

For a few minutes, we both confusedly tried to make sense of the situation. First off, it was the best cupcake on there and I felt bad that my lady wouldn't be able to enjoy even a taste of it. Second, the plan was to cut the cupcakes into sections so that everyone could try a bit of each if desired. Now we were down to 7. At this time, it was clear that our diversion from Freddy to discuss the hilarity/horror of his thievery was our second and perhaps most damaging mistake.

The second tap on the arm was doubly as appalling as the first. I peered over at Freddy a second time, and there sat the ingrate, halfway into cupcake #2. Yeah, that's right. Not satisfied with just one, he had helped himself to a second and as luck would have it, it was Lauren's hopeful second choice of cupcake after losing the battle for her first choice. Talk about ruining a girl's night. To top off this cupcake circus, it then became apparent that Freddy's wife had gone ahead and joined her husband in his tomfoolery by helping herself to a cupcake. She showed some sense of control by taking only half of a cupcake but SHIT MAN. Who the hell do these people think they are? You don't eat a quarter of the cupcake allotment DURING DINNER unless you're either a) a dog or b) insane. I guess I've solved that mystery.

What made this scenario even funnier was when Lauren actually cut up the cupcakes to serve to the guests, Freddy's wife came over a exclaimed "ooohh, look at the pretty cupcakes!" This kinda set me off. I wanted to ask her if they looked any different from a few minutes ago, when her and Freddy decided to pig out and consequently ruin our evening. She would later contend that the dessert portion of the meal was indeed a "cupcake orgy". I know her and Freddy were satisfied, but I can assure you that Lauren and I were not.

I later found out than Freddy had recently lost his job and ten days ago had removed all the alcohol from his house in order to support his newly christened sobriety. Perhaps the cupcakes had provided him with a little happiness but at what price? It's rumored that Freddy has just rid his house of all cupcakes and then promptly headed to a C.A. meeting downtown. Yes, that would be Cupcakes Anonymous.

Line of the night provided by Lauren's grandfather, Dick:

(referring to my mom) "Your mom is very attractive. Does she fool around?"

Anything But Baseball

2008-10-09T12:40:00.002-05:00

I'm torn here, I really am. I have a split audience (of roughly 6 people) that offer differing opinions on subject matter in this blog. My Aunt Gloria, who has suggested that my brain has turned to mush since being in LaLaLand (due to the lack of blogging) has insisted upon some good, old fashioned Sox talk. I delivered. The honorable James Hammen concurs, as does the Captain of the Chuckwagon. Lauren might say she's impartial on the subject, but she much prefers my non-sporting sputterings. Same goes for my sister-in-law, Jen, and Gilbert.

So where do I go from here? I've been finding it quite the grind just to simply string together some coherent thoughts, let alone get them on paper. Perhaps my brain is somewhat mushy, AG. But that happened long ago, like maybe on or around the 5th of July, 1979. I've considered starting a new blog about just baseball, but then I remember how much effort that would take and I'm immediately discouraged. And almost in the same breath, I remember that I just started a new blog about my daily frustrations. Two entries and one month later, I have come to grips with the fact that this new blog is a failure. So how could starting yet another blog be a good, solid idea? I don't think it is.

I guess I've decided that I'm not going to interrupt anything that decides it's ready to come tumbling out of the mush upstairs, whether it be about baseball, anger, toilets, food, Lauren, whatever. And I'm not really sure why I dedicated three paragraphs to the delivery of this news, but hey. These are the malfunctions I speak of, my friends.

My friends. I am John McCain. You are all my friends. I will be referring to you as my friends each and every time I speak to "you", the public. "You" are my friends, fellow Americans. I'm really hoping that over time, I will make my way into your heart as your true friend because, after all, you wouldn't choose not to vote for your friend, right? It's my only shot at this upcoming election. Ok, it's me again...French. I don't claim to know very much at all about the upcoming election. My default I've watched the debates, partially. I know that I can't take Sarah Palin seriously, but not because she's a woman. I just don't particularly care for her. But I don't have any true conviction behind that. I know that McCain is lax on immigration and tends to like the way Iraq has been handled. And I know he's in favor of stem cell research. As for Obama, I know he also supports stem cell research. I know he wants our troops the fuck out of Iraq...he's pro-choice, pro-death penalty and big on education.

I agree with both candidates on certain issues. But I don't like how McCain constantly says "my friends". It makes me angry. Yes, I'm voting for Obama. But I swear it's not because of the "my friends" thing. I swear. And all those issues I listed in the above paragraph are things I just read about after googling "Obama/McCain platforms". Sue me.

I found this interesting this morning: I was driving back from dropping Lauren off at work and "Hypnotize" by Biggie came on the radio. The word "sex" was dubbed over, yet the word "ass" was not. What? Really? Is "sex" a bad word? I don't think so. Are we protecting the ears of our children from this word because we don't want them to have sex before a certain age? Right, I'm sure bleeping out the word "sex" in a Biggie song is helping. Ridiculous.

Issuance of Gag Order

2008-10-08T11:53:00.004-05:00

I wrote this entry yesterday but lost it during the transfer of my laptop from house to coffee shop. I'm pissed because I know there was some stuff in there that I'm not capable of coming up with two days in a row, but who's to say that some new stuff won't spew out of me during this attempt at literary greatness? That's a rhetorical question.

John Lackey and Torii Hunter are frustrated with losing to the Red Sox. They're probably the only 2 Angels that can back up their verbal assaults of late, since both played very well in this series. Unfortunately, they didn't have the full compliment that they were accustomed to all season long as the Angels carved out the best record in baseball. For some reason, the rest of the Angels roster chose the worst possible time of year to play subpar baseball and for that, they'll be sitting at home watching another chapter of the Rays-Sox Choose Your Own Adventure. So relax John and Torii. Pop open a few suds, put your feet up and enjoy the ALCS. And please, shut the hell up.

Both Lackey and Hunter were quoted as saying that the better team didn't win this series and I beg to differ. I don't care what your team does in the regular season because once October hits and the clutter gets swept into anonymity, we're left with a new season and clean slates. The Angels won 5 more games than the Sox during the regular season, playing in arguably the weakest division in baseball. True, they lambasted the Red Sox in the season series but this just further proves that regular season baseball matters not when October hits. Both teams made the playoffs. End of story.

The better team plays better baseball when it matters. Looking inside the numbers of this series, the Angels were simply outplayed and outmanaged.

The Red Sox committed one error to the Angels three and if you remember, Jed Lowrie's error in Game 1 hurt at the time, but it was erased by an offensive comeback later in the game. The Angels weren't so lucky with their errors, as they all hurt and helped in determining the outcome of the games in which they were committed. Case in point: better teams overcome mistakes.

The Red Sox left 36 men on base in this series, including 16 that were in scoring position with 2 outs. The Angels left 43 men on and 21 with 2 out that were in scoring position. Case in point: better teams get it done with men on, men in scoring position and in clutch situations such as when there are 2 outs.

The Angels were ultimately plagued by several boneheaded plays in this series and that is not the mark of a better team. A lazy fly to center by Jacoby Ellsbury plates three runs because Torii Hunter and Howie Kendrick didn't call it. This is Hunter's fault entirely as it's the centerfielder's call on these types of balls. Either way, it was a huge mistake that playoff teams cannot afford to make if they expect to win. Ironically, the Angels ended up winning this game, but still. Vlad Guerrero's baserunning blunder was just plain ridiculous in Game 1. This from a veteran who should know better in tight situations, but it was a bad decision that cost them dearly. And finally the suicide squeeze attempt in Game 4 was perhaps the worst managerial decision of Mike Scoscia's tenure in Anaheim. You've got a guy in Aybar who won Game 3 for you. He's a contact hitter, up 2-0 in the count. Based on the first two offerings from Manny Delcarmen, one can only surmise that Francona and the Sox knew what was coming. Things like this are part of the reason why the Sox are back in the ALCS for the third time in five seasons. And the Angels are going home, again.

Lackey commented that Pedroia acted as if he did something good following his wall-ball double in Game 4 that plated Jason Varitek. He also remarked that this is an out in any other ballpark. Well John, this theory doesn't really hold any water in my book. You play to what the park gives you, and in Boston, that wall gives hitters another option as they know that sending a ball in the air to left leaves open the possibility of banging off the wall. Pedroia is a great pull hitter and he did what he had to do in that situation. He pumped his fist after reaching second because he did something good for the first time in that series and it couldn't have come at a better time. The Angels, on the other hand, were let down by the meat of their order except for Hunter. They couldn't produce when it mattered most. I'll give some credit to Mike Napoli who single-handedly beat Josh Beckett and the Sox in Game 3. Outside of that, it was an utter failure by a unit that came into this series as the scariest lineup in baseball. Not so scary now.

And?

2008-09-26T22:38:00.002-05:00

Blood is red

Smurfs are blue

I've been a bit terse

What the hell's it to you?

I've received some complaints due to my lack of flow here on the ye olde blog. And to be quite frank, I really don't care. I haven't had anything that I care to write about as of late and that's a whole bunch-a fine, in my mind. A whole bunch-a fine.

Here's something for you to chew on...
http://thechuckwagonjournal.blogspot.com

Once again, this is the blog of my folks, Chuck and Kathy, who are currrently ensconced in a westward movement of epic proportions. They're having the time of their lives and as you'll read, they haven't once thought of killing each other over the course of the three months they've been travelling...methinks this a boldface lie, but hey. Who knows.

I promise to be more proactive on my blog. Jabroni.

Something New

2008-09-11T15:22:00.003-05:00

I started a new blog.

http://goaheadifuckingdareyou.blogspot.com/

I've decided that a lot of my colorful ranting about little things that really, really bother me deserve their own blog.

What you can expect: some questionable language. Well probably a lot of questionable language. If you're not one to take too kindly to a smattering of cuss words, go read http://thechuckwagonjournal.blogspot.com. Actually, do read this one. It's my parents' chronicle of their own cross country journey in real time...unlike mine. They're on day 10 right now and should be somewhere in Wyoming.

Inevitably, something gets under my skin each and every day. If you care to know what that might be on a given day, read this blog. Go ahead. I fucking dare you.

See what I did there?

What WILL They Think of Next?

2008-09-10T15:38:00.002-05:00

Ever have those moments where you say that to yourself? I had one last night as I watched the new JJ Abrams drama, Fringe (hooked me instantly, by the way). It was a commercial for one of the newest diabetes monitors to hit the market and the come in 4 fashionable colors so you can personalize your diabetes. I had many thoughts flood my brain after this commercial. For one, I wish they had Wilford Brimley do this ad. "Check your blood sugar; check it often. And pimp your diabetes monitor; pimp it hard. You have diabetes...there's just no reason for you to not be cool and have diabetes." I wonder if they'll come out with covers for the monitors so you can be moody with it. Don't want your monitor to be blue today? Fine, use the black cover. Or the yellow one. You have options...you may have diabetes, but you have options with your monitor and its color. Don't let diabetes run your life, and don't let your diabetes monitor leave you in a fashion conundrum. There's just no reason not to have a cool diabetes monitor.

Why have we not seen the pimped out wheelchair or motorized scooter yet? With all the shootings we hear about on the news and all the gang-related shit out here in LA, there's got to be a market for wheelchairs with 36" rims and spinners to boot. What about a lowrider wheelchair? Or one with fucking hydraulics?? So you can't walk, fuck it. Blast Dre and bump down that sidewalk. I know someone could make money doing this. Could give new meaning to the term 'ambulance chaser'...not just for lawyers anymore.

I also don't feel like we're doing enough with the keychain. People of the 80's had some serious issues with the janitor-style keychain...unless this was only a symptom of my aunt Joanie and her daughters. I recall shit like bandannas on there, like forty-six some-odd keys of various uses, a few mini, stuffed cats, a Vegas-themed thing and some other shit. Nowadays, the keychain is reserved for cards that link us to various clubs. CVS. Stop & Shop or Ralph's or whatever your local grocer is. The gym. Petco. What have you. Most people have a car device on there that locks and unlocks. My dad has always been a proponent of the mini Swiss Army knife on his and I think this is one of the best ideas ever. You have a small blade, a file, a screwdriver and a toothpick at all times. Beauty. But this is what I mean...shouldn't we be taking greater advantage of the one part of us that never leave home without? Shouldn't there be an iPod that hooks to our keys? It would have to be tiny like the Shuffle, of course. I'm always wishing I had tic tacs, but I know if those bastards made a container that attached to my keychain, I'd buy them more often. Same with gum. I don't know, it just seems like we need more from our keychains.

Wow, a remake of Tainted Love just came on in Coffee Bean. It's one I haven't heard yet and it's pretty nice. Anyone know who this might be? On other musical fronts, I'm due some congratulatory remarks on account of finally downloading iTunes to my laptop. I no longer have to screw up my lady's iTunes with my devil music.

A Very Brady Sequel

2008-09-08T14:03:00.003-05:00

Blog world is quiet thus far...quiet for the Monday following a potential career-ending injury to Tom Terrific. Although now, he's more like Tom Troubled, or Tom Too Bad. I'm not trying to make light of this in any way, shape or form but I will say this: I am so thankful that I am not in the city of Boston right now.

I've been chatting with a few of the guys I used to work with in Boston and all reports are the same: people are totally out of it today. Women have shed tears, men are pissed off and little babies are spitting up all over their #12 bibs. I get it, I do. He's the face of the franchise and the face of the NFL, for all intents and purposes. He absorbed what many are alleging to be a cheap shot and from what I know as of right this second (which equates to little more than zilch), he's probably mangled his ACL/MCS/knee thing-a-majig.

The response out here is something I never thought I'd see as a Patriot fan. People actually laughed at the news report during the early games yesterday. You see, it's funny to outsiders who see the Patriot conglomerate/juggernaut as merely a black mark on the league due to the bullshit with Spygate or whatever you want to call it. Apparently this injury to the formerly Favre-esque Brady is payback...a little karma action, as Earl might contend. My question is, how are Pat fans panicking at this point? Isn't there some pretty pertinent precedent here? Didn't we all shake in our shoes collectively when Mo Lewis all but decapitated Drew Bledsoe back in 2001? Yeah, we did. Now we're here, without even the slightest aftertaste of Bledsoe bitterness and two rings...not to mention a perfect regular season. Wait a second here...what's really at work?

The Patriots manage to blow a perfect season at the hands of the (gulp) Eli Manning-lead New York (gasp!) Giants, finishing a deplorable 18-1*. Hilarious, right? Yeah, ok. But this happens in the wake of this taping scandal and suddenly black clouds start to roll in on this once marveled and oft admired picture of hard work and coaching. Belichick is a bozo, a cheat. Now the Pats are the Evil Empire of the NFL and they have haters in more places than the Sox have fans across the globe. And now, in the first quarter of the first game of the 2008 season, the poster boy of all poster boys goes down with a career-threatening knee injury. Gene Upshaw is rolling over in his grave (whatever that means...what does that mean? Rolling over? Not banging his fists? Spewing cuss words all over? Crossing him arms and pouting?). I find the timing of all this to be very, very interesting.

How insane would it be if the Jets are now captained to the AFC crown by Brett fucking Favre? Is this a joke, people? The Jets are suddenly looking pretty damn good to contend for the division, like it or not. I still tend to believe that the Patriots will win it, seeing as though Tony Eason could probably win the AFC East with the likes of Moss, Welker, that O-line and that D-line. Cassel will be fine if they don't do something ridiculous and hand things over to a Chris Simms or Tim Rattay. Look at this scenario for a second. Cassel is a huge man with a big arm and a brain. He knows the system as well as Brady if not better and now he's in charge. If he's given some time to sit in the pocket and do what good pocket passers do, Moss will have another 20 TD grabs and the Patriots will win 11 or 12 games and be back in the playoffs. But you have to be intrigued by the possibility of the Favre Jets to be there in January. He's slingin' it again...in case you missed the 4th-and-13 that he willed into the arms of one of his receivers to basically win the game. How long until the Madden 2009 covers are all reproduced with Favre in a Jet jersey? Make the originals collectors items and sell new ones with him on the cover as a Jet. It'll be a new Madden curse, only this time it will involve a seemingly washed up, wily veteran who will retire, then unretire, and take his team to the promised land. Madden 2010 will feature Warren Moon, who will unretire to lead the QB-desperate Chiefs back to glory.

Final Destination

2008-09-06T20:50:00.004-05:00

Stage VI, Parts II & III

We departed San Francisco with slightly heavy hearts, as we could not stay in this wonderful city any longer. But we'll be back. We would our way down to Santa Cruz and the home of the banana slugs...also known to Lauren as home for a few years of college. I don't know why anyone would want to attend college anywhere else other than the University of California at Santa Cruz. Campus lends itself to a national forest which happens to border the ocean. Come on. COME ON.

We walked amongst the girthy sequioas and under the circling hawks that protect the campus. I felt a sense of peace about the place as we trapsed about the campus...Lauren told me about the system of grading without actual letter grades and about the regularity of hippies that attend the school. I could only imagine how this place is a veritable haven for pot smokers of the collegiate age, given the natural beauty of the campus and the feeling like you're in some protective community where anything goes and nothing goes beyond the gates of the campus.

Anyway, please enjoy some more of my lovely Lauren's photo journalism, Santa Cruz and Gilroy style.

Cowell College...one of the eight or nine colleges that are a part of the system at UCSC and the college that Lauren attended while she was there. Cowell is the Liberal Arts college and it overlooks the ocean, as you can see here. You know, maybe I'll just go back to school at UCSC and start over. It's not like I learned anything from my 5 years at UMass, anyway.

Expansive fields on which one can play various sports and the backdrop is, as I may have mentioned, the ocean. Pretty sweet deal.

More from the fields o'er the ocean.

And finally, the Gilroy Garlic Festival. Without expectations, this place blew our minds. Who knew that a celebration of garlic could produce such a mass of food and shit to see. We should have come earlier and spent the entire day, but we didn't know what we were coming into. Instead, we spent a few hours here in Gilroy, we ate jalapeno poppers, garlic ice cream, garlic potato chips, buffalo wings and...beer. We drank some beers which tasted glorious in the 98 degree heat. We took this photo in front of a giant, burning clove of garlic. We then returned to our vehicle for the remaining 4.5 hours of driving that would land us in Los Angeles to find that some dipshit had left the passenger's side window down. Yes, with all of my belongings atop the car, in the car and about the car as well as Lauren's bag, wallet, cell phone and my cell phone, iPod, GPS, etc etc etc...I left the passenger's window open. For three some odd hours. Amongst a slew of garlic-seeking stragglers from all over. It could have been a disastrous climax to a long and arduous journey of 4000 miles, but no one took our stuff. They probably walked by and figured, hey, why fuck over someone who stinks of garlic and beer?

I almost forgot...Bowen, we did happen upon a banana slug, seen here on his laptop. He was too busy to take a picture with us...turns out he was spoofing the biographical Tupac movie with a version of his own called "Slug Life". He was surpisingly trendy with his D&G shades and Uggz knockoffs...yeah, called Sluggz. Ripoffs. But apparently they do indeed exist and they are intelligent creatures. They just don't care to take photographs with humans.

Stage VI, Part One

2008-09-05T09:45:00.004-05:00

Our last leg of the trip...finally. In my opinion this was the best leg simply because of all the stuff we got to do/see/eat/smell. Here's how it went:

Part I: downtown San Francisco. Awesome city. It's widely known that Bostonians love San Francisco and I guess I now know why. You get some of the same feels, only over a much grander sprawl. Unfortunately for us, we were only in the city for a handful of awake hours so our exposure was quite limited. But I'd say that we made the best use of our time that was possible. Enjoy.

Bay Bridge from the car.

AT&T Park, Home of the San Francisco Giants.

More AT&T...

...and one more...AT&T & Me. Aesthetically, this is a beautiful park. I've always been a jealous fan of McCovey Cove. I want to blast an opposite field homer into the ocean, don't you?

Dottie's Cafe on Geary St. Place is UNREAL. We had the pleasure of sitting at the countertop, due to the fact that we were in line at 7:10am for a 7:30 opening. We watched the grillmaster/owner flip flapjacks, spin out omelettes and scrambles, hash out the potatoes and poach eggs for benedicts. It was awesome, the food was insanely good and I even admitted that the dude made a better scramble than I do. Listen, you can't fuck with my breakfast prowess. I'll spin you off a scramble with spinach, mushrooms, shrimp, goat cheese and hot sauce that'll have you singing my name all the way to bottom of your plate. I digress...Dottie's is a MUST GO if you're in San Fran. I recommend the smoked trout scramble.

Financial District

Golden Gate Bridge

Me and Lauren at the park that precedes the wharf. You can't see them in the photo, but Danny Tanner is behind us, picnicking with Michelle and DJ. Stephanie couldn't make it because she was on the phone with a boy. How rude.

The start of the wharf with the Bay Bridge in the backdrop.

Part's II and II of the Final Stage are to follow very shortly, so check back if you have any interest in seeing UC Santa Cruz or a lovely photo from the Gilroy Garlic Festival.

Red Means Stop, Green Means Go. Yellow Means...

2008-09-03T16:40:00.003-05:00

Please enjoy the following account for how my brain reacts to seeing a traffic light turn yellow as I approach an intersection.

Light is green, brain is set to easy, comfy mode. Foot remains lightly pressed on the gas pedal, speed in maintained, passenger (Lauren) in a stationary and apparently content state.

Light turns yellow, brain immediately pukes out a command to my right foot to jerkedly depress the brake in one, quick motion. Speed drops considerably, car jolts a bit, passenger jerks forward then back, looks considerably annoyed and kinda pissed.

Light remains yellow, just a split second after it turned at this point. Brain flip flops, pukes out another genius command to jam on the gas. Speed increases significantly, car jolts a lot and passenger's head hits the headrest rather impactfully. Passenger totally pissed, starts to offer audible complaints/barbs in my direction.

Light turns red as car approaches intersection, brain sends final command to foot to apply enough pressure to the brake pedal to break human bones if they were underneath. Car comes to a screeching halt, passenger jerks forward with great force, settles back into seat and begins to shower me with insults and more barbs, asks what the hell is wrong with me.

I don't know why this happens every time I see yellow light.

Overheard

2008-09-02T14:51:00.003-05:00

This is unreal. I'm sitting here at Kinko's in Santa Monica and currently, this is what I'm overhearing. I'm trying to keep up with this one-sided phone conversation. But I'm laughing so hard that it's extremely difficult. Incorporate about a 10 second pause between each statement you read.

"David Hansen told me that his father is Jewish."

"David Hansen had a party thirty years ago that I went to with Mark Jackson. There was alcohol there but I didn't drink any of it."

"It was David Hansen's party. It was here that David Hansen told me his father is Jewish. There was a lot of alcohol there but I didn't have any. You can ask Mark Jackson, I bet he'd tell you."

"I went to Westminster Elementary with Mark Jackson. We've been friends for thirty years. Westminster Elementary is on Abbot Kinney and some other street. But I went to a party at David Hansen's with Mark Jackson many, many years ago and there was a lot of alcohol there. I didn't have any alcohol though. You can probably call Mark Jackson and ask him."

"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."

"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."

"David Hansen had a party in Santa Monica that I went to with Mark Jackson. I didn't know whose party it was until I got there, but once I got there I learned it was David Hansen's house. David Hansen had the party and there a bunch of kids from Santa Monica High School there, drinking alcohol. I didn't drink alcohol there, though. Mark Jackson will tell you that if you call him."

"I saw David Hansen on the 3rd St. Promenade and he told me that his father is Jewish."

"David Hansen told me his father is Jewish."

I can't keep up with this anymore. It's too much. Who is this guy talking to? He sounds like a fucking parrot, for Pete's sake. David Hansen's father is Jewish. He told me that. David Hansen told me that. I didn't drink any alcohol at David Hansen's party. You can ask Mark Jackson.

Park City, Utah

2008-08-26T07:56:00.002-05:00

Stage V: Park City, UT

Here's the long and the short of it:

Long was the drive to Park City, short was our stay. More of a true winter resort ONLY, we arrived at the deserted Canyons Resort in Park City late in the afternoon on Thursday, July 23rd. And for the first time on our journey, Hotwire failed us. There was no reservation at the resort under either name so we had no room at first. After an hour or so at the front desk things were cleared up and we had our room. It's amazing how little fight I had in me following 2100 miles of driving prior to landing in Park City. As much as I wanted to lay into the Hotwire rep for embarrassing me at the front desk at the resort, I just didn't have it in me. Sure, I wanted free shit as a result of the mishap. I wanted a deal, man. We booked every room on that trip with those fuckers, they owed us. But I was subdued by my fatigue and yearning for a square meal.

The greatest part of this stop was the tub in our hotel room. I can't tell you how much we valued the jacuzzi-style, giant bath tub that lay waiting for us in the bathroom. So following a suprisingly elegant and gourmet dinner (Lauren had a nice piece of tuna and I had a game bird meatloaf sandwich...tremendous), we relegated ourselves to the confines of this tub and sort of just melted into it. Our bones were tired as we made a lifeless human stew. After our glorious soak, we had all we could do to climb into bed and rest our heads. Sleep came quickly, but not as quickly as 5am. Friday would be our longest day of driving, through the deplorable wasteland that is Nevada and ultimately over the border into California, landing in San Francisco.

I wish I had more to say about Park City but like I said, this stop on the tour was much more of a rejuventing rest (all be it a short one) than anything else. Plus, as I mentioned, there wasn't SHIT to do up there. Alas, there are photos.

The Canyons Resort, Park City, UT. Here's where you valet your car for free, but then pay $18 for the garage. I guess this is more acceptable than the $49 charge for parking in Chicago and San Francisco. I should mention that at 5am, it was only about 55 degrees in Park City. The lowest temperature we encountered on the trip was 48 degrees as we wound through the Rockies. Conversely, the highest temp was 104 degrees in beautiful Fort Hays, KS. That was recorded about three hours before the 48 degree reading, marking a 56 degree change over a three hour span. I was very excited about this.

The gondola, which had taken the night off on Thursday. Had we more time, we could have taken this bitch to the top of the mountain and had lunch for a mere $40 a person. And I'm pretty sure the lunch was pb&j's. Hey, it's all about the views, man. The views. Look at that sun rise.

This is kind of a shitty photo...one that I took, undoubtedly. I believe this to be our resort from afar with the mountain behind it. Yes, that mountainous, cone-shaped mass behind the resort is in fact a mountain.

Sunrise in Park City...

And finally, Chad and Lauren, pre-coffee at 5:30am as we prepare to depart Park City. She looks cute at this time of day. I look like a fucking idiot.

And the final stage of the trip shall follow shortly.

To Know A Vail

2008-08-25T07:30:00.007-05:00

Stage IV: Vail, Colorado

I know, I should have wrapped up this trip wrap-up long ago. It's not like I'm pressed for time to write out here.

To me, the last two legs of the trip offered some of the best and some of the worst of our journey. The 500 miles or so between Lawrence, KS and Vail, CO presented the most boring, mentally challenging stretch of drive that I ever hope to encounter. In fact, I can't imagine a more monotonous ride than that, except maybe 98% of Canada by car. There is nothing- and I repeat: NOTHING- between Lawrence and eastern Colorado. I had to check my sanity several times as Lauren snoozed away comfortably in the passenger's seat, never having noticed my newly created imaginary friend Dierks, a miniature dodo bird who liked to entertain. I discarded him just outside of Denver, when his services were no longer in demand. I wish him well.

I will say that the trek across Kansas became well worth it as we wound our way through a suburb of Denver in search of dinner, aka Buffalo Wild Wings. Aside from the abdominal failure that I experienced halfway through our meal (side note here: BWW was redoing one of the bathrooms at the time and therefore, it had to be shared between the sexes. Upon my exit from said bathroom, a woman sat in waiting with a look of fear on her face. I can't say I blame her.) we enjoyed our feast of bird. They let us try all all the flavors by way of a true pallet of sauce and while the Blazin' beat my ass pretty good, we loved their medium hot sauce and thus purchased a bottle to go. Also well worth it? Seeing the Rockies for the first time, and by that I don't mean the Coors Field Nine. I felt like a little boy when those fuckers finally peaked over the horizon and introduced themselves.

I have more of a pictorial theme for this particular stage, chiefly because of the sheer beauty of Vail, Colorado and the majesty of the Rocky Mountains. Please enjoy my lovely girlfriend's photography and further French commentary on the scenery.

This is where one might buy a lift ticket (imagine!!) in the winter. Picture lots of people in hats and scarves, some with poles even. I hear people like to ski here when it snows.

Mickey's Piano Bar inside The Lodge at Vail. Mickey owns the bar and still plays here every night, as he's been doing for thirty years. Seeing as Lauren and I were the only couple under 50 in this place, he took a liking to us and made the night we spent there very enjoyable. He played me some Scott Joplin which was awesome and he took a few other requests from us as well. The only thing I regret is mixing scotch, beer and gin over the course of the 3 hours we spent there. I paid dearly for that one the next day.

Mountains n'avec pas le neige.

And mountains avec le neige.

For some reason I was overly excited about these tunnels that burrow through the mountains. To me, there's nothing like a highway that digs right into the base of a mountain and carries you right through to the other side. Ahh, the marvels of human evolution and the DPW.

The first shot of the village at Vail, but notice how Lauren captured the flight of this hawk just before he dives below the horizon. Elusive he tried to be but ohh, the crafty hawk was outsmarted on this day.

More from the streets of the village...

The one shot I took.

Still to come: Park City, San Francisco, Santa Cruz and the Gilroy Garlic Festival.

Que, Si?

2008-08-15T11:00:00.006-05:00

Stage III: Kansas City, MO/Lawrence, KS

Ahh yes, the halfway point of the trip. Chicago to Kansas City is roughly another 500 miles through the rest of Illinois and then the length of Missouri. One stop in Mexico, MO for gas and a McDonald's sundae/grilled chicken sandwich (the only McD's stop on the trip mind you...Subway, as I mentioned, was our provision of choice). Missouri provided Lauren and with our first glimpse of the mightly Mississippi River (seen below).

Sure, these are taken from a moving vehicle but all things considered, the quality is right there.

We arrived in downtown KC late Tuesday afternoon and I put in the call to a one James Hammen. We agreed that he would pick us up at the hotel and take us on a mini tour of the city (also known as the direct route to the restaurant) and eventually to dinner where Alex would meet us after class. Let it be known that upon entering Jimbo's blue Element, the iPod mounted on the dash was playing Zeppelin's Going to California. And it was apparently purely coincidental. This is the stuff that dreams are made of, my friends.

Shortly thereafter, we (me, Lauren, Hammen and Alex) would be sitting in Manny's Mexican Restaurant drinking Corona's, margueritas and sampling the diablo sauce that was reported to be very hot. It was not, but I did encounter an internal battle the next day due to excessive consumption of el diablo. Anyway, aside from getting cozy with el diablo at Manny's, I also learned of Hammen's blatant fear of tequila. I brought two shots of Patron back to the table at one point and I got the Hammen Heisman...he deferred to Alex. Just pointing this out is all.

So we wrapped up at Manny's and decided that Lauren and I needed to see Lawrence the next day. Breakfast in downtown Lawrence was a real treat, at Milton's Cafe. Really good stuff. I had a particular appreciation for the self-service coffee bar. all for $1. Nothing like small town prices, either. We loved Lawrence. It would have been a great place to go to college, as the town itself was really cool. Interesting shops (that we couldn't go into because it was ass early) and a Jimmy John's that apparently gives out free sub samples on occasion. Let it also be noted that throughout the outdoor breakfast we enjoyed, there sat a box of Jimmy John's loaves on a bench adjacent to our table. Just pointing that out. Here's us at Milton's.

So we concluded this leg of the trip with an escorted ride to KU (thanks Alex), where we would shop the bookstore for a long time. That place is huge, by the way and how one can choose a single t-shirt to purchase is beyond me. I eventually did, and Lauren found some sweet red shorts with 'Rock Chalk' across the ass. Very nice.

Thanks for Hammen and Alex for a great time in Kansas. Unfortunately Lawrence is the only good thing about Kansas, as you'll learn when I post about stage IV of the trip...Western Kansas to Vail, Colorado. Little place called Fort Hays, KS in the western part of the state...place I'll never forget.

LA King

2008-08-14T14:29:00.002-05:00

Read this: http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/columns/story?columnist=stark_jayson&page=rumblings

I'm not quite sure what to make of the whole thing, really. I was a Manny apologist for a long time, along with a lot of friends and some family members. It's hard not to be when talking about not only the best player on your town's team but arguably one of the best players to ever don the Boston uniform. I once wrote into Gordon Edes of the Boston Globe (one of my favorite sports writers along with the aforelinked Stark) suggesting that Manny is one of the top three right-handed hitters of all-time in the history of baseball. It's not that big of a stretch to lump him in that category, really. Back then I didn't care about all the antics that came along with having Manny Ramirez on the Sox roster. I guess I kind of care now.

I read this article and I too wonder about the makeup of Dodger fans. Don't get me wrong, I think it's fantastic that they are now poised to take the NL West and return some sense of pride to this city that hasn't been realized since the days of Gibby. 20 years is tough, I know. Try 86 on for size. I also know for a fact that there are some diehard Dodger fans who love the game, continue to support their boys year in and year out and those people, some of whom I've conversed with at the gym, aren't applauding Manny and his suddenly workmanlike ways in Dodger blue. They're wowing Jason Bay and Kevin Youkilis for "existing without Manny". Interesting. Your Dodgers are rejuvenated, playing great ball and most importantly, in first. You probably should be saying things like "thanks for Manny", or "think the Sox will be fine without Manny?" It's nice to not hear those types of questions, because the Sox are fine without Manny and Boston is better off.

Maybe Kevin Youkilis isn't doing anything new, because he's not. In Youkilis, the Sox have a guy who cares more about one, single swinging strike than Manny ever cared about an entire season of baseball. Youkilis may be a pain in the ass in terms of his emotions and dramas on the field, but it's merely because he loves to play, hates to lose and more importantly, LOVES to win. I'm not sure Manny ever cared about losing. I know that Manny had some kind of problem with Youkilis, displaying some his ability to slap a man with a backhand much like the famed "bitchslap" we've all come to know. Impressive. And from what I know of that situation (hearsay, mind you) it had to do with Youkilis getting on Manny a little bit for not caring enough and Manny felt as though Youk perhaps was taking a game scenario a little too seriously. Case in point. Doesn't every game count? A loss in May could very well come back to haunt a team in the playoff hunt in late September just as easily as a loss in...well...late September. They all matter in some regard.

I tend to wonder how D Lowe, Nomar and others in LA that have worn the navy and red cap in the Fens feel about having Manny back on a common roster. Nomar and D Lowe both alluded to him being a great hitter and a powerful presence in any lineup. True. I will never discount Manny's ability to change the face of a team, a game or a season for that matter. He's one of the greatest hitters of all time and apparently he works harder off the field than most. He likes to keep that under his cap for whatever reason. I guess I'll give Manny credit for not caring what anyone thinks of him. Clearly he couldn't have cared less about the feelings of others in Boston. Reportedly, 24 of 25 Sox on the Manny-included roster thought it was time to go. The one who didn't? Not surprisingly David Ortiz, his best friend.

I don't know about you, but I'm happy about the Jason Bay era in Boston. Through the looking glass that is my laptop and Sportscenter, he looks like a likable guy. He hits, he fields and all fingers point to him being a good clubhouse guy. Plus, he's 29. Of course you lose something in terms of power and production but I'm willing to bet that it turns out to be minimal at worst, especially when you take into account that an unhappy Manny in Boston was often times an unproductive and cancerous Manny. As the season trudges on, the Sox making the playoffs won't be about just Jason Bay's bat, or Jon Lester's arm or Jacoby Ellsbury's legs. It'll be about the team effort and unity of a clubhouse that would appear to a happy place once again.

Side note: if Jed Lowrie gets benched when Lugo returns from the DL, it'll be a travesty. There's another guy I want in the Sox lineup every night. I think he already might have more hits in two months than Lugo has had all season. And we ALL know the errors are down with Lowrie at short.

Side note II: my rainless streak in LA is officially over, and it lasted 20 days. It rained for five minutes on my way home from the gym today. Waaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Top Five: Los Angeles

2008-08-04T21:16:00.006-05:00

Perhaps it's a little early for me to be judging what the best things about LA are, a mere 9 days into my residence here. However, it might be interesting to see what changes about this Top Five over time and what remains. I have a funny feeling about a few that are pretty certain to reserve a permanent spot on this list...please enjoy.

1. The weather. Everything you've heard, everything you've seen and everything you've read about the weather out here is entirely true. And most of the time, it's vastly understated because folks don't want to make 'other people' (aka New Englanders) overflow with jealous rage. Let me tell you something pal, it's fucking fantastic. I've been working outside as I've mentioned, and thus far, the variations in temperature have been no more than 5-10 degrees away from that magic number of 75°. That's a pretty nifty number when we're talking temperature. So when people talk about "it must be the people", or "it must be the sunsets" or even "it must be the air" (save it, the smog isn't even an afterthought) they are lying to you. They are lying sacks of shit. It's the weather, man. The WEATHER.

2. I already mentioned the weather, yes? Let's move onto the coffee. I guess I was growing tired of Dunkin', or better known to New Englanders as crack. Starbucks is everywhere, yes. But Coffee Bean is not. I'll never understand why more places don't serve their drinks with crushed ice. It improves the rating of the drink by 2 points alone if it simply has crushed ice. Is it that much more expensive to use it? No way. Coffee with crushed ice. A-ok in my book. Although as I champion Coffee Bean, I encountered my first gripe yesterday: too much ice. Not only did the peabrain take 10 minutes to make my ICED COFFEE, he left me with what equated to three sips of coffee. Thanks Dbag. Time to go back to ice school and learn about what an acceptable amount is. What's not acceptable? An assload, which is what you delivered to this guy yesterday. Tighten it up, sport. (avoid the little black dude at the Bean in downtown Palisades...he's an icy little fucker)

3. The food. This is merely a consequence of moving to a new city. The food is new, it's exciting and in LA, there are waaaaaaay too many new places to go on a given day. I feel as though I had a good handle on dining in Boston. I knew where to get great sushi, great steak (once upon a time), great chowder, an awesome sub, a tasty breakfast...now I get to learn the culinary ropes all over again and I'm amped up about it. I will tell you that there's an incredibly cheap and generous sushi place in Santa Monica that has good stuff and the service is fast. Well, fast might be the understatement of the year. Lauren and I are there last night and our first roll came out in 30 seconds. I shit you not. 30 seconds. And it was constructed well, I might add. The others, not so much but they were acceptable. We had finished the entirety of the meal and paid the bill in under 20 minutes. You can't power through McD's at that speed, son. I am suddenly cautious of the fish quality, however. Lauren pointed out that their overuse of mayo might be simply hiding poor quality. Maybe so. But I'm going to keep testing that theory until I get violently ill there. Stay tuned, puke fans.

4. The roads are mostly freshly paved from what I've seen, and the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean and the endless beaches off of the Pacific Coast Highway will never get tired. And the drivers here are a fucking delight! I never really considered myself to be an asshole driver. Maybe a tad aggressive at times, sure. Unreasonably impatient, yes. Occasionally prone to violence inflicted on the steering wheel, mhm. But I'm a good driver. From what I've seen so far, no one is terribly aggressive. People obey the rules of the road and, get this Mass residents, Angelinos apparently understand what a YIELD sign means! I can now die in peace. So for all you fucking halfwits who continue to STOP at a YIELD sign, take a lesson from drivers out west. It means proceed with caution. And under NO CIRCUMSTANCES do you stop, lest there be a free beer stand that suddenly appears out of nowhere. Then and ONLY then can you stop at a YIELD.

5. The Dodgers are growing on me, slowly but surely. Yes, Manny being here gets the bulk of the credit for that but also receiving votes are Vin Scully, the uniforms and the all-you-can-eat tickets. Let me rephrase that...the tickets that include an all-you-can-eat buffet. I hope to get to a game this month and I can't wait to count how many Manny t-shirts are in attendance. I heard that people had them on from game one of his stint here, #99 and all. (side note here...the whole "great one" moniker that certain SportsCenter anchors are using in Manny highlights needs to stop. Seriously. It's an insult to the actual Great One, not that Manny isn't great. He's just not THE Great One) I also really like the fact the Dodgers are the only team in baseball that have the rights to a color; Dodger blue. And there's something really neat about the red numbers on the front of their jerseys. Neat. Hey, that's neat.

I don't know what's gotten into me lately...I'm apparently using the word 'neat'. Must be the weather.

Part II: Chicago, IL

2008-08-03T15:40:00.010-05:00

Buffalo to Chicago. Roughly 500 miles, give or take a few. If you sneeze, you’ll miss Pennsylvania, which represents about 30 miles of this leg. You then pass through what I believe to be the most beautiful part of this country: Ohio. And if you believe that, you’ll probably also believe that since I’ve left for California not only have I taken up a life of pimping, but I’m also now Hispanic and my name has been changed to Chancho.

Ohio is awful. It couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be a state with three fairly decent sized and fairly cool cities or a desolate range of partially tended farmland. So we were left with a place that offers three kinda crappy, not-so-cool cities and a desolate range of partially tended farmland. It just has nothing to offer as far as I’m concerned, but what do I know? They do have Cedar Point which I’ve heard is the best place to ride a roller coaster in the world. In a past life, that would have been good enough for me to crown Ohio as the most beautiful part of this country.

Onto Chicago, which now stands as my favorite city in this country that I have visited. Sorry Boston, but there’s something about Chicago that exudes a coolness that other cities don’t seem to offer. It’s part New York, part Boston and part San Francisco; all three of those in themselves are wonderful places but take the best parts of them all and combine them into one and you get Chicago. It has the charm of a small city, the look and occasional feel of a big city and the waterfront of a coastal city. We arrived late in the afternoon to check into the Intercontinental hotel on Michigan Avenue. I drove by it the first time and as a result, we didn’t make it back to the hotel for another 20 minutes.

I could have let the parking rate for the hotel really chap my ass ($49 per night) but I let it roll off. My mindset the whole time on this trip was one of careful apathy when talking about practicality. You may think that the Intercon is anything but practical, but Hotwire makes pretty much any hotel a one star joint in price. It’s the way to travel, especially when you’re booking for the next day and theretofore by the skin of your teeth. I digress…our room was sweet, the view was cool (down Michigan Ave from the 22nd floor) and the location was perfect for what we needed. After all, when you’re in a city for one night and you want to be able to get the feel of it in a short period of time, you need to be centralized and within a few walking minutes of everything that interests you. For us, that was Nordstrom, the Chicago river and Gino’s East.

By the time we got out of the hotel room, it was time to eat. We briefly browsed the sales tables on Nordstrom and off we went to Gino’s per the suggestion of Neal, Lauren’s stepdad. Being from Chicago, he was our virtual tour guide for this trip. He didn’t fail us. Gino’s was great. We shared a deep dish pie with spinach and garlic, an order of buffalo wings and a pitcher of Bud Light. Sure, we eliminated the prospect of making out later on that night, but this wasn’t about the romance of Chicago. It was about the food and the city itself. The wings were, interestingly enough, better than the ones we had in Buffalo. And the pie was glorious. Lauren had to put half of the cheese aside in order to avoid cheese overload and certainly a bout of constipation. Rightfully so, because there was enough cheese on that fucker to impress Pizza the Hut.

I have to comment on our waiter from Gino's. His name was 'DJ', but that was short for something like Djovanovic Jokovic. Or something blatantly Russian. He was pretty unattentive, spoke poor English and forgot to put in out order for free garlic sticks (we were given a coupon by the concierge at the hotel for a free appetizer of Gino's choice). His response to me when I asked about the sticks was as follows:

Me: Are we getting those garlic sticks?

Russian DJ: Garleek Steeks...ooohhhhh...vun second.

(Russian DJ scurries away, returns in two minutes)

I check on steeks, keechun messed up. Sorry bout dat. You want me put in order agayne?

Me: No, it's ok.

He told us to come back with the coupon another time and use it then. We were ok with this suggestion, full well knowing that it might be years before we're back in Chicago. And we weren't mad at Russian DJ. In fact, Lauren and I both agreed that we'd have blamed the kitchen as well, had we forgotten to put in an order of garleek steeks.

Post dinner, we circled a few blocks and eventually walked in the direction of a nifty outdoor park that had an art showcase going on at the time. After this, we took some more pictures by the riverfront and decided to retire for the night. We would rise early the next morning, grab some breakfast burritos from a totally random place (really, really good) and then it was off to Descartes Coffee to try and get free Wifi with which to book our next hotel. Unsuccessful. And their coffee wasn't quite as superb as I had imagined in my daydream about Descartes Coffee. So again we fell into a Starbucks, had good coffee and bought some internet time with which we'd book our hotel in Kansas City...land of Hammen and Jayhawks and a SWEET Sonic drive thru. Not that we actually went, but the thing looked really tight from the street.

Stay tuned for Stage Three: Kansas City, MO/Lawrence, KS

First Impressions

2008-08-01T15:21:00.002-05:00

As I near the end of my first full week here in the city of Angels (I have yet to see an angel, by the way...with the exception of the LA nine who play down in Anaheim and frankly, they're more devils than angels with the beating they put on the Sox recently), I want to reflect on some of the things that have impacted things for me so far.

For starters, work is sort of a combination of things for me lately. I wake up at 4:45am in order to get to my client base when they get to work on the east coast. This doesn't bode well for my incredibly strong penchant for sleep lately, but who doesn't want to stay in bed when the alarm goes off prior to 6am? 7am? 3pm? Taylor, I'm talking to you. By the time 8:00 rolls around, I've already put in 3 hours of work. But instead of taking a lunch break, I make coffee and a nice, big breakfast for me and mine. So lunch is technically a breakfast break now. By the time lunch rolls around, it's the end of the work day. It's totally bizarre but fucking fantastic at the same time. I'm lucky enough to have a place to work that offers free Wifi and it also happens to be outside, in the midst of several water fountains and plenty of palm trees. All in all, it's not bad. In fact it's totally and completely awesome. I have lunch with Lauren every day in this public garden and then I go to the gym.

The gym is otherwordly from what I am used to. I run on a treadmill that sits outside and overlooks the expanse of the Pacific Ocean from its third story perch. For some reason, no one else runs on these treadmills; they opt for the indoor and far more typical variety. I guess there's no novelty of perfect weather for the average Los Angelan but for me, I suspect this won't wear off for a long, long time. Lauren mentioned to me today that the biggest part of the novelty will come in October/November when the weather doesn't take a fucking drastic turn towards shit town. My morning conversations in December will go from "Should I wear long underwear under my slacks today?" to "Should I wear my board shorts under my shorts today?" The word booyeah comes to mind.

The last thing I want to discuss briefly before I shut down and enjoy the rest of this perfect afternoon is Manny. Somehow he's a Dodger now, and the LA lineup loosely resembles a patchwotk Sox team from years back. On a given night, you could be looking at Manny, D Lowe and Nomar all in Dodger blue, and the topper would be them being managed by Torre which is more of an ironic twist of fate. If this were a year back, I'd be talking about how weird it is that Manny will be playing for Grady again but I would have to surmise that Torre is just tickled that Manny will be in HIS lineup for once and not the opposing team's lineup. I won't go too much into detail about this whole trade because frankly, I don't care that much. Manny's expiration date in Boston probably shouldn't have been as late as it ended up being and he had certainly worn out his welcome there. LA on the other hand is a dream situation for him. They need a pwer hitter and they need a personality in a town that thrives on characters. The fans here are going to love him and I would only imagine that he'll love being a Dodger for the time being. I can see him finishing his career here if all works out, and that's just fine with me.

Part II, Chicago is still a work in progress. Stay tuned.

Salut mes amis.

The Falls In Color

2008-07-31T11:16:00.005-05:00

The pictures that contain no images of Lauren or myself were shot while we were taking out plunge in a barrel. It wasn't so bad.

Part I: Not Falling for Niagara

2008-07-30T08:02:00.002-05:00

Departure time: 4:45am, Sunday July 20th. EST.

Destination: Niagara Falls, NY, aka Buffalo/Grand Island.

Objective: see the falls, eat some wings and celebrate our initiation into the elite club of cross country adventurers. Well, maybe for me. This is Lauren's 2nd movement but the first apparently offered as much fun and sightseeing as a trip to the proctologist. Although, perhaps the proctologist might beg to differ on the sightseeing issue...

We arrived in gloomy Niagara Falls around 2:30pm after a simply gorgeous drive across 90 West through NY. Ok, gorgeous might be a tad exaggerated. Deplorable might be a better term here. 90 W on the NY Thruway is nothing short of painful. The only saving grace is that some of the rest stops offer Starbucks, which is nice. Other than that, it's been my least favorite stretch of road travelled. That has now changed...more on that to follow in the latter stages of the trip.

After trying to check into the Crowne Plaza in downtown Niagara prematurely, we staked out in the lobby bar and ordered up wings and beer. One great thing about upstate NY is the cheapness of Molson Canadian. I, for one, love this beer. It's light, relatively flavorless and totally refreshing. Perfection. The wings were solid. Nothing you'd go crawling back for, but a nice effort for a hotel bar, all be it in BUFFALO. I thought wings were supposed to be the shit up there? Guess we went to the wrong place.

Ok, onto the Falls. I will say that the Falls themselves are just beautiful. The sheer power of the thousands and thousands of tons of water that pour over the falls every second is something to see, for sure. The way things are set up, you can really walk to any vantage point (which you'll see in the upcoming photos) and get all the angles. We didn't make it onto the Maid of the Mist, which is the much heralded boat ride that takes you to the very mouth of the falls and exposes its riders to the pelting mists created by the crashing waters. We watched several of these boats transport people to and fro and it looked like a great time. We opted to cross the border into Canada to enjoy the limitless pleasantries and boundless beauty that is Ontario.

The Canadian side is basically a giant, seedy amusement park that rivals the Santa Monica pier...only a much dirtier and far less enjoyable experience. What we witnessed was some kind of cross between a monster truck rally and a Cindi Lauper concert but without good music. The only music you hear is the circus-themed bullshit as you walk by the Ripley's Believe It Or Not, watching the outpouring of oglers who probably haven't left their houses since 1984. Although, that was a good year. We tried to find a restaurant that was to our liking and eventually we settled on Subway. I'm sorry, but you really can't miss with Subway. You watch those fuckers make your sandwich and you can make absolutely sure they put on what you ask for. Plus the bread is fresh. Final bonus: Lauren and I can eat there for under $10. Sold.

After concluding our Canadian visit (side note: the US charges $.50 for re-entry...penny-pinching bastards) we ended the night with a little frozen custard. That shit is weird, man. We thought we'd be refreshing ourselves with something that resembled soft serve, but we were wrong. The stuff tastes ok for a minute but it's way too rich and it just feels unnatural. Plus, it doesn't melt. It merely warms over but maintains its shape and form. Two points for cleanliness factor, one hundred points for weirdness factor. We will not be eating frozen custard ever again. Oh, and for those in Ohio that refer to frozen custard as an Eastern treat, you can stop that blasphemy right now. Soft serve is what we eat in the east, not your bullshit custard.

Overall, I give Niagara a 6.5 on a scale of 1-10. To recap, the Falls are amazing and they account for all 6.5 points of the rating. The rest of that area may as well be burned, for all I care.

Please enjoy some shots of the Falls and stay tuned for Part II, That Toddlin' Town.

I'm having trouble with the photos...a separate post is in order. Sorry for the inconvenience.

-Le Management

French Has Landed

2008-07-29T11:22:00.002-05:00

I repeat, French has landed. Here I sit, at my new desk in a new city, new surrounding...new coffee to drink (Coffee Bean...better than DD and Starbucks. Yes Dad, better than DD. You'll see.).

I have decided that my recollection of the trip that just concluded for Lauren and I shall be done in stages. I'm not exactly sure of the chronology or the number of stages that I'll employ but I can assure you that by the end of the log, you'll be fully up to speed on where in the world/US French has been over the last 10 days or so. I want to start with thank yous.

1. My folks.

Guys, thanks for putting me up at 9 Ray over the last 8 weeks. I think we all agree that it was the most pleasant 8 weeks that we've ever spent under the same roof, eh? Mom, you learned a few things about flavor in your food and Dad, you learned that jalapenos are our friends. We enjoyed the treasure that is the Pickled Onion, bearing fruits of beer and chicken wings at a ghastly low price on Tuesday nights. We sipped homemade mojitos, cheap wine and cheaper beer and kind of just hung out. It was a lot of fun and I'm looking forward to showing you around the beauty and grandeur that is Los Angeles come late September.

2. The Mexican Jew, aka Tito.

For those of you who aren't aware already, Tito is Lauren's brother. We're now roommates I guess, but Tito provided us with a travel kit of sorts to both take up some time during our long and arduous journey as well as expand our minds a bit and make us laugh. It was wildly successful, a lot of fun and I learned a thing or two about the Flight of the Conchords as well as the Roots new album. Thanks bro. Good shit.

3. The Goldstein's.

My new Innkeepers, I suppose. I guess time will tell if I turn out to be a good houseguest, but I can assure you that I will be doing my dishes from now on. Your hospitality, as always, is as meaningful as it is welcoming and warm. Thanks for putting me up and putting up with me.

4. Lauren

Finally...the one person who shared a trek of 4000 miles across this fruited plain with me. I wouldn't have shared it with anyone else, baby. Thanks for the company, your DJ skills and your passion for buffalo wings. We made it to Buffalo Wild Wings, dammit. And isn't that what really matters? On a side note here, all of their sauces are totally bearable with the exception of the Blazin'. I handled their second hottest with no issue but the Blazin', their hottest offering, blew my doors off. I went a good 10 minutes before I could even think about putting anything in my mouth as the capsaicin proceeded to give my tastebuds the asskicking of their lives. Remember what Drago did to Apollo? Yeah, that kind of beat down.

Trip details, Part I to follow.

"A Really Crappy Story"

2008-07-14T10:23:00.002-05:00

I received this email this morning and I can't tell you how hard I laughed...I can't fully explain how much fervor was behind my uproariously hefty chuckles and convulsions of laughter.

The identity of this individual shall remain anonymous unless he chooses to divulge this information himself, via the comment section. All I can add to this purportance of peril is say that I was not affected beyond my normal output of gas. I am admittedly a gassy individual (this may or may not please my future roommates out west) so even a slight spike in activity down below probably goes unnoticed on my part. The only deviation from the norm that occurred on my part that evening was due to the fan layout in my room, as any flatulence would imminently get stuck in a cross breeze just above my nose, creating a veritable fart cyclone above my bed. Just read on...

Dude, I really think there was either 1. some cross contamination issue on Friday or 2. the marinade did some crazy shit to my GI. I had the WORST ride home ever. I nearly crashed like 5 times because of the most painful gas I've ever experienced. I didn't want to stop because I needed to get home. Every mile that went by seemed to take like 20 minutes. I was literally using my hand to keep what felt to be the biggest, most aggressive crap ever from coming out. I started out saying, "if I can just get home I'll be fine". Then it was, "if I can just get to a dunkin donuts I'll be fine". Then it was, if I can just find a wooded area I'll be fine". Then it was, "if I don't crash my car I'll be fine". About three quarters of the way home the gas subsided and I felt good, I felt like I could make it home but I knew it was only a matter of time before it returned. Then, about a mile from my house, as I was getting on 495 one exit away, it came back with a vengeance. Someone working at Stop & Shop that made that meat wanted me to lose everything in my car, my brand new car. I floored it, 90 MPH, eyes watering, sweat pouring, "just let me get home, just let me get home, just let me get home". Of course, the light at the end of the ramp was red. The light at the end of my street was red . . . but I was going to make it, I was going to make it!

I pull up to my house, (literally pulled up to my house, driving on the lawn nearly to the porch) and I take one step out of the car and my ass explodes. Simultaneously I try to pull down my shorts and squat to no avail, I fall backwards and I quickly pull down my shorts but it's too late. There is shit everywhere (but my car thank god). The lawn is covered, my legs are covered, my brand new kicks are like mini toilet bowls filled with shit. There was so much shit you would have thought that I dove into a shit swimming pool. It's 11:00pm, I strip naked on my front lawn, still sick and I pull out the hose. I spray myself down with freezing cold water, go inside and sit on the toilet for another half hour and continue to shit my brains out. Now my bathroom is covered in human waste. The floor, the toilet seat, the sink, everything! There is shit everywhere and as far as I know, the whole neighborhood is meeting about whether or not to call the cops on the guy that drove on the lawn, got out, shit himself silly and is now running around naked with a hose and spraying random things like the back of my nut sack with 120 pounds of pressure.

I was up until 1:30am, sick, exhausted, cleaning the bathroom, taking like 3 showers. It was a total disaster and in the morning I still had to go out and clean the lawn, my clothes etc.

-FIN-

Hats Off To...Hats

2008-06-26T12:12:00.002-05:00

I mentioned my hat fetish yesterday, so I felt it necessary to dedicate an entire blog entry to the hat, or the cap if you prefer. I have to begin by saying something that I might regret...my favorite MLB cap, all things considered, is the Yankee hat. It's very simple and totally classic. You could say the same for the Red Sox cap but I prefer the navy and white. Hence, my current cap of choice is the Atlanta Braves away cap that discards the red brim for an all navy backdrop and a simple, white A. I also happen to believe that the NY logo is one of the best of all time. The Knicks used to employ the same, exact logo but they got away from it. And don't confuse the Yankee NY with the Met NY, or the former Giant NY.

That's the thing with uniforms in general and their accompanying hat which is actually considered a part of the uniform...simple is better. Some of the worst uniforms/caps of all time are those that took the new and hip approach that is certain to wind up in a Building 19 within a year of inception. It doesn't work. Classic looks in uniforms and hat do not go out of style and perhaps most importantly, they carry an aura of something original and unchanged...unfettered. For instance, you know that when Babe Ruth played, the Yankee uniform was essentially the same. Reggie Jackson, Don Mattingly and Derek Jeter...they've all worn the same uniform. Nothing has changed. There aren't many teams in any sport that can make this claim.

But back the cap...my goal is to own all 64 hats that are a part of the Authentic MLB collection today. I probably won't see this through because I've recently been made aware of the ultimate cost of this venture (thanks baby) and it scares me to think that I would spend that much on a bunch of hats. However it's a harmless hobby and if I spread the purchases out over time, it's really not that bad.

Some of the worst: I hate the Tampa hat...always have, from the original, awful green and purple piece of crap to the current TB logo. It's too big and once again, they've already changed their entire color scheme and uniform structure. I will say though, getting away from the sleeveless jersey is the best thing they ever did. Those are a fucking disgrace and every team that has one it its' repertoire should be ashamed. Tank tops are for the NBA. Moving on...I don't like two-toned caps at all. Cincinnati, Pittsburgh (with the red brim...what the fuck is that?), Oakland, Atlanta, Cleveland, Colorado, the Mets, Baltimore...I could go on. And most teams have one of these as a Spring Training hat or something...except the Yankees. I just don't know why there became this initiative to add unnecessary colors to the hat. The Colorado hat should be either all black or all purple with the CR...the Reds hat all red or all black...etc, etc. Yeah, these teams all have a one-color hat, but it's usually their alternate hat. Oakland has an all-green and an all-black cap as part of their four-cap arsenal (totally unnecessary, by the way and it throws off my collection's balance). They should move to just the two and eliminate the two tone. I realize this is a bit contradictory because the two-toned yellow and green Oakland hat is old school, but it's terrible.

I need a nice, classic baseball hat if I'm going to wear it often. Again, that Braves road hat is a prime example. The Red Sox cap is a nice option as is the Yankee hat (again), the Marlins cap, either Tiger hat, some of the Cleveland caps, etc. In terms of throwbacks however, it gets a little more dicey.

You look at some of the really "out there" caps that teams used to wear honestly, it's mind blowing. The old Padre caps with the yellow and brown are a prime example, but they're equal parts ugly and awesome. Same goes for the Toronto cap, the old White Sox cap (the one with the batter and SOX in bold letters; red, white and blue), the baby blue Phillies cap, the Brewers mitt cap...these are some really great additions to any cap collection and they're sure to get a few "wow, sick cap" comments if you're out in public.

Not to go totally off track here, but I just described a meal I made for Lauren and I up in NH last weekend to one of my co-workers. Here's how it went:

Me: "Yeah man, I made these really good turkey burgers up in NH."

Guy (his name is Guy...not just calling him "guy"): "I love turkey burgers. Little mayo, slice of tomato (kisses his fingers like an italian)."

Me: "Sounds great. But get this: I put a bunch of Frank's Red Hot in the meat, form up the patties and throw them on the grill. Just before they're done, I throw pepperoncini slices on top of the patties and cover those with a slice of jack cheese. The cheese melts, I take them off and place them on warm buns. I then add avocado and arugula and serve them with a side of ranch, per Lauren's suggestion. Fantastic. You'll love them, I promise."

Guy: "I bet. Wait dude, you realize how we sound right now, right? Listen to us. Most men would at least try to sound manly when describing a burger to another man, like, use a big slab of beef, huck that shit on the grill and sear it then serve it up bloody. We're like, yeah, I use an avocado and some spicy arugula. It's a delight."

Me: "Shut up, dude. I like arugula."

***to give credit where credit is due, those turkey burgers are the brainchild of Lauren and they really are incredible. Try them soon.***

Results

2008-06-25T09:31:00.003-05:00

The results from last night's beer and wing extravaganza are as follows:

25 BBQ wings, 25 Buffalo wings, 8 PBR's, 1 glass of Chardonnay and 1 order of fries. Total price: $21. As I stood up at the bar with my dad as he was about to pay the bill, neither of us could help but criticize our "third party" and her choice of a $6 glass of chardonnay. Subsequently, the fries were also her idea, but they were a strong effort so we let that one slide. But our bill would have been an impressive $13 had we gnashed as a pair and not a trio. Oh, that reminds me...

My mom had the quote of the century as we ate last night. First of all, my father invited his co-worker Steve (mentioned previously on this blog) and his fiance Brenda to partake in this immensely cheap meal option. Steve is a transplant from Albany, NY and he's a lifelong, die hard Yankee fan. He told us the touching story (I barfed silently as he recounted it) of his grandfather and how his favorite Yankee was Joe D. and that he was born a Yankee fan, etc, etc. Anyway, my mother turns to Steve and asks him the following question with a straight face: "How come you haven't converted to a Sox fan yet?" I scolded her immediately and then enjoyed the look of sheer contempt on Steve's face as he fought back the PBR that desperately wanted to spurt from his goatee-lined mouth in retort of the asinine comment.

Aside from that remark, the night was a rousing success. The wings were fantastic and blew away my expectations and the PBR was ice cold and endless. I had a rather unfounded appreciation for the Beverly Rotary Men's Softball team that monopolized the entire right portion of the bar, which included a dude whose jersey had a backwards #2 on it. No one else had a number as such so it was clearly a printing error. But he embraced it. Upon entering, he approached the team and announced himself by walking backwards into the group of players and exclaiming "make way for the backwards 2!" as he pointed at the number on his back. My guess is that this guy is either the funny guy on the team and he pulls this shit all the time or he's the guy everyone hates that CONSTANTLY calls himself "the backwards 2". He might say such things as "what would the backwards 2 do in this situation?", or "dude, that's not cool with the backwards 2". I'm going with the latter.

It kind of figures that I stumbled upon this deal of all deals just a scant few weeks before departing on my journey to end all journeys. On the other hand, I will probably be planting my ass on a bar stool at the Pickled Onion in Beverly every remaining Tuesday night that I'm in town until I embark, so I'm not sure my health conscience would be too keen on anything beyond that. The Onion is one of those throwback bars when you look at the clientele and the help. The bartenders are locals who treat everyone like a stepsister. It's cordial but don't expect anything for free. The clientele all smoke, and even though it's a smoke-free joint, the whole place smells like butts because there's always someone puffing on cigarette just outside the door. Here's how these "bar smokers" are identified:

1. The employee. If you can't determine the bartender on a butt break, look for the guy taking furious drags with vigor. He may or may not be in conversation, depending on what kind of night he's having. But if he's a townie bartender, he's probably out there selling nickel bags and texting high school girls, too.

2. The thinker. For some reason, there's always a guy outside the bar smoking alone. He's leaning against the wall with one leg resting on the wall, knee bent. He looks down at the curb most often and won't say anything. He smokes slow and long and exhales through his nose. If you approach him, he'll pick up the pace of his smoke and give terse answers until the butt is finished. He doesn't want to talk to you.

3. The pack of bar chicks. They wear low-cut shirts and smoke Marby Lights. They smoke in pairs or in threes, never more than three though. They take really short pulls on the butt and smoke it like they're kissing it. You know what I mean. None of them inhale and when one actually does by mistake, she puts the butt out and calls it gross. Then she goes inside and orders a Cape Codder (Coddah).

Yes, I used to be one of these smokers outside the bar, and I ultimately fell into either the thinker category or the unmentioned 'two averages dudes trying to look cool' category. It took me ten years to realize that smoking doesn't in fact make you cool, but you can't put a price on ten years of thinking you're cool. You just can't. I mean, have you ever sat down and thought about the things you've thought made you cool over the course of your life? For me, it's a pretty short list...I hope. We're talking about such things are Skidz, which topped my Christmas list in 1990 and 1991 along with IOU's. I went through a phase that lasted about 10 years during which I thought wearing my cap backwards made me cool. That phase went dormant in 1997 and has recently resurfaced, since I've rediscovered my hobby of collecting New Era fitted caps (my collection now consists of the following: LA Dodgers, Cleveland, Toronto throwback, Atlanta solid navy and Chicago Cubs solid royal). If you want to add to my collection, I'm a 7 1/8. I have always thought and still think plaid makes me look cool, but the one person who matters most to me thinks it makes me look like a retard. So I don't often venture into the world of plaid. And I'm sure Lauren's right about my retard status when wearing plaid. I mean, what's my rush to dress like an octogenarian? I also think suspenders are super cool. Retards for sale, getcha retards heeyah.

I've added a new link...it appears simply as '10'. It's another great blog that I highly recommend...I also respect anyone that closes out his blogs with the salutation "one love". Good things...good things.

Une Amour,

French

p.s.-recommended TV for this evening: Game 3 of the CWS, #8 Georgia v. unranked Fresno State. Truly enjoyable to watch these kids play, trust me.

Typical Tuesdee

2008-06-24T14:55:00.005-05:00

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Venue: The Pickled Onion, Rantoul St. Beverly, MA

Offerings: $1 16oz. PBR's and $.10 wings; the Sox on a projector a smattering of local Beverlians drunk of their asses...but not from PBR. Not the smartest local clientele you'll find.

Probably results: Pop and I will run up a tab of roughly $14 and I'll be up all night with terrible heartburn and unrelenting gas. My dad will be exiled to the couch so he doesn't keep my mother up with his infamous sleeping gas.

Actual results to follow in the AM.

Happy birthday Zander...not that you'll ever read this blog or know about it, but have a great day in NYC. Oh, to be 14 again...awkward, getting rides to the movies with my dad, calling girls and hanging up before I can get "hello" out of my mouth and experimenting with the newly found joys of masturbation. Hey wait, 14 years later I live with my parents again, my girlfriend lives across the country and...well...some things don't change I guess.

Will Somebody PLEASE....

2008-06-24T09:35:00.002-05:00

...help me answer these questions??

1. People I've consulted about my cross-country journey in late July seem to be eternally pessimistic about my goal of getting there in 72 hours or less. It's 3030.3 miles...if I drive 14-15 hours a day, this can be done. Can I get some bandwagon supporters in my camp here?

Preliminary checklist to minimize stops:

2 dozen hard-boiled eggs, a dozen granola bars (variety yet to be chosen...I'm open to suggestions), 6 peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches, 3 bags of generic caramel-flavored rice snacks and 24 bottles of water. This will all be contained in a cooler, so I will need to stop for ice several times.

2. Has anyone been watching Nashville Star? I confess that I caught an episode with my folks a couple weeks back and I have to say, this show produces the type of talent you might see at the local fair or at a middle school talent show. Garbage. A part of me feels bad saying this because these people are putting it out there to be judged, but really. Some of that shit is fucking horrendous. Looks like most of these candidates won't be able to give up their other gig at Waffle House for some time. But I wish them luck in finding something that actually plays to one of their talents as opposed to exploiting a weakness...ie signing.

3. ***this question is for anyone from or relating to Kansas*** What in the hell is Bill Self going to do next year? So long Chalmers, Arthur, Rush, Jackson and Kaun. What's in store, oh wise Hammen?

4. Anyone looking forward to this report about Amish adolescents headed into the real world for some booze, boobs and ballyhoo? Not sure when it's on, but next time this type of thing airs I'd like to see a special on home-schooled kids getting tossed into a city high school in South Central LA for a couple weeks. Yes, white home-schooled kids. Come on.

5. How about the loveable, huggable Don Imus outdoing himself? Pacman actually said he is going to pray for Imus...is there anyway Imus doesn't find himself looking down the barrel of a gun in the next 24 hours? I just don't see him being alive for much longer...but it would be sweet if they threw him into a maximum security prison for a night or two, just to see what happens. Of course, they'd put up posters of Imus all over the prison that read "This Man Is A Racist And He's Gonna Be Your Neighbor!" prior to the visit.

Celebrity Look-alike?

2008-06-12T08:49:00.004-05:00

I mean really, folks.

View From The Top

2008-06-11T08:43:00.006-05:00

Please enjoy the photography of Johnny Gilbert, shot from both on and atop Mt. Monadnock. Monadnock means 'the lone mountain'...thus, we climbed alone.

I call this one 'John's nose from the top'. Check out that beak, man. If you look closely, you can see a man pointing at the nose from far below.

French: friend of tree. I dedicate this one to Tito and Ilan who provided me with the inspiration for this one.

Here we have Johnny doing his best impression of Falcor from 'Neverending Story'.

I had no idea that this picture was taken but I love it. The asymmetrical sweat spots are a bit puzzling, though.

-FIN-

On The Mountain

2008-06-09T09:19:00.005-05:00

In light of the comments from the last blog and the general feeling about that post from readers that I actually converse with, I'd like to quash any illusions people might have about me actually acting out any of those scenarios. I have an imagination and most likely a very real fear of death; thus, I often fantasize about how I'm going to go. However, based on genetics I think mom pere is more than likely correct in predicting that I'll probably wear on and eventually be rendered a useless, brainless, toothless, witless, sightless old man in a hospital bed. My son will visit me daily and read box scores from the 2004 Sox season and he'll feed me small bites of peanut butter crunch blizzards from DQ. That is how I'd like to spend my last days.

Let's now shift gears and chat about how I spent my last few days.

I played in a golf tournament of sorts on Saturday and what I accomplished over the course of 18 holes is nothing short of blatantly obvious to anyone who has ever shared the links with me: I am, quite possibly, the worst golfer of all time with the exception of a one Nathan Collins. Nate swings a golf club like a monkey with a weedwacker. I, on the other hand, have been told that I have what appears to be a very functional golf swing. A guy I played with on Saturday commented that I seem to know what I'm doing right up until contact with the ball. Now I never had a problem keeping my eye on the baseball when I played regularly but I cannot, for the life of me, keep my fucking head down and my eyes on the ball. Out of 14 holes on which I used my driver, I hit precisely zero fairways. In fact, I cleared the ladies' tee box only twice, which lied about 15 yards in front of the men's tees. I suppose topping the ball every time instead of slicing it out of bounds and losing a stroke is preferable but I think I'd rather make some sort of solid contact. Given my short fuse when ultra frustrated, it's amazing to me that I didn't kill any or all of the dudes in my foursome on Saturday. I managed to keep a somewhat cool head and somehow...some way...I actually helped my team in the scramble. You see, when you play best ball, you need only be concerned about one man hitting a fairly decent shot. Thus, my putrid, deplorable, embarrassment of a golf game would ultimately be overlooked due to the talents of one guy I played with. But...but, but, but...on the 13th hole, which happened to be the longest hold on the course, I was faced with a 45-foot sidewinder of a putt that would have haunted Tiger. It was uphill on the front end, it sloped back down at the back end and the left-to-right break on the down roll was no less than four feet. I made the putt. It was so far beyond reasonable that I still don't think anyone who witnessed believes it went in the hole. But it did, and quite frankly I couldn't give two shits about the rest of the garbage that I churned out that day. One shot...one glorious shot...was fucking redemption.

So that was my Saturday. I walked away with nothing more than a sunburn and the memory of that putt. Onto Sunday.

Gilbert and I stepped outside the box a little bit on Sunday, per his suggestion. We ventured up to Southern NH to the base of Mount Monadnock for what would prove to be a very challenging and exhausting climb, albeit only 3200 vertical feet. I knew we might be in for a rough go if it when we chatted up the Ranger at the gate. Here's how it went:

Ranger: "That'll be $8 for the both of you this morning."

Me: "Oh, ok. I thought it was $6...here's another $2."

Ranger: "You boys know what trail you might be taking to the summit or do you need some suggestions?"

Gilbert: "Yeah, I have a map here. We're thinking of taking the Spellman Trail from the Cascade Link. You think that's a good climb?"

Ranger: "Sure. Just don't break a leg."

Me: (chuckling) "Ok...thanks..."

Ranger: "I'm serious. If you do, it's going to take a really long time for us to get to you."

And this is how we began our journey up the mountainside. We were fairly well-equipped with a couple gallons of water and sunscreen. However, we left the sunscreen in the car and proceeded to sweat off our initial layer about 20 minutes into the climb. So much for that. What was amazing to us was the amount of people who set out to climb this mountain on a 95° degree without more than a 20oz bottle of water. We ripped through our 2 gallons, and we were conserving so we wouldn't run out. And I'm not talking about young, fit people here. I'm talking about several elderly folks and many, many little kids. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that being physically active in oppressive, humid heat with the sun beating down on you will require constant hydration. But hey, really not my problem. Johnny and I had enough to get through the climb with moist pallets.

We ascended to the summit in 90 minutes and made it down in just under 60. The scene at the top was pretty funny. Johnny packed the equivalent of a middle school lunch and was forced to share it with me, since I brought no food. It consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, peanut butter crackers and an apple. I couldn't help but be reminded of those brown bag lunches mon pere used to pack for me back in the day. I have to say, I fucking love P&J's. There's something about that perfect harmony of the savory peanut butter and the sweet, fruity jelly between two slices of hearty bread. At the risk of sounding like the author of a series of corny, cheesy, fad-prone books, it warms the soul. Hey, P&J's For The French Soul. Look for it in paperback next Fall.

Overall, it was a great day. The views from the top of Monadnock span the Lakes Region of NH and you can see for hundreds of miles. My guess is that JG and I each burned somewhere in the vicinity of 2.000 calories over the course of the climb and the descent so it was an excellent workout. And the one time I stopped to take my pulse, I registered up around 145-150bpm.

So go climb a mountain with a buddy some time soon. In the meantime, stay cool and watch the Finals tonight. Prediction: Lakers by 15. They'll shoot 30 free throws, Kobe will go off for 45 and Perk will foul out well before the middle of the fourth quarter. The silver lining for the C's will be PP continuing to shine in LA.

Best,

The future LA. French. (not to be confused with the current la French, who could technically be referred to as L.A. la French as opposed to L.A. le French...I've now confused myself.)

Very Bad Things

2008-06-05T10:50:00.004-05:00

I have a problem. For some reason, my mind is constantly picturing worst-case scenarios depending on the particular situation I'm in. I'm talking about scenarios involving graphically gruesome and painful potential occurrences.

The most common of these instances (many of them are recurring) happens whenever I find myself waiting for a subway train. I imagine that when the train chugs on by wherever I am standing, I will somehow trip and fall forward and my right foot will fall between that tiny gap that is created by the train and the platform. It's big enough for a foot and several inches of leg. The outcome of this happenstance would certainly be a very painful dragging until the trains stops to load at that particular stop...I imagine my legs would break immediately and I would then incur scrapes and burns of the irreparable kind. I have such a vivid vision of this happening that I shiver and cringe each time I think about. I'm pretty sure that's the way I'm gonna go, when I go.

Here's another one that makes absolutely no sense, any way you look at it. I get a lot of grief for my ear cleaning method...I use a paper clip, both a straight end and a looped end, to both itch and dig out my ears. I've been doing it for years and I'm pretty sure I've blogged about it before. Anyway, every time I do it I have this thought that someone is going to run up behind me and attempt to drive the paper clip into deep into my ear, causing a total loss of hearing and a ruptured ear drum. I think that would also be associated with massive amounts of pain and suffering, especially when the paper clip is pulled out of the ear. I would have to imagine, however, that the ear would be super clean once it was pulled back out.

You know how dogs love to stick their heads out of windows? I often imagine myself doing the same thing, only to suffer a fate of having my head lopped off by a street sign that I happen not to see. The same goes for sticking my head out of a sun roof. Perhaps I'd be travelling into a tunnel only to be decapitated before I have time to sit back down. No, I am not accustomed to sticking my head out of windows or sun roofs of cars but I believe that if I did, this would be the outcome.

I happen to be extremely clumsy with knives. I once spent a night in Malibu with some very high quality (thus sharp as fuck) knives and some fresh produce...the result would be three separate deep cuts on my digits and an entire roll of paper towels soaked blood. I completed the dinner, however. Anyway, where I was going with this was that every time I'm using a sharp blade to julienne, chop, chiffonade, what have you, I imagine myself pinning myself up against the wall and slicing my own throat...something akin to Braveheart yet self-inflicted. For some reason, I have a morbid curiosity about that specific pain. The incision itself would suck, but the inability to breathe and the choking on the blood would be so terrible. So, so terrible. Cool as hell, but really fucking terrible.

I think I just wonder how it is that I'm gonna go. How many of the dead actually got to die in a really fucking terrible, gruesome manner? Severed limbs, decapitation, homicidal experimentation? It's a rhetorical question, but think of it this way: if I should die by way of having my body sliced in half (not sure how/why this would happen), everybody wins. Organs donated, open casket option totally cool still and I suffer for a very short amount of time...but hopefully, just hopefully...enough time to make a crack about being independent of my legs and feet.

Beer Association

2008-06-04T09:37:00.002-05:00

I believe that Bud Light was the first beer I ever put to my lips, on the swing set of Cove School in Beverly, MA with my two best friends. It was summer after sophomore year of high school and I have absolutely no idea where we got this six-pack, but I'm fairly certain it came from the basement fridge at 9 Ray...also known as Chez French...also known as Mon Pere's stash. On a side note here, if I were to replace the booze that I siphoned from the handles in my parents' liquor cabinet throughout high school and some of college, I think it would be absolutely appalling. It bears zero significance now, but it does warrant some sort of apology and thankfully this post will befall the eyes of the aforementioned bestower of booze...my father. Sorry Dad. In fairness though, you provided me with a sort of baptism of booze and beer and thus, I now enjoy the very same libations that you do. So when I stock your fridge this summer, it will be a joyous occasion for both father and son. Cheers to that, eh?

My love of PBR, aka 'the Ribbon', stems directly from my father. This was most recently manifested through my father's day gift of two years ago, which consisted of a sixer of PBR and a Mach3 razor delivered in a brown paper bag. Loose cans, mind you. Good stuff there. Anyway, I suppose I'll always associate PBR with my beer adolescence and thus my dad's beer fridge. I also associate with La and I's trips to Tamworth, NH and the family's cabin. You can get a sixer of PBR for $3 at the corner store. Perhaps one of my most fond memories since being alive is of hurling tennis balls to La and watching her pelt them all over the property up there in the country. By the way, having a girlfriend who also happens to be a professional hitter is a huge plus...but having a girlfriend who can go opposite on my hardest fastball is simply otherworldly and it makes my heart a-flutter.

Continuing along the lines of La, I developed my current affection for Stella directly from her. I had my first Stella with her, per her recommendation, and it was a match from then on. I'll also continue to associate Stella with Bowen's ritual of presenting Lauren with a 12 of Stella upon landing a new job. And the last time this happened, I was lucky enough to see him stroll into our pad with not one, but two 12's in tow. I hope you realize that you'll have to hop a plane to keep this ritual intact, my friend.

Coors Light is a beer that I hold a very specific association with. A few years ago this November, mon pere and I embarked on a journey to the sunshine state in his motorhome...destination Port St. Lucie and ultimately the RV park where the rig resides when it's winter in New England. One night we boarded bicycles and pedaled over to the Ruby Tuesday down there...I on my mom's and him on his. We happened upon happy hour at the Roob, which resulted in a deal of buy-one-get-one free Coors Lights in frosty mugs. I can't express how much a frosty mug can enhance a beer experience, and this time was no variation. We slurped frosties for a while then rode back to the rig on the bikes...nothing like a half-drunken ride on a girl's bike from the local Roob in a retirement community. Great stuff.

There are a select few beers that I've had just a few times if not only once...Molson XXX is one of those beers. I bought them for La and I up at the cabin one time and it didn't go over too well. But my first experience with these bad riders happened up in Montreal during my freshman year of college. The mentionables on this trip are myself and Ponch and the XXX up there was cheaper than a peep show in Manila. As I recall, my night took a turn for the worse when I decided to inhale a cheap cigar. Somewhere along the line I accepted a Burger King cheeseburger out of some random's pocket (it was wrapped, yes.) as well. Yikes.

I'm gonna stop there.

BeachBum's Annual Inspiration

2008-06-03T21:35:00.002-05:00

Well, maybe that should read BeachBum's First Annual Inspiration. It has been suggested that we let the creative juices flow and ring in the month of June with some volume of titillating bloggery, so this is my virginal attempt at such excretion of juice.

Here's something I've had in my head lately: I hope that the Marlins' Dan Uggla goes through a series of ups and downs this year; a series that is markedly polar in terms of great play and abhorrent play. When this ultimately happens I'd like to see a snippet of the details of these ups and downs on Sportscenter, and it shall be titled The Good, The Bad and The Uggla. Shortly thereafter, a snippet will be shown about the debacle of Yankee starter Joba Chamberlain moving into the rotation (1st start: 38 first inning pitches) and it will be titled A Joba Not Well Done.

It's no secret that I really, really like baseball. I'm going to detail the high points of having David Ortiz on the disabled list for at least a month now.

1. DHing Manny means a speedy, nearly impermeable defense behind the Sox starters. Even Manny said in jest yesterday that team will be more than ok with his "gold glove" relegated to the DH slot in the lineup. I will never tire of watching either Coco Crisp or Jake Ellsbury run down fly balls in the outfield.

2. We've now seen the depth of the Sox rotation and how talented that depth truly is. Papi's stint on the DL will allow us to see Masterson a whole lot more and I like watching that kid pitch. He seems smart, throws hard, has good stuff and doesn't rattle easily. Hell, he handled the (gulp) surging Rays tonight with a bend-but-don't-break performance indicative of a night where he probably wasn't at his best. But he did enough to win and that's really all I'm worried about. Think about the ages of that rotation...you have Lester, Buchholz, Matsuzaka and now Masterson all contributing consistently. It's very, very exciting.

2a. I just have to mention Tubby Colon in this segment because I suggested in the preseason that he would prove to be valuable to this rotation at some point in the season. He looks legitimately good and that means a LOT to that rotation. His fastball is chugging along at 95-96 and his splitter looks pretty nasty. Plus he's just so portly. You have to love that.

3. Overall, we are still seeing the fruits of the best farm system in the game this season, and the talent is deeper still. Jeff Bailey is a very patient hitter who will work counts and get on base, this Carter kid who they called up this morning was having a stellar year in Pawtucket, and I need not mention the continued success of Ellsbury and Pedroia. I think I undersold Ellsbury in my prediction of 50 stolen bases this year, too. He's a fucking menace on the bases.

I just believe that this team is built to withstand a lengthy loss such as this one with Ortiz. They are deep on offense, on defense and on the hill and it's more apparent than ever right now.

I think this is all the creative juice I can squeeze out tonight, Big John. I have to hand it to you, though. You are to blogging what Tom Clancy is to paperback writing in terms of my father and his hobbies. The blog world changes lives, I'm telling you. Just tonight, I drove around Beverly after a trip to CVS, listening to "A Very Schneweis Christmas/Holiday" and I couldn't help but think, man, this is a CD for all seasons...not just the holidays. Sorry Benny, I forgot the exact title but it's a nice catalog. I dig it the most.

A very happy 31st birthday the future Dr. Adam Ponchick, aka Ponch and known to the blog world for his paltry contribution "Right Buddy". It barely merits mention but given the fact that you've made it to 31, I'll humor you. Hope you had a nice one, pal.

Nice Doggie

2008-05-28T18:53:00.003-05:00

Has anyone actually ever heard someone say "nice doggie" in reality? Seems to me that this phrase's sole intended use is for the screen. For instance, if you should ever find yourself in a situation where a large, angry dog is shooting you menacing looks, your first reaction probably isn't going to be saying "nice doggie". I'd like to think that the first thoughts you might have are more along the lines of "fuck this, I'm out of here" or "good lord that's a big dog". Let's face it, if you say "nice doggie" there is absolutely nothing good that can come from that.

Keeping on the topic of large canines, I yearn for a big dog in my life. I can safely say that once I am in possession of such a being, I will feel like I have made something of myself. I guess I couple owning a pet and being successful in the same light...I see people, usually in pairs, walking dogs all the time and my obligatory mental reaction is to think to myself, "look at you, you've made something of yourself...you can own up to the responsibility of having a pet." I just want a fucking dog, is that really such a tall order? Apparently is will be for me until I am firmly implanted into a locale where green grass and ample space to roam are on the docket. Such a place will ultimately be known as Southern California...which reminds me, my self-declared summer anthem has officially become "Santa Monica" by Everclear. Oddly, the last time this song bore any meaning to me was 1996. Coincidentally but having nothing to do with the meaning that song had to me at the time, that was also the first year I visited the west coast.

Why do I want a big dog? Lots of reasons. For one, I have just always assumed that I would own a big dog someday. Quite possibly I may not, as La would much prefer a smaller breed such as the beagle. However my penchant has always tipped the scales towards the heavier breeds like the English Sheep Dog or the Saint Bernard. I've not yet decided if I would have my Saint Bernard wield a keg around its neck, but that certainly must be an option if I should ever possess such a beast.

I really just want to run through fields of green with a giant dog at my side, that's really all there is to it. Screw the guard dog line of thinking, that's why we keep baseball bats under out beds right? Yeah, I don't actually keep one in the house at all but surely some of you do. God forbid anyone breaks into my apartment over the next two nights, because that hypothetical fucker is going to get a healthy dose of tv remotes and various dirty articles of clothing tossed his way. Aha, theretofore...eat my shorts. And let it be noted that this is the first time I have ever quoted Bart Simpson...let's hope it's the last.

I have nothing against smaller breeds of pooches. Mon pere's little guys are great dogs, just ask him...I'm sensing a sentimental comment from you here, pop. And ode to Wilson and Beasley, perhaps? I digress...little dogs can be held, they can sit on your lap, they travel well and they generally live longer than their brethren of larger carriage. All pros, indeed. I guess there's just something inherently funnier about a big dog to me, potentially. You can dress him up in your clothes, for one. And any dog that can sit eye-level with the dinner table is bound to resort to some drooly antics when a morsel is merely inches from his snout. Dogs and the stealing of human food is pure entertainment, is it not? I guess one could argue that it doesn't take a big dog to steal food, get caught, be scolded and inevitably have a massive bowel movement in the living room when no one is looking. But a huge dog is much more likely to make a hilariously big turd on said living room floor. I suppose I'm admitting, in a way, that the size of the dog's shit is directly proportional to the level of amusement that hound can provide. Also being admitted here: it's 2:30am and I have no idea what I'm saying anymore.

A few quick hellos here...Lisa, hope this long overdue entry finds you well and optimistic about life and love. Perhaps a beer is in order sometime before the end of July. Bowen, same goes for you...and I'm now putting the ball back in your court after your last quip about me writing a post again. Hello and thank you to the Goldstein clan of Pacific Palisades, CA. For the last week or so, I sat on your couches, cooked your eggs, ate your food, drove your cars and pureed your tomatoes. You guys are awesome and I can't wait to do it again real soon. Take care of my baby until I can do it again full time.

I Ain't Die Yet

2008-05-16T12:46:00.003-05:00

The much anticipated return of Le French is coming...

Schne, I fully intend on waxing on about big dogs and shit, so keep those peepers peeled. Everyone else, just back up for a second. We all know that life takes twists and turns and on occasion you find yourself in an emotional chasm of depression and self-loathing. It's the good ones that find a way out of that chasm and finally find themselves squinting at the blinding light of the sun...which will imminently burn you because it's a hot sun and that's what it tends to do...right baby?

I shall return...

...And We're Back

2008-04-18T10:44:00.002-05:00

You know, just because I posted the lyrics to 'Hurt' doesn't mean I'm suicidal. It certainly could but I'm not. I'm thinking I still have quite a bit to live for, so let's just knock off those thoughts of despair and remorse. At least for now...for now. I've always had a flair for the dramatic.

I've recently realized that is T S Eliot had been reversely named S T Eliot, his name backwards would read 'toilets'. Too bad, really. Thomas Stearns could easily have been Samuel Thomas, or some shit. I wish my name backwards spelled 'toilets'.

When did Pepperidge Farm start making Goldfish with an eye and a smiley face? Where have I been? Goldfish, by the way? Maybe the number one snack of all time...oh, there we go! Finally, some fucking positive inspiration for a blog. This blog is dedicated to all those teachers who told me I'd never amount to nothin'. And all the brothers in the struggle.

Although I've only had them once, Dunkaroos are awesome. Any snack that involves cookies and a separate tray of frosting to dip the aforementioned cookies in is tops in my book. You don't just eat, you dunk-a-roo.

I have to go, but I will revisit the snack issue. Some ponderables for later posts as well, or a look into the French future if you will:

Manny's swing and the effects on my heart

500 HR

The perfect beer

Homeless people

Enormous dogs

Hurt

2008-04-17T09:00:00.002-05:00

I hurt myself today

To see if I still feel

I focus on the pain

The only thing that's real

The needle tears a hold

The old familiar sting

Try to kill it all away

But I remember everything

What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns

Upon my liar's chair

Full of broken thoughts

I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time

The feelings disappear

You are someone else

I am still right here

What have I become

My ssweetest friend

Everyone I know goes away

In the end

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt

I will let you down

I will make you hurt

If I could start again

A million miles away

I would keep myself

I would find a way

Strange Bedfellows

2008-04-08T09:59:00.002-05:00

As I laid in the California King-sized bed of a Sox player last night, watching 'Go Diego Go' with his 3 year-old step son, I couldn't help but wonder...how soon can I get in front of a computer so I can write about this in my next blog entry?

Yeah, it was totally weird and amazing at the same time but I made it through. In case anyone was wondering the sheets are white, the spread is white and there's some light green accents. But it's pretty simple in terms of color...and ONLY color.

Here are a few things that I learned last night during the last several hours of La's workday, during which I was able to hang out and play with a 3 year-old:

1. No matter how big the tv, if you can't work the remote/cable it's a fucking moot point.

2. Fool-proof way to feel like a kid again: spin around with your arms out for 30 seconds, as fast as you can, and then run until you fall down. Try not to barf.

3. No matter if you have xBox 360, PS3 and Wii, if you can't work the remote it's a fucking moot point.

4. The universal color for money according to a 3 year old is geen, not green. Also, grass is geen as is everything green. Geen, not green.

5. After spending most of our time in a giant room filled with toys (like similar to the movie 'Big'), it occurred to me that my attention span within a room such as this is less than that of a 3 year-old. I couldn't get to the next toy fast enough.

5a. And after all that toy stuff, my favorite toy remains the nerf basketball hoop. There's nothing as fun as seeing how many different things you can throw into the hoop from all angles.

That's a pretty good synopsis of my night yesterday. Since we couldn't get the game systems working, it wasn't possible for us to play Rock Band together. But that's in our future, for sure.

A few odds 'n' ends that popped into my head yesterday:

If Julio Lugo can keep up his error pace, he'll end the season with 96 errors. Whatever, he's a clubhouse guy, right? I hate him. Can't we just plug Jed Lowrie in there and hope for the best? I mean, what could really go that wrong by doing that? Richie predicted that Youk's errorless streak would end on a low throw from Lugo and I couldn't agree more. I'd like to predict that Lugo will be run down by a 2005 Saturn Ion over the next couple days...he won't be harmed per se, but he will be hypnotized and made to think he's a Yankee. That oughta do it.

I know that pretty much all of you are entrenched in baseball and the C's now, but let's not forget about the classic original 6 matchup between the B's and the Habs. The last time this matchup occurred, the tables were flipped...Les Canadiens were the 8 seed and the Thornton B's were the 1. Do I need to remind you how that series turned out? 2 words: Saku Koivu.

Opening Day at Fenway today. Three cheers for the harbinger of Spring...the REAL harbinger of spring. The robin can kiss my ass.

L'Assessment Premiere

2008-04-05T11:26:00.003-05:00

I have to start this post by giving out my first throwback accolades of the season to the Jays for their polyester performance last night. Shades of powder blue, dark blue and white, thoughts of Dave Steib and Pat Borders and the most ridiculously forgotten part of the new Jay uniforms, the Jay himself. They seriously need to bring those hats back because they're probably the greatest hat of all time next to the Garvey era Padre caps.

Ok, enough ogling. Hammen asked and he shall receive because, and I'll be totally honest here, I am a giver. Not a taker, like some bloggers I read. You're right though, Jimmy boy. I've been hankering to write a Sox assessment but I wanted to wait until the season was at least a few games in so there could be things to complain about. Sure enough...

At 3-2, the bright spots are Daisuke and Youk. As far as I'm concerned everyone else has been totally mediocre and yet to get into the flow of the season. I can't blame any of them because after all, the boys were on a fantastically absurd road trip to start the season (and still are). But Dice has looked pretty sharp early on and Youk has pretty much picked up where he left off...rock solid in pretty much all phases of the game. Other than that, the offense has been sluggish and pretty sparse while the bullpen has looked both great and horrendous at different times.

I've got to interject here, as I just got back from a mid-blog evacuation during which I read a Men's Health snippit involving my most favorite Sock, Jake Ellsbury. Apparently his encore to the groundbreaking breakthrough he made last year is to break the MLB record for the strength test that scouts use to rate talent. It's a mix of jumping, shuffling, running and throwing medicine balls and his scores are fucking legit. I just love his work ethic, drive and everything about his approach to playing in the majors. He says that he doesn't want to just be great, he wants to be relied upon by his teammates. That's something pretty mature to say for a 24 year-old with minimal MLB experience, isn't it? I think so. But these are just more reasons why Sox fans abounding are salivating over the thought of having Jacoby roaming around center for the next several years. He's the man.

Early predictions, a la Francaise:

1. JD Drew will surpass his homerun total from 2007 by June 15th. Yeah, I know. That's not exactly an achievement, but it's something. As long as he can stay OFF THE DL...he should be swinging sweetly all season.

2. Bartolo Colon will prove to be more valuable to this rotation that anyone could have ever predicted. I don't know why, but I just feel like having him in the 5th slot when that time comes will be huge. A productive Colon will mean a whole hell of a lot to that 'pen.

3. Jacoby will steal 50 bases...playing in less than 100 games. How much is he going to play? I really don't know yet, do you? Coco is serviceable but I really hope his timetable is short. I gotta believe that Tito is dying to implant Ellsbury permanently in center and just platoon Coco when needed to blow Manny or Drew.

I think that's about all I'm going to say for now. It seems to be shaping up that the AL East could be a three team race for much of the year, if the Jays can keep it together. The pitching, as always, will be the key. I don't know what to expect from the Yankees, but all indications early on point to them just not having the pieces to contend for the Division. But they are the Yankees, and that usually supercedes all else.

My Final Four picks were UNC, KU, Memphis and UConn, so I'm pretty much out of contention in my pool. I've got Memphis winning it all but mathematically I can only finish as high as 2nd. Good luck to all those who still have a chance to bring it home.

French Knows Best

2008-04-02T11:18:00.002-05:00

The comment section recently has been an interesting place for the faithful to discuss my well being and such. As someone who prefers to make most of his own decisions in terms of what he does on a daily basis, I feel the need to address some of those comments. note: I say 'most' decisions because there are decisions that are joint decisions which I make with La and for the most part, I like her to have her way with stuff. Again, French knows best after all.

Hey Bowen, I actually think your idea about getting together on lonely weekends whilst my girl is out cavorting with the Wives Club is a sensational idea and I will add that maybe my Pop can actually join us sometime. I mean, he's a faithful Daily Diversions reader and French reader so the company of the three might make for some interesting conversation. Although I fear that should a conversation revolving around religion arise, things could get a bit dicey...quickly.

Let's put this out there: I have zero tolerance for alcohol anymore. For the most part, I'm as good as comatose after three or four drinks and from that point on it's moot for me to continue to consume alcohol unless I just really, really want the caloric intake on a given night. As Lauren puts it, I get that look in my eye suggesting that I'm not all there. That being said, Bowen, I can either practice for our impending afternoon binges or I can just put you in charge of my care as we consume PBR's. Or Stellas. Mind you, I liken that to taking care of an 90 year-old man with an intense knee problem. And he's drunk. And he has Alzheimers. And he doesn't speak nor see well.

I realize that my lack of tolerance may not be too appealing to many people out there, namely my girlfriend, any guy that might want to hit the town and have a few pops, my father, etc. But I still love beer, so let's not go getting all crazy here and suggest that I give up beer. I really doubt that mon pere was suggesting this at all, but he is right in advocating my new lifestyle which has made me my current fit French self. And I actually went to a bar last night with La and didn't consume any alcohol...just water. Granted I had just come from another hot yoga session and the thought of alcohol after that is sickening. So JB, we're on. You tell me when you want to share a case and a sure-to-be-forgotten conversation. You have yourself a date.

Umass v. Ohio State, NIT Championship.

7pm this evening.

Go.

Go U.

Go Umass.

Go - U - Mass.

I'd also like to throw a congratulations out there to our boy Youk, who set the Major League record for consecutive games without an error at first base. Meanwhile, he's tearing it up offensively as well. I don't know how encouraging the first few games of the season should be but I like what I see out of several players so far. Lester looked mint last night. You know what, it's 4 games. I'll save it.

Out Like a Smaller, Less Aggressive Lion

2008-03-31T12:42:00.002-05:00

March came in like a fairly aggressive lion with a small chip on his shoulder and it's leaving us as a lesser version of its former self. Or if you'd prefer, it's going out like a pretty bad ass lamb. You know, a lamb on a chopper with black, dread locked wool, shades and a butt hanging out of his mouth. My point is that the weather is still a heaping spoonful of shit and I've had enough.

First off, let me apologize for the abomination of a blog that drunk French posted this weekend. Truthfully, I had to go back in and edit some of the garbage that I put in there originally. I can't for the life of me remember what prompted me to alert the faithful that I love salt. I mean I do...I really love it. Hey Bowen, kudos to you for pointing out that I sounded a bit rattled in that last post. You've got a keen sense on you, pal.

Onto other things...I've got a serious problem with the Outback Steakhouse jingle. "Let's Go Outback Tonight" is the jam I'm referring to. Not "Let's Go TO Outback Tonight". Or "TO THE" Outback. The jingle suggests that we should all go out back tonight and that life will still be here tomorrow. I don't see how they can make that claim though, considering the fact that if the average patron consumes part of a Bloomin' Onion, a good portion of those who "Go Outback Tonight" might indeed develop a serious heart condition. Check it out: 2310 calories and 134g of fat in that bitch. And that's before you chow down on a Caesar salad, jackaroo chips, a bonzer Ribeye and probably several Oil Cans worth of Foster's. Outback: Australian for coronary.

The funny thing about the Outback is how hard they try to be Aussie. No, I'm not a French Aussie but I was friendly with a group of Aussie exchanges during my senior year at UMass and they had never heard of this place. I told them about it and of the ridiculous sayings they used on the menu and obviously they demanded that we go there. And we did. And I've never seen people laugh as hard as they did when they got a load of Outback Steakhouse. Apparently the word 'bonzer' isn't really used. They also found it quite amusing that the walls were well adorned with boomerangs. It's funny how over-the-top a place like the Outback can really be, but at the same, how ridiculous it all appears to be to an actual Australian. Now, any Mexicans out there that would care to accompany me to On The Border to detect authenticity?

Five For Blogging

2008-03-28T21:21:00.003-05:00

It's not too late...it's never too late.

There's some shit to discuss, friends. Aside from the fact that this represents five entries in five days, this also represents some pretty big doins in the lives of Le and La French. As follows:

La got her wish. She is now the nanny/Personal Assistant of a certain local sports figure's wife and she gets to leave her current job of several dudes' bitch. She's pumped, I'm pumped but I'm a little bummed about the fact that she gets to ride back on the team plane following road trips this season. Also, no divulging the date of the start of said season.

In a way, I got my wish too.

...oh god yes, Tyus Edney commercial. So sick. I know we all remember that shit. And I just realized that Davidson beat the Badgers. Awesome, awesome, awesome. Stephen Curry, friends. Listen, Nate and I used to rain threes with Dell Curry in NBA Live so it's only fitting that the man's son makes all this noise from a mid-major in the ultimate clutch time pertaining to college basketball. Keep it up.

I love salt.

Peanut Gallery

2008-03-27T15:51:00.001-05:00

The peanut gallery that I also know as the comment section of the blog has had a particular suggestive presence as of late. Don't get me wrong, it's a real joy to login and find such pleasantries as "seek help", or something along the lines of "double check that you have a dick". But it's all in the spirit of keeping the blog world a place where one can be literally free...verbally voluptuous and totally ignorant of feelings and opinions. I have an obsession with urinals. There, you happy now DK? They're a little piece of inventive genius with just so many little nuances from one piss guard to the next. And how each man approaches each visit to the urinal deserves a Harvard PHD's dissertation. Just my opinion.

Frankly, I'm only writing a blog today because of Hammen's comment from yesterday's post. Hey, when a fellow blogger speaks, I listen...especially when that blogger owns and enjoys plaid shorts. (more on this later...plaid should be incorporated in the pro sport unis)

Just once I'd like to hear Dan Rather (well, the former anchor Dan Rather) sign off from CBS News as such:

"Thanks for watching. This is Dan Rather, CBS News. Peace."

Rather had that little whistle lisp, much like Herbert in Family Guy. I always wanted to hear him give a outro that involved the word "peace" and he never did. But it would have been a real treat, I can assure you of that.

I did 'hot yoga' this past Tuesday night. For those of you unfamiliar with this, it involves typical yoga positions only you're in a room where the heat blows to maintain a comfortable 108 degrees F. I survived. 90 minutes of something that could be on par with any form of Central Intelligence torture...and it gave me just about all I could handle. I've done double sessions in full football pads...in 100% humidity and 95 degree heat. This was worse. My heart rate stayed at roughly 170 bpm and I produced enough sweat to drown a small Somalian village...filled with thirsty Somalians. Hot yoga is a nightmare and I don't know if I'll ever do it again. But know this: once you walk out of that studio and into the brisk winter air, you feel totally out of body. And you're hair freezes because it's soaked with sweat.

Enjoy tomorrow, friends. It's Friday. It's almost April. Warm weather is a sniff away here in New England, and the Sox are back from the Land of the Rising Sun (and the land of glorious sushi). It's getting there...we're getting there. Happier moods are imminent and they will manifest themselves within a month.

I'd like to give a shout out to my love, who is awaiting something pretty, pretty big right now. It's going to be ok, baby. Good things lie ahead.

Peace.

And I'm Spent

2008-03-26T17:12:00.003-05:00

Three blogs in three days is bordering on insanity for me at this point. In fact, I think I'm still at work for the sole purpose of banging out a blog entry. To tell you the truth, I had some good stuff running through le brain last night but it's gone. Poof. Just like that. But I got some interesting emails today about the fucking crazy comeback that UMass made against Syracuse yesterday in the NIT (No one's Interested Tournament? No good? Took me a while to come up with that one). Down 14 with under 8 to play and they pulled it out. Go. Go U. Go Umass. Go U - Mass. Alums will appreciate that cheer, as will mon pere.

Today I was in the urinal at work and I noticed that guy a few urinals over was in an interesting pose. I'm wondering if any men out there have seen the likes of 'the croucher' at the urinal. He stood there, knees bent, head nearly in the urinal itself, seemingly having a battle with the stream of his urine. I know, you're thinking that I probably had myself too long of a look to be mentioned in the hetero crowd anymore, but I was a bit taken aback by his stance and his gritty disposition. I mean, he was really fighting it, and his stance was one that suggested that his life depended on this evacuation. If I can analogize this scenario, picture a guy bending down with his head forward. He's got a beer in his hand that he just can't get the cap off of and he's really, really thirsty. That was this guy at the urinal. Has anyone been this guy before? God knows we've all taken a painful piss before, but this was something extraordinary.

Last Friday I bought a can of Tab soda. I didn't buy it because I wanted to drink it; rather, I bought it because it was Tab. Who sells Tab??? I'll tell you who. The Middle Eastern market on the corner of Broad and State St. in Boston. If you should venture in there and attempt to purchase a Tab, be sure to exclaim "I can't fucking BELIEVE this shit...TAB!" as you hand the cashier your money.

I gotta get out of here.

Could It Be?

2008-03-25T14:50:00.002-05:00

I mean, is this an illusion? Am I really seeing a second blog in two days from French? These questions may or may not being fleeting through your mind at this time. But more than likely, you're rolling your eyes and silently accusing me of being presumptuous. Well played, well played.

As I was mentally thumbing through BeachBum's Daily Diversion this afternoon, I felt suddenly inadequate as my eyes glanced over to the right sidebar of this blog where you can see previous posts and the total for 2008: 52 posts. I have to say, he rarely posts a mail-in, or a gimme, if you will. There's always substance and some heartly, good, old-fashioned witty rhetoric in there for the blogging buddy's consumption. John, I applaud you and your seemingly expansive curiousity compartment of the brain. You're a cool cat. Did anyone get that? No? Ok. Eat shit then. Just not chicken because of this: http://www.goveg.com/factoryFarming_chickens.asp

I'm piggybacking onto the second part of BeachBum's blog because it warrants a second mention. I feel informed as of yesterday, thanks to my loving and concerned girlfriend, and I feel as though you should be informed, too. So, read the shit. Knowledge is power, remember? 'Tis also a burden at times.

I was asked about March Madness the other day and to be honest, I'm just as in tuned with the current brackets in the NIT. Even though Umass once again took a steaming shit on their season during the A-10 Tournament this year, they are still the #2 seed in the NIT and they have a rematch with 'Cuse (the #1 seed) that could be very entertaining. Umass won round one...

I think I gotta can this post for today since I'm losing control of what's happening at this point. You know the cliche "when it rains..."? Well it rained on my desk, then the equivalent of a silo full of water was dumped over my head in the last 10 minutes. I love it when that happens because it's awesome.

Someone do me a favor and crack open a can of Moxie please. Enjoy its bitter, unusually terrible flavor and think of me as you wonder why someone invented this vile soda.

Cheers.

Lies...ALL LIES!

2008-03-24T14:18:00.002-05:00

I lied. I promised I would make a more concerted effort to be faithful to the French Faithful in this month of March and I have failed miserably. I continue to write partial blogs that never amount to anything more than a brief peep of chit chat and then suddenly my brain goes "oh fuck...my bad...totally forgot what I was going to say..." I got no other excuse. But in the span of two days, I've received comments from my brother Mike and Dunny about the lack of posting lately. And when Krechmer tells me it's been a while since I've blogged, I know that I have to get back on le horse and bang out a post...no matter how much it drags on and on and on about schtuff. Gimme a schtickle of fluoride.

I love/hate March. I hate it because it's the purgatory that exists between Winter and Spring and it can never make up its about which way it's leaning. This morning it was bone-chillingly cold yet this afternoon, it's a pleasant 45° and being outside kind of makes me feel like being alive again. What I love about it is this lack of belief that exists in those who spend a good portion of their commute outdoors.

The way I see it, there are three different kinds of people out there in the purgatory:

1) Winterlings

These people, no matter what the forecast or the temperature when they walk out the door in the morning, bundle up like it's Christmas in the North Pole and they don't let it go until about May. And I can't blame them because 50% of the time, mother nature rears back and pukes up a giant storm in the middle of fucking April, debilitating the city for a few days. The Winterlings will happily sweat like Frank Purdue at a PETA convention until it's beyond every fathomable doubt that it's Spring.

2) 'Tweeners

These indecisive hopefuls can't decide from one morning to the next what the hell season it is, so they kind of do a little of both in terms of dressing. For instance, I might see this one dude in the morning with flip flops and wool hat, or a woman in a mini skirt sans leggings but a massive wool scarf all but cutting off her circulation. They're caught in this purgatory like none other and you can almost feel their morning struggles in front of the closet based on their outfits. Listen, just go one way or the other. Trust me. And remember, you can always shed layers...but you can't add once you're out that door.

3) Springlings

I envy these people as they continually display the hope of Spring and Summer on their morning walk to work. Light jackets, pastels, iced drinks...you name it, they're supporting warm weather regardless of how nippy it might be on a given day. But this is one of those conditions that exists only in New England, where most people yearn so deeply for the warmer months that they start to go a little loopy and thus, dress like idiots.

There, I actually managed to get something fairly complete into a blog. It only took me two weeks.

What Color Is Your Parachute?

2008-03-07T11:07:00.002-05:00

Better question: what gauge is the rope you use to strangle people? I gotta tell you, I've had some really vivid imagery lately...in terms of how I might go about maiming a few of the people that I work with. It's just that my mind has been working overtime today and I've had several urges to go postal.

One thing that I fantasize about often is taking a colleague of mine from the back of his head and proceed to pound his face against the keyboard on his desk, as I watch the screen type "bgyukyuk" over and over with each impacting thrust. I imagine doing this four or five times, real quick-like, then putting him back in place in his swivel chair. I turn back towards my cube and fix my cuffs and say "Now, can a guy get a fucking cup of coffee around here?"

Another one I have is less violent and involves another individual that irks me on a daily basis...usually more than once in a day. I go over to his cubicle area when he's on the phone with a client and pick up his monitor very deliberately and then wind up throw it as hard as I can into the adjacent wall. I look at him after this and say "Next time, it's your motherboard, motherf*cker."

My office anger goes far beyond the usual PC Load Letter anger. I don't care to deliver a body blow to the printer in the copy room, nor do I wish to jab my right fist clear through the slim monitor I am currently watching as I type.

How To Kick A Habit In 10 Days

2008-03-04T09:22:00.002-05:00

It has been brought to my attention that one of my scant few readers would like to know how to stop biting his fingernails. I've decided that he's got a great suggestion and that I should indeed dedicate a blog to it. If I'm going to keep any sort of regularity with this thing, suggestions are definitely welcome in the comment section. Also, feel free to tell me to shut the fuck up at any point in time.

How To Stop Biting Your Nails in 10 Days

Day One

Before you leave the house in the morning, halve one jalapeno pepper. Proceed to dig out the seeds with your fingers, ensuring that each of your fingers touches seed. Take heed when urinating or touching any part of your body, for that matter...for the rest of the day. I can assure you that the first time you raise a fingernail to that stinky gullet you call a mouth, you're going to regret it. This should be something you will need to repeat over the course of the ten day period because while it's effective, it does need to be repeated in order to sustain effectiveness.

Day Two

Get yourself out there and find a nice girl who cares enough about your hygiene to slap your hands or yell at you each time she catches you nibbling on your fingers like some sore of rodent. If she's good at this, she'll make you feel downright abhorrent about your little habit, and eventually you'll feel so shitty about yourself when you're doing that you'll be more likely to not do it. Now, if you're lucky enough to find a young lady that is so good at this that merely a glance in your direction is enough to get you to stop the bullshit, be thankful. I've been lucky enough, but unfortunately my self-control in the nail-biting department is ever-wavering. But my fingers used to resemble bloody stumps and now they're at least respectable. I just need to quit gnawing on my thumbs.

Day Three

You should start to notice some progress in the length of your nails by now. This is a defining time of the process because habitual nail biters look at nail growth as a dynamite opportunity to bite those guys off and chew the shit out of them. AVOID THIS AT ALL COST. Go dig out a jalapeno if you have to, but don't bite. I know, you really want to chew that shit but you must not. Show some willpower, already.

Day Four

I'm confident that if you can get to day four without much of a setback, you're in the clear...for now. You'll have some good growth, maybe even enough to leave the house and shake a hand or two without being totally embarrassed. You may even experience a little bit of pride and satisfaction because you have actually withstood the test of time and grown fingernails. Be proud, bro. It's an achievement.

Day Five

Ok, enough with the fingernail saga. If it takes you ten fucking days to grow nails, you should probably just give up because you're a giant failure and always will be. Get on with your life and always remember what a jackass you look like when you're sitting there nibbling on your fingers like you used to.

Marches On

2008-03-03T14:30:00.002-05:00

2008 hasn't exactly been the year of consistent bloggery for me. I haven't lost the inspiration but I have sort of lost my closeability. I liken myself to Bronson Arroyo in a Red Sox uniform...a guy who couls start off strong and appear like he could take it home, only to lose all momentum and come to a fizzling end halfway through his outing. I've been writing a lot of partial blogs and I never get back to finishing them...they are now in blog purgatory with access only to my eyes and Lauren's eyes. Sorry, but one of the only perks of living with me is getting to read my half assed, half done blogs. The other perks are negotiable in terms of actually being perks.

I'm going to ramble now.

I stumbled upon a new urinal phenomenom at the Oceanaire in Boston...ice in the urinal. It makes peeing both competitive as well as satisfysing. Go ahead and fill up a urinal with ice and see how many cubes you can melt down. if you have crushed ice, do the same but watch pockets of ice turn yellow. It's insanity!

If I tell you there's a man out there who can eat four donuts in a day, will you laugh at me? If I tell you that this same man will eat one of said donuts in the morning, be it a coconut donut, and then eat the coconut shavings off of his sweater later in the day as a snack, will you say 'boloney'? If I tell you there's a man out there who has managed to outfit himself in garb solely from the shelves and bins of Costco, will you call my bluff? Well my friends, I've now told you of the one and only Neal Goldstein...a man who never met a donut he didn't like. Keep your eyes peeled for a man about 6'2 with a jelly stain on his multi-colored sweater.

You know what's really scary? When you're walking the streets of Manhattan at night and a strange man barks at your girlfriend at point blank range. Like this: "Roof, roof ROOF." It's fucking scary, man. My question is, was he implying that she's a dog? Because that's just a crock of shit and if you've met her you'd agree. Perhaps he was implying that he wanted to hump her leg.

I think that's about all for today, but I am vowing that March will be a productive month for in terms of bloggery. I shall blog like I have in the past and I shall write of all things great and small. Future posts are sure to reflect upon the following topics: Cassell to the C's, the Sox, fingernails, urinals, some big event, jibberish.

Is That a New Colon You're Wearing?

2008-02-24T19:25:00.003-05:00

I don't know if the minor-league deal the Sox offered to veteran fatboy Bartolo Colon is a good thing, but I think I'm pretty excited about it. Two seasons removed from the Cy Young Award, the consummate tub of lard may not be his former bad self, but he is still really overweight and there's something to be said for that.

Manny Ramirez and Colon should make quite a pair in the dugout, being old friends and long-time jokesters. But I'm wary of Manny incorporating Colon's iffy eating habits...a fat Manny is a slower, less fast Manny...a more lethargic, less energetic Manny...a less productive, more unproductive Manny. That would be bad...very, very bad.

Hot Balls

2008-02-15T09:11:00.002-05:00

I figured something out last night. Ever wondered what it's like to have the kind of STD that burns your ball sac?

I made a favorite meal of Lauren's last night, in celebration of Valentine's Day. Included in this raw tuna salad is one chopped jalapeno pepper, seeded. I seeded the damn pepper with my bare fingers, chopped the shit, and put it in the salad. I then mixed up the rest of the dish, set it in the fridge to marinate, and proceeded to the lavatory to pee.

No sooner than when I was shaking out the last drops did I realize what I had done. Bare balls are NO PLACE for jalapeno hands. I started to feel the burn and immediately I dampened a towel and patted myself down, desperately trying to remove the hot seed residue from the base of my shaft and balls. It was an act of futility. The next half hour of my life was some of the worst elapsed time that I ever hope to encounter. Being that it was Valentine's Day and all, I had planned on grabbing some wine before I served dinner...so I had to deal with this shit at the liquor store. At one point, the woman behind the counter asked me if I needed anything and I was ok. I nodded as I grimaced in pain and tried ever so desperately not to scream "my fucking balls are on FIRE!!!!"

Misery. Absolute misery. I also liken the experience to having fire ants in your pants. I haven't had this pleasantry thusfar in my life, but I have had those fuckers between my toes before. Same deal as the jalapeno. In fact, it's almost as if a fire ant is simply a regular old ant that lives, eats and breathes inside a jalapeno.

At least it's Friday. But I came to another realization this morning, pertaining to men's room etiquette/usage/expectations. Let me begin by stating that I will no longer venture into the men's room here before 11am on a Friday morning.

In corporate Boston, particularly in the whole recruiting/headhunting circle, there exists a particularly social fabric within every organization. Here at Hollister it's no different, as plenty of men and women venture out to the bars on a regular basis. Much like college, Thursday night is THE night to go out and libate oneself until the point of vertigo. What does this mean for the men's room on a Friday morning? It means that you can be pretty damn certain that you'll encounter max occupancy at any time between 8am and 11am as the social crowd of men proceed to engage in their weekly rectal exodus. And make no mistake about it, they're not in there for any other reason than to feel the literal burn from the Budweiser they consumed the night before. And the eventual 2am sausage they inhaled before retiring to some bed/couch/floor. Whatever, it's fine. My aggrevation with the whole situation is little price to pay for the satisfaction of knowing that these drunks are going to have trouble sitting down for the next three hours or so.

Please, enjoy your long weekend. Not only is it a celebration of Presidents, but it's also the best time of the year to buy a car. Once again, I'll close with a suggestion for Gilbert:

Dude, buy that expression of masculinity that you call a truck. Enough deliberating. Give me a call if you want to chop some wood later. Or maybe if you want to shoot some stuff.

Malibooyeah

2008-02-13T13:17:00.006-05:00

I really struggled with the name of this blog, and in the process of trying to come up with something catchy, I'm pretty sure I lost a bunch of the material that was fresh in my head yesterday. But I've got to push on...push through the cobwebs that resulted from our usual redeye back to Boston. Anyone else have trouble sleeping on planes? I suck at it, and this latest endeavor offered no revelation as to how to effectively sleep on a plane. La and I had a whole row to ourselves, so we both kind of sprawled out and tried to snooze. She encountered great success while I spent the better part of the flight swallowing and yawning, trying to pop my fucking ears.

1. My two new friends as a result of this trip. That's Danny on the left and Jackie on the right. Wait, no it's not! I'm kidding! No dude named Danny would be sporting such an impressive set of...sunglasses as the ones J is wielding here. Nice work, J. Looking good. Notice the Pink Taco sign behind us. I think it's pretty awesome how Danny's head is perfectly in place of the 'O' on the sign. We didn't even mean to do that, either. I know, it's crazy shit. Crrrrazy, man.

2. I'm trying to start a new drink name at Starbucks as a result of the trip/meeting the aforementioned Danny (no boobs). It's called the Pischke, and it's the equivalent of a Double Black Eye at Starbucks...I am accustomed to ordering a regular Black Eye, which is a coffee with two shots of Espresso. During one of many Coffee Bean experiences in LA this last time, I allowed Danny to order my drink for me, whatever he was having. Yeah, well...that happened to be four shots of espresso over ice..sans sugar, cream, etc. For all you cokeheads out there, this is a much cheaper alternative to an eight ball. Anyway, go order a venti Pischke at your local Starbucks and when they inevitable deny its existence, tell them you ordered one in LA and then describe what it is. I'm willing to bet you can convince the Barista on duty to write it on his or her chalkboard. Before long, the Pischke will be a national obsession. The drink, Danny. The drink. You're a ways off from being a national obsession, but if you play your cards right, you'll soon be a blog phenomenon.

3. I am an average eighth grade student. I did an assignment for La's youngest brother Zander while we were there, and it took me a few hours. I had to write an outline for an essay about Manifest Destiny and westward movement...this included shit like the Alamo, the Gadsden Purchase, etc. After a lot of hard work and reading, she gave me/him a sideways but nearly right-side up Tigger stamp.

The tigger stamp is the grading method of one teacher out in the Malibu school system. Her name will remain anonymous to Zander's protection. If you receive a right-side up TIgger, it means you got an A. So my slightly sideways Tigger is like a B/B+. These kids are eighth graders, dude. Not second graders. Tigger?

I usually leave Malibu scratching my head, because I can't beat this new teen in HORSE or Madden on Wii, or NBA Live, or Guitar Hero. But now I can't even compete on the scholastic level, either. Time for me to do some serious soul searching, methinks.

4. I realized that I'm not going to be a very good father in terms of watching my son(s) play sports. I attended a youth basketball game while we were out there and I gotta tell you, I've never been so heated at a youth event. But it has lead to understand that there are several defined roles for youths in terms of basketball:

The Ballhog: my inspiration for this character is a real douchebag in my opinion. This is the kid who never, EVER passes, hoists up NBA threes that nearly touch the rafters, charges on every play, travels twice per play and takes layups that go careening off the backboard with such violence that dent a sedan. I hate this kid...the Ballhog. I found myself very irritated by this kid at the game, muttering things like "oh, is this kid serious with that shit" and "pass the fucking ball, you asshole". These kids are 13. I have problems.

Chubbo: Chubbo could very well have been me at the age of maybe 10 or 11. Chubbo can't run up and down the court, his defense consists of grabbing the jersey and hooking his opponent so he can't get away and tripping and his offense is nothing more than the occasional layup on a fastbreak as a result of his chubby ass not getting back on defense. Chubbo is a complete liability on the court, but dinner at his house after the game is nothing short of a celebration of deliciousness and grease. Put up with his shit on the court and you're setting yourself up for a mighty nice meal afterwards. This is the kid whose parents own stock in Little Debbie. For real.

The Last Pick: I like this kid. He recently moved to the area from someplace like India or China and he's never seen a basketball before. He has speed beyond any comprehension and the heart of a lion but his basketball aptitude is below that of junebug. Honestly, passing him the ball is about as smart as shooting at the other team's basket. He's the kid who might make one shot all season and when he makes that shot, the coach actually runs on the court and hugs him. Also, only his dad comes to the games and he sits in the back corner of the gym. He'll not say much, and he leaves the gym with his head down. He doesn't understand the game either, but his son cries about all the other parents being there for their kids. So he goes. And he's miserable.

The Star: Every team has one of these kids. He shoots the lights out, is maybe 100 times better than everyone else on his team and the other kids know it. Other kids will pass him the ball regardless of the situation, even when he's covered by everyone on the other team. I can't understand the level of play of the Star, because he will have perfect form, a smooth crossover and crazy handle. Yet, 9 times out of 10, he'll hit puberty and lose all coordination. Nate, if you're reading this, you know what I'm talking about.

I miss the days when trophies are all the same size so no one feels better than anyone else, and the team party offers a box of cupcakes with the first letter of the team name on them...and they give out the Sportsmanship Award. I always won that award, probably because I worked really hard but didn't quite have the skills to be rewarded as the MVP or the leading scorer. I suppose that still holds true for me, in a sad, sad way. Why can't I dribble a basketball? WHY??

I've put a few parting photos below here for your viewing pleasure. In closing, I love hot tubs.

And I hate HORSE...below is a shot of me and Zander trying to retrieve the ball in the bushes following one of my atrcious shots. Terrible.

Hey Gilbert, buy the fucking truck. Do it.

La Cynique

2008-02-06T14:23:00.000-05:00

I have three partial blogs sitting in the pipeline...all very recent but not soon to be published. You see, they just wouldn't make any sense at this point because when I started to write them was when they were pertinent. For instance, I began to write about some folks who have already failed in terms of their New Year's Resolutions...excerpt:

Plaxico Burress failed in his attempt to refrain from saying dumb shit in 2008. Give him credit, though. He lasted until nearly the last day of January. If only the Giants hadn't accidentally won the NFC Championship...he wouldn't have made this list. Sorry, Plax. I don't have a problem with you predicting a Giant victory, but were at the first meeting of the two teams this year? Did you happen to miss the fact that 73 points were scored in that game? 23-17 is a stupid prediction. Boy, I hope I don't eat those words. Go team!

Yeah. I know. I even mentioned hoping that I don't eat the words and here I sit, chewing on my own shit. That was quite a prediction, indeed. I didn't intend on waxing on about XLII, though. It's really not necessary.

My intention when I started this lovely piece of penned ponderings was to indicate my thoughts on an ever increasing inner cynicism that I have found lately. Not a displeasure per se, just a general cynicism towards things that I encounter on a daily basis. For instance, La and I have spoken recently about certain individuals who feel the urge to speak nearly entirely in cliches. The more I think about this one, the more I realize how much of a true pet peeve this is. Have people become so unoriginal that they can't even form their own thoughts and therefore, words? Or is it merely a sign of commercialization? Maybe some people are just stupid and can't truly think for themselves; therefore, cliches are counted on to act as responses more often than original thought. A few of my least favorites:

"Sounds like a plan..."

Circumstantially, a person will utter this cliche when some kind of plan, whether well-formulated or scatterbrained, has been laid out suggestively or matter-of-factly. I have to imagine that in most cases, such a plan is known to be a plan, or known to come off as sounding like a plan. Therefore, why is it necessary to say "sounds like a plan"? It is/was a plan! Hey, jabroni, if it "sounds like a plan", that's probably because it was a plan indeed. But thanks for pointing out the blatantly obvious there, pal.

"That's funny..."

Ok, maybe not a cliche in the way that we all know a cliche to be, but it's become a cliche for "that's not funny at all". I hear people say this all the time, yet they're not laughing. In fact, there's not even a semblance of a smile. If it's clearly not funny to you, why say "that's funny"? If it was funny, wouldn't you be laughing? Yes! You would! Instead, just say "that's not funny at all", or "that's dumb". On the flip side of that, if it's funny, do everyone a favor and let out a chuckle or something. Saying "that's funny" is worse than the fake laugh, because at least the fake laugh takes some sort of effort and it shows that you're at least trying to make someone feel good.

Maybe I'll stop there, because I could go on and on and on, and it's kind of getting on my nerves just simply thinking about it.

I got to thinking about umbrella etiquette this morning, as I trudged through puddles on my 1/2 mile walk to the office. I have to begin by saying that walking any distance in the city of Boston with an umbrella is a fucking futile effort. (my co-worker just said "that's funny" to something not funny at all...French is getting upset) It's so windy in this city...I've already busted two umbrellas, neither of which were mine. Anyway, there are some very different variations on the umbrella hold...I witnessed several of them this morning.

1. The Mary Poppins

Generally resevered for a woman in a poofy sun dress in the middle of summer, as she twirls away in an effort to be fashionable or something. The umbrella will sit on the shoulder with the hood of the umbrella angled upwards, almost giving the face a backdrop. I saw a middle-aged dude doing the Mary Poppins this morning. Awful.

2. The Invisible Man

For some reason, people think that their umbrella makes them invisible when it's covering their field of vision except for what's directly in front of their feet. They don't know what's in front of them, nor do they care. These people are generally a menace to pedestrian traffic and they should be hauled off to an area that faces a firing squad. Watch where you're going, asshole.

3. The Wet Willy

I feel really sorry for this guy, chiefly because I have been this guy several times and it sucks. Badly. This guy's umbrella is about as useful as a mesh cap, yet it's far more ridiculous. You'll see a guy struggling with what would appear to be a piece of synthetic material with a few metal sticks in it...there's no semblance of an umbrella whatsoever. Yet, the Wet Willy carrier shows no signs of giving up. As wet as he is and as frustrating as his umbrella is, he's driven to win. He laughs in the face of the driving wind and rain, at the expense of his once dry socks and pants, and his once crisp and unwrinkled poplin. This same guy can be seen making love to the hand dryer in the bathroom, trying desperately to regain his original form. I am him, he is me.

I'm calling it a day here. I'm off to LA in the AM and I'm not looking back. Bring on the 70° weather.

State of the TV Union

2008-01-29T10:54:00.001-05:00

My post from yesterday regarding current cable tv shows has stirred a few interesting arguments from the likes of Mon Pere and BeachBum...I'm sure there's more to follow from the western contingent as well.

I do agree with BeachBum in terms of there being some very intelligent and thought-provoking programs that have come to air over the last several years. I was a very loyal watcher of Alias and I can say the same about Lost...JJ Abrams does good work. But the culmination of my frustration with television lies in that new reality show on FOX where contestants are basically paid to tell the truth. "The Moment of Truth" is a fucking joke. I watched a very small portion of one of the episodes and as far as discomfort is concerned, this show can certainly be put ahead of the rest of the pack of reality tv. I squirmed for the contestant, his wife and his friends that were in his contingent on stage.

This show is absolutely outrageous, but the creator is a genius because the show must have an immense draw from the average American viewer that thrives on watching other people struggle with morals and values as they try to win a million dollars. Forget knowledge and intelligence as a means to wealth, why not pay people that can be brutally honest at the risk of ruining every other institution in that person's life? Sounds like a sure shot for the American public. With questions about thoughts of infidelity, impurity, dishonesty in the workplace, mischievous behavior socially; there are enough oohs and ahhs from the audience to make a porno producer foam at the mouth.

I guess most reality tv hinges up on the embarrassment of its contestants to be the main attraction. '5th Grader', 'Idol', "Biggest Loser', etc. They're all the same. Sure, the contestants know what they're in for when they sign up to be on the show. And again, the creators are smart enough to know what the money makers are nowadays. But I don't have to like it. The best reality television is on the Discovery Channel, the Food Network and the Learning Channel because at least you can walk away from them with a sense of having gained something from the material. At the risk of sounding hokey and domesticated, my television viewing has been relegated to Food Network and sports.

Look, A Wagon Wheel.

2008-01-28T14:42:00.000-05:00

The recent talk of Salute Your Shorts in the comment section of the last post has lead to a few realizations. One, TV sucks. It used to be so much better, and I really miss some of the shows that I grew up with. Two, I loved that Time for Timer commercial...hankering for a hunk of cheese. I'm pretty sure Family Guy spoofed that commercial in an episode, which was unreal. Here's a brief list of shows I'd love to see back on tv. I mean, if Nick at Nite is going to play reruns of Who's the Boss, why can't they broaden those parameters to a few shows that were actually worth watching? Granted, when Alyssa Milano eventually sprouted on that show, it was nearly worth watching. Ahh yes, fond memories of being a pre-pubescent boy.

1. Danger Mouse.

Come on now. Characters names Pinfold, Baron Von Greenback...this is the single greatest cartoon of all time...well, maybe it's a tie between DM and Ren and Stimpy.

2. Ren and Stimpy

Who can forget Ren's beloved ice cream bar? Our supplies are dangerously low...fortunately, we had to eat what was left of the ship. The reason why your boyfriend doesn't love is...is probably because you're too styoopid. Sure, I'm randomly quoting episodes but who cares. What about Powdered Toast Man? Good Lord.

3. Salute Your Shorts

'Nuff said in the comments for the previous post. Donkey Lips had the greatest lisp of all time.
Plus his name was Donkey Lips. Amazing.

4. You Can't Do That On Television

Blue skies, Barfy Burgers, GIRLS...hey, it's where Alanis got her start. Little did she know that having slime dumped on her would be the highlight of her career.

5. Yo! MTV Raps

May this show rest in peace. Where's Flav?

Gym Dandy? Not Always.

2008-01-23T10:32:00.000-05:00

Fridays are always good days, no matter where I am, where I have to be or what I need to do. The gym is a wonderful place on Fridays because most of the regulars at my gym choose not to work out on these days. What does this mean for me? For one, I don't have to sift through a sea of hairy, chubby asses and dangling phalluses in the locker room when I need to shower and get dressed in a timely manner.

I usually don't mind waiting for a treadmill or for any given weight contraption to open up on the gym floor because there's never a lack of options to replace the occupied option. But the locker room is a different beast; it's often times a beast that I don't like to tangle with, for an amalgam of reasons. Thus...

1. Close quarters in the locker room are not for the faint of heart. You've got to be adherent to several rules, regardless of the situation, time of day, what have you. I don't break these rules, and most of them are akin to the Urinal Etiquette Regulations (see prior posts for a refresher).

1a. Eyes forward, up or down. No one appreciates a wandering eye in the locker room. Here's what happens when a dude is caught peering outside of his world: rumors start to surface about his sexuality, no matter what. Perhaps he was looking for an open space to blow dry his jumblies, who knows. But he's now attracted to men. It's just how it goes.

1b. Conversation must be kept to a minimum in there. Beyond the usual "excuse me", or "my bad, dude", keep your mouth shut and just do your business. I've noticed that every time two guys are having a conversation, it's just a little weird. Ever seen that Entourage where Eric is in the locker room with Josh Weinstein and Weinstein asks him, "Not a locker room guy?" Waht exactly is a "locker room guy"? A dude who likes to be in the presence of several sausages? I don't want to be lumped into this category...don't know about you. Which leads me to the next point...

1c. Everyone who showers in the locker room needs to be nude at some point, preferably either in the shower or directly in front of your locker. Why then, do some guys feel like the need to walk around sans towel when it's just not necessary? I do this at home sometimes, but it's MY HOME. And I can't recall a time when I changed next to another dude. There's only one person I'll change in front of happily. On the other end of this, I don't subscribe the theory of showering in a bathing suit at the gym. I think that's taking it a little too far, but homophobes are as they are. I can't blame them, I guess. But a part of me feels like these dudes are the same ones who wear a t-shirt in the pool.

1d. The lockers are close together and the room is usually packed at 8am. It is not necessary to spread your towel on the floor, covering the area of several lockers. There are spacial regulations...in front of your locker, spanning the width of the locker. I don't want your stinky socks near my feet, nor do I want to feel the residual spray from your Gold Bond powder as you pat your balls down. I can appreciate the cooling, soothing feeling of Gold Bond as much as the next guy, yes. But keep it to yourself.

1e. If you go for a steam before you shower, leaving your shit in one of the showers is not indicative of you 'saving' that shower. You can't save a shower, nor can you save a sink. I mean, really. Is this summer camp? We're not at Camp Anawanna, Donkey Lips (name the TV Show...please, someone get this reference). If you leave your shit in the shower to claim it, expect to see that shit on the floor in a pool of piss and lungies. (not mine...that's just what gathers on the locker room floor from time to time)

I just feel like I pay too much money to have to deal with some of the locker room antics that go on daily at the gym. On another note, any reason why the towels they provide are the size of hand towels? And they're about as thick as a paper towel, which is just silly. I have to use three different towels to dry my balls, for pete's sake. What can I say, I'm a little OCD about them being totally and utterly dry.

You'll notice I now have a new logo for the blog, thanks to my brother Mike. He sent me this pic last Friday...apparently he was making a sandwich and as he applied le moutarde, he thought it would be an appropriate logo. I concur.

Deep Thoughts

2008-01-22T17:07:00.001-05:00

Leo the Lion, seen here at the National Zoo in Washington DC this afternoon, was in a reflective state upon hearing about the death of Heath Ledger earlier today. The two briefly worked together in 1997 on the FOX television show Roar. Shown in the photo with a bone, the lion would not comment on whether or not he and Ledger had ever shared a bone together; it is supposed that Ledger's death was drug-related.

Gilbert for President

2008-01-16T11:22:00.000-05:00

When I've seen the err in my ways (blogs), I've tried to make amends and thus, I am going to attempt this again.

A-hem...let me clear my throat, first...ok.

I would like to present a formal apology to my dear friend JG/Gilbert/Johnny Boy, whom I wrongfully accused of leaving a senseless, brainless, dickless comment on the post "Mirepoix". I believe I went as far as to offer that he hang himself, which may or may not have been over the line for just about anyone. John, please avoid the gallows going forward. I see no reason why you should cease to exist.

You see folks, John is cut from a cloth of genuine, fine fabric that is rich in moral fiber...abundant in ethical material. Only those without a pair of testicles might leave a belittling, anonymous comment on a blog (aside from family members/close friends who have good reason). I assure you, Mr. Gilbert possesses a healthy pair of nuts. Go ahead, make fun. I only know this because he has spawned two (and counting) healthy children, with help from Nina of course. Also, the locker room at Winter, Wyman and Companies is a tight squeeze. This also happens to be the reason why I know that there are a few ethnic individuals over at 950 Winter that are simply horrible at hygiene. Perhaps ESL courses can start to include a piece on hygiene, or how to effectively wash oneself. Look, I don't care that other cultures are unique and have grossly different views/ways of life/beliefs/what have you. I'm open-minded, liberal, etc. I just don't tolerate stink in terms of humans. Unless you're just not financially able to wash, you have no excuse. Get in the shower or bath and scrub. WITH SOAP.

Alright, Johnny. Is that enough? Have I undone this indignification of yore? You're my idol, ok? I strive to be like you.

One person I do not strive to be like: Igor Olshansky. I wouldn't be surprised if he left the recent anonymous comment on the blog, because this man does not have a brain. He'll get his on Sunday. All I'm sayin.

My new love is the handicap bathroom at 75 State St, 9th floor. Nevermind the high seat, the obstacle-free TP holders or the fact that there's always reading material in there (you can always find TMQ in there on a Tuesday morning...simply a great piece of toilet reading since it's always loquacious and inane). There's a machine in there that dispenses a) napkins, and b) tampons. Figure that one out. I figure that this caters to two sets: the bathroom eater, whom I've discussed before; and distressed girl that totally spazzed on coming to work with a fully-stocked purse. That reminds me, purse? Is that ok? What about pocketbook?

Mirepoix

2008-01-14T14:38:00.000-05:00

You're about to get the carrots, celery and green onions in the following soup-esque blog. It'll have some basic ingredients but in the end, they'll all come together to form some sort of cohesive entry that may or may leave a good taste in your mouth; depending on who you are and what you be.

Today is as follows: It's a veritable snow globe out there. Ipso facto, I feel as though I'm trapped in a snow globe as some douche bag little kid continually shakes the thing vigorously. But I'm not dizzy...as I might be if I was in fact inside a shaken snow globe. Today's Nor'easter didn't hit at the right time for me. Had it been a little shittier when I left the gym this morning, I may have been able to justify a snow day. However, there just wasn't enough on the ground for that to be ok. Nonetheless, plenty of people from my office didn't show up, claiming they'd 'work from home'. I love this. Granted, I can probably be found guilty of the same things but so far today, those who 'worked from home' have replaced 'work' with 'watched soap operas and ate junk food', as well as 'played with self' and 'picked nose'. Working from home in terms of snow days is a farce. Just call in and be honest. I mean, for one thing, you won't be deemed a big liar by your peers when we eventually find out that you're not working at all. You'll more than likely be revered for saying you'll be doing absolutely nothing all day and that we shouldn't bother to contact you.

Has it been a while since my last post? I know its been a fairly significant amount of time since I've written when my father emails me that it's time to post something. I have realized that most of my blog posts consist of several ideas that never really warranted an entry of their own; thus, they become part of a mirepoix.

I've just devised a foolproof plan to make money. Hatch, a guy I work with, stopped over and said he is seriously thinking about making a t-shirt that shows a pickle inside a circle with a line through it...he hates pickles, and thinks he could sell a t-shirt stating this same feeling and people would buy it. I love pickles, so I offered to him that if I made a t-shirt that said "I love pickles", it would be more profitable. So maybe we can make both and ensure that there would be a market for at least one of the t-shirts. I am of the school of thought that more people love pickles than hate them. What say you? Might I point out that both Lauren and I drank the juice from a container of cornichons this weekend....and it wasn't my idea. Thus, we invented the cornichontini, which is a dirty martini with the juice from cornichons instead of olives.

Another product of this weekend/conversations with Lauren was the collective realization the blessing someone after a sneeze is just ridiculous. I was reluctant to post this part because I recently found out that Dane Cook has a bit on this very thing...but fuck it. I'm not a big Dane Cook fan anyway. So apparently Lauren has always kind of had an issue with blessing people following a sneeze and after talking about it yesterday, I have to agree. And the way I see it, should we therefore be offering some sort of pardon or blessing after a fart? A cough? A burp? On one hand, I think the world would probably be a better place if a fart were a socially forgivable offense, like a sneeze is. I know I'd be a lot happier...I wouldn't constantly have to hold in my gas and take the occasional trip to the men's room, just to pass the built-up gas. I gotta say, most dudes in the men's room don't feel good about the guy who comes in, farts and leaves.

If you don't want to read about football, skip this paragraph. Let me start off by saying that the playoffs were shaped up to feature the 4 best QB's in the league in the championship games: Brady v. Manning II and Romo v. Favre. (I only say 'II' for Brady-Manning because of the AFC title game last season) I was pulling for those matchups and I was let down. I hate the Giants, especially Eli Manning. He doesn't belong in the NFC championship game...I'm not even sure he belongs as a starter on any team in this league. Sure, I haven't seen him play all that much, but I really don't like him and that's enough, in my opinion. Romo played well, but not well enough...especially for the investment that was made in him by the Cowboys. As I've said from the very beginning, this guy is NOT what most people say he is. He's a serviceable quarterback, but he's not a superstar and he's not the 3rd best QB in the league. He's got some serious talent around him and the Cowboys should have handled the Giants. I can't see him taking that team to the pinnacle of pro football. I just can't. That being said, Tom Brady. I'm not going to toot the Pats horn here, but I feel it necessary to mention Brady. Again. His performance on Saturday was (insert adjective synonymous with tremendous here). There, I've created my first mad lib.

That's all I've got today.

This Much I Know

2008-01-03T10:49:00.000-05:00

This Celtics team is as easy to love as the 2004 Red Sox...at least for me. The way Garnett involves the crowd, feeds off of the Garden's energy...the way Paul Pierce looks like he's back at Inglewood High...the way Scot Pollard generates a standing ovation for playing his ass of against Yao in some very rare but important minutes...the list goes on.

In a town with so much animosity waved in its direction on a daily basis from a professional sports standpoint, the C's are the saving grace in Boston. They're a brotherhood of high character, hard working guys that care about each other and winning games. And they love Doc. And they respect the tradition of Celtic green and what's up in the rafters at the Garden. It's a beautiful thing.

Mixed Bag

2008-01-02T10:14:00.001-05:00

In terms of a rating for the new year thus far, I've got to go with something in the vicinity of 7.7. Sure, I like the number 7. In fact, it's my favorite. But that rating should be higher, methinks. However, a few things have happened over the last 34 hours that have lowered it from its original score of 10. You see, at the stroke of midnight on January 1, 2008, it was a perfect year.

Yesterday got off to a good enough start, I guess. Lauren and I were in bed a little before midnight, but awake enough to realize the new year as it chimed in. We arose from our sleep pallet upon her hunch that fireworks might be visible out the back windows on the other side of the apartment. She was right, so we enjoyed a 10-minute display of decent light explosions as we rang in the newest year. It was a good way to start things off.

The night went off without a hitch as far as sleep in concerned. I slept well enough and awoke hungry. I then proceeded to make an admittedly phenomenal breakfast: an egg scramble with garlic, rosemary, mushrooms, onions, spinach and cheddar cheese. I served this up with points of toasted pita and sliced avocado. The only bad part was the sinewy avocado, which I struggled to understand. It was ripe, but refrigerated overnight. I'm guessing the temperature changed the texture a little. Score at this point of the morning: 9.6...the avocado brought it down that much because I love avocados and sometimes there's just nothing more disappointing than a bad one.

Somewhere over the course of breakfast or just after, it was brought to my attention that there was a marathon of 'America's Next Top Model'* that day. Score at that point: 8.3. I can stand this show, yes. And I did, no complaining to speak of. Truth be told, it was either that or one of several mediocre bowl games that were on yesterday. I know what you're thinking here, but I really had no interest in any of the games that were on yesterday other than Michigan/Florida. I missed this one and to be honest, I have no idea what time it was even on. What I can tell you is that lupus is a disease that attacks the immune system and it's a chronic illness. I can also tell you that Italian male models will provoke American female models to libate themselves too much and ultimately be unfaithful to their boyfriends. So disappointing.

We watched a few episodes before deciding to shuffle off to Target and eventually a few grocery stores to collect some dinner materials. Much to our delight, Target had what we were looking for: Rummikub and clothes hangers. And Rummikub and the hangers combined cost us a whopping $11.28 (we also bought paper towels, but those aside, that's a sweet deal for a dope board game and 13 quality hangers). Score after learning the cost of the items: 9.1. As I paid for this stuff, Lauren went off to get us a coffee at Starbucks. Score after learning that the coffee was about as tasty as cod liver oil: 8.1. Look, I was really looking forward to that cup of coffee and it sucked. SUCKED.

Continuing onto Stop & Shop, we searched for a new brand of tea that might please our pallets. We found a few, but over the course of looking for them Lauren decided she would make a special dinner of sea bass and spinach with a goat cheese and roasted garlic appetizer. So we put the tea back and left for home so we could retrieve the recipe for the sea bass and spinach. Then it was onto Whole Foods Market to get the ingredients. Score as we arrived at Whole Foods: standing pat at 8.1.

We found everything we needed at the market and more, and a very helpful produce lady made us up a fresh sac of basil for very cheap. I was pleased. We spent ample time choosing a dessert and searching for all the items we were there to buy, but it was fun. I find food shopping to be one of the more soothing things to do, as well as satisfying (most of the time...if I can't find anything I came for, I get really fucking stressed out for no good reason and fall into a bad mood) and this was no exception. Plus, the quality of most things at Whole Foods is top notch. That reminds me, 'top notch' is a modifier that I plan to incorporate into my vocabulary this year. I find it to be quite underused, but at the same time, it's a great way to describe something great. "Hey babe? This stew is fucking top notch. TOP NOTCH." Saying it twice in a row and really stressing it that second time is key to its effectiveness. Digression. Score upon leaving the market: 9.4.

On the way home, we stopped at a local liquor store to pick up some wine to have with dinner. I've been going to this liquor store near our apartment for a long time and I've never noticed their wine selection until last night. Incredible, and I got a $30 bottle of Merlot for $13.95. Score: 9.9. Nothing like getting a sweet deal.

The rest of the night was very good. Lauren's meal was fantastic and dessert was also very good. Reality began to return to the evening as I fell back into routine mode. I ironed my shirt for today and made lunches and that was pretty much it for the rest of the night. Score upon climbing into bed: 8.8. Normalcy brought the score down a bit. Then I couldn't sleep at all, tossed and turned all night, felt like shit as the night wore on and then this at 6:00am: I am rousted by the sound of someone yacking outside of our apartment, right in the parking lot. I open the blind a bit to see a younger man with a backpack on (on of those string-strapped Red Sox backpacks 'Ramirez' and the number 24 on the back, like a jersey. And he's pulling the trigger to induce the vomiting. At 6:00 in the morning. In our parking lot. I've seen some strange things in my life, but this one was right up there with the strangest. But it definitely woke me up for good (granted out of a very light sleep), which made me wonder if there's an alarm clock out there that plays the sounds of someone barfing. Score at this point: 7.7.

So there you have it. I'd like to close by wishing my dad a very happy 66th birthday today, as he bathes in the Florida sun. Hope it's a 10 for you, Pop. Enjoy.

*In no way did Lauren make me watch this show. I willingly agreed to watch it and I didn't express any displeasure with it at all yesterday.

L'Annee en Review

2007-12-31T09:51:00.000-05:00

I've taken some time to reflect on 2007 and I'm realizing that my mother was actually right this time. She told me about a year ago that 2007 would be MY year, for whatever reason. I'm not exactly sure what 'my year' meant, but I can say with absolute certainty that this was the best year I've had in probably 10 years.

Looking back 10 years, I was in high school and living out those days with little to no responsibility, playing sports constantly and I was in really good shape. Then I went to college, became kind of fat, borderline alcoholic, prone to smoking weed on a regular basis and a host of other things that probably don't deserve any mention. But who's counting? Isn't this essentially what college is for? As an 18 year-old kid who had lived a fairly sheltered life up until college, it wasn't exactly difficult for me to go catapulting into that black hole of mischief and malaise. Alas, here I sit at 28 and I'm back at the weight I was in high school. This only bears mention because at the start of 2007 I weighed in at a chunky 197lbs. This morning I was 167. That's right bitch, 167 pounds and I'm proud of it. I turned a new leaf in 2007, and it was a giant fucking leaf.

I don't know why, exactly, that I waited as long as I did to try and regain some form of fitness and health. Oh wait, yes I do. Because implementing an entirely new and challenging way of life into my routine is akin to passing a stone (or so I would imagine). No matter now, because it's done. I think Christmas was most indicative of my current state of being, as was manifested in some of the gifts I received: health-conscious cookbooks and a gift certificate to a running store that ultimately paid for my new running shoes. Really good stuff there, and elsewhere in the presents, too...but those are representative of the new me, I guess.

Enough about my metamorphosis, because I'm sure you're all just tickled pink that I've found this new path. I'm done talking about that for the year. I'll move onto the year in sports, but I'll keep it nice and terse for all of you non-sports fans. Besides, I'm sure there will be a much more in depth analysis of the year in sports on Hammen's blog over the next week or so. (no pressure, bud...but get it done) I can turn to Christmas gifts as a fair representation of 2007 in Boston sports once again. As a way to bring my father back down to earth from his Red Sox & Patriots euphoric utopia, my oldest brother Chris presented him with a pin from the 1986 Super Bowl and a blown up photo of Buckner and the infamous ground ball off the bat of Mookie Wilson in 1986. What a year that was, indeed. I thought these were the most creative gifts of the holiday season, especially coming from Chris. He's not what you might call a "sports fan"; at least not in the traditional sense. But he know exactly what might conjure up past turmoil in the eyes and heart of our father. That being said, I don't think my dad gives a shit anymore. I already know that the highlight of his current vacation in Florida occurred on the 4th day of the trip, when he was able to watch the Pursuit of Perfection in his motorhome...something that was previously thought impossible due to the NFL Network. I'll say this about 2007 for Boston sports fans: I might not deserve this success, nor may thousands and thousands of other fans in this area and nation-wide who are currently living the proverbial dream as a result of said success. But for the older generations, such as that of my father and other baby boomers...they deserve this. They went through far more than I have in terms of disappointment and misery. (hang in there, Cubs fans. It'll happen.)

The past year brought some certain high points for me in the travel category. When all is said and done for 2007, my feet will have stepped foot in the following states: MA, CT, NY, NH, ME, VT, OH, IN, CA, NV and PR. PR is technically the 52nd state...Guam being the 51st. That's not too bad, especially considering I went to Cali three times over the course of the year. PR was the best trip by far, though. It was my 28th birthday gift from Lauren along with a few other things and it was the best birthday present to date. Thanks baby.

2007 was a momentous year for this blog, too. Hell, I made and kept plans with some dude from North Dakota that I know as a result of our blogs. Because of that, I have corresponded with some fine, young men who make their homes in various parts of our country. I gotta say that those friends are much more manageable than local friends of any variety because there's never any pressure to see or contact them. Cheers, boys. And Ben, I'm waiting for the re-ship on the Very Schneweis Holiday 2007. And to the rest of you blogworld inhabitants...Bowen, Ponch, DVJS, D-Lo, Alex, Hambone, Lovetron, Tallman from ND...Happy New Year. Here's hoping we all continue to litter the virtual literary world with non-sensical babble for another year.

To the various and sundry category, I've got new outlooks on so many new things because of 2007. I now pay close attention to every urinal I piss in; I have a great, new appreciation for breasts and breast cancer (you know who you are, Ms "feel this and tell Lauren what it's like"); I've now been to 2 Sox Playoff games and both were walk-off Sox wins; I've successfully orchestrated a charity event and attended two other fancy ones; I've learned to be ok with the love of my life loving another man (even if he is 4 years old); I've greatly expanded my horizons in terms of sushi that I am willing to eat; I've parted ways with red meat and pork and also my jiggly gut and puffy thighs; I don't smoke anything anymore; I know a good amount more about wine, albeit only red wine and it's really not that much at all...just a lot more than before this year...that might be it.

I think I'm ready for 2008, as I prepare to enter my final year of being in my twenties. Man, now I'm not so sure that I'm ready for 2008. That prospect alone is a shitty one at best.

Some goals for 2008:

Go to France, trim down to a lean 160 by the summer, be able to bench 200lbs at least 5 times, make 100k and one more thing that I don't feel like mentioning on here because it's not necessary. If I can do all these things in 2008, it will surpass 2007 as the best year of my life.

Good luck to you all on your resolutions and remember: make enough of them so that even if you only accomplish a couple of them, you can still view those as successes. And listen, don't go getting too fucked up tonight, whoever you are.

Tidings of Boredom and Complacency

2007-12-26T10:01:00.000-05:00

Ahh yes, the day after Christmas in the working world. It's days like these that allow me to sit at my desk with no regard for anyone else in the office, simply because there's really no one else in the office to regard. I'm pretty sure someone in the lobby of the building could hear Zeppelin's The Ocean emanating from my desktop speakers (which I stole from someone else who's not here today), but the lobby is and will remain empty throughout the day.

another hiatus...

I've got to stop taking these breaks between paragraphs...it's killing my train of thought, which is entirely different today than it was when I began to write this post on Wednesday. I've got no reason as to why I haven't been able to finish this post since I began to write it. These last three work days have been positively fruitless from a business standpoint. I suppose plenty of people are off this week and the rest of us who have chosen to go into work are battling those holiday hangovers that accompany the typical three and four-day marathons of family, food and fun. I'm not talking about actual hangovers from booze, because I didn't consume too much alcohol during the marathon this year. I'm talking about the hangover that comes as a result of catching up with so many people...eating so much crap...driving all over the map.

Oh, that reminds me...I need to welcome another reader to the blog. This is someone who has felt it necessary to hide his identity on the blog for the last several months, although he has only commented a couple times. Cousin Brian...the one cousin I have that is just about my age. You do understand that since your identity has been revealed, you need to comment as such from here on in? Well, I suppose I am jumping the gun here, assuming that you actually read this with any regularity. But if you choose to comment again, I hope I can expect to see some sort of alias that suggests it's you. Either way, thanks for reading, B. Welcome, and good luck wherever grad school accepts you.

Speaking of my cousin Brian, I'd like to add that he is a part of one instance in my childhood that I wish I could have back again...one stretch of about three minutes that I want to do over again. See, being that we were about the same age and from neighboring towns, we had the opportunity to play against each other in a Little League game one summer when I was 11 and he was 12. This was the age group that plays to get to Williamsport, or the LLWS. It was a big deal to me back then...to be an All-Star second basemen and on a team of really good players. Anyway, I was a reserve on my team and Brian was probably the best player on his. It also happened that he was a pitcher above all else, and he indeed pitched for his Salem National squad against my Beverly East squad. All you need to know as a reader is that the opening paragraph of the article in the local news the next day was something like "Chad Benoit struck out on three pitches against his cousin Brian Benoit in Salem National's win over Beverly East in District 15 action last night, but he shouldn't feel bad..." The writer was saying that I shouldn't feel bad because B struck out everyone on my team that evening, sending us to the Loser's Bracket (where we would eventually lose in the final round) of the tournament.

Well, I want that at-bat back. I want it back so I can get a better look at that first-pitch fastball instead of being all nervous and overwhelmed by the situation. I want it back so I don't watch the second fastball whizz by me, just as my knees stopped shaking. And finally...and most of all...I want that fucking third pitch back. That off speed junk that was served up, which I missed badly. Whaddya say, Bri? Me, you, a bat and a ball and field...rematch. You up for it?

I think that's all I have for today/the last three days. I'm kinda thinking that all the shit that's in my brain right now might be on lockdown because it's not coming out. Oh, here's one thing...

La and I had drinks and appetizers at the upstairs bar at the Four Seasons in Boston a week or so ago, and the urinal at this place was phenomenal. It was like pissing into a giant salad bowl, but the beauty of it was the angle of the bowl. It was tilted ever so slightly forward, so that all streams could gently deflect off the inside lip of the bowl and spray harmlessly outward...not back towards you. I tried to take a photo with my phone but to no avail. Regardless, I was really pleased with that urinal.

When You're Strange

2007-12-13T14:09:00.000-05:00

Or maybe that title should read "When I'm Strange". I'm not sure about that one yet, but I'll keep you informed. Ok, I'm pretty sure I'm strange. The whole "It's All French To Me" is just a different way to purport that I'm kind of a weirdo, deep down. Stay tuned to see if I decide to change the title of the blog to simply "I'm Weird". Then again, I feel as though "weird" is all relative. It's not like I'm out there molesting family pets or something. I do, however, like to think that I have unconventional thoughts that occur in my brain on a daily basis. My blog is my vehicle for these thoughts.

I get in these moods sometimes...such moods that make it so that I will make an effort to strike up a conversation with anyone who I encounter over the course of a day. Not people in the street that I pass necessarily, or people in the elevator. I mean, it could be these people, for sure. But it varies. I just find it incredibly amusing to test people that you don't know and that don't know you.

Lunch lines are a good place to make off-the-cuff remarks to those around you. Depending on what others order and maybe what you order, this can be a good way to spur on a random remark. "Yeah, that looks healthy." You can say this to pretty much anyone who orders something revoltingly unhealthy, wherever you're eating. (you can say this to anyone at Boloco) I've only done this once, and it was more of an oral vomit situation in this case. I didn't mean to say it, really. But I did and thankfully, the guy wasn't pissed off. He replied, "Well, it's Friday and I'm hungover. So it's fine." Well played, well played. I think most would concur that hangovers breed unhealthy, greasy food cravings. Another good one in a food line is as follows: when the person in front of you orders something really whacky with all sorts of modifications like "hold this" and "add this" and "no tomatoes" and "extra sprouts", say to him or her "Oh my god, I was going to order the same, exact thing!" Without fail, he or she will say "really?" Then you say, "no, not really" and proceed to order whatever you were going to get. You get weird looks, but whoever hears it will laugh.

I also like to talk to people who are walking around outside during incredibly inclement weather. This morning, for instance, it was 15° in the city as I walked to my office. The reported wind chill was right at 0°, so it was frigid. For some reason, people seem to be a lot less guarded, maybe because that sort of thing (weather) bonds people together. Like, everyone has the mentality that we're all in this thing together, and we can all sympathize with each other. I was beaten to the punch this morning, as I approached a meter maid. I had literally removed my hood just before I passed this woman on the street and she says to me "Where's your hat?" Keep in mind, she says this as we pass each other. So I reply, "I have a hood." But as I mentioned, I had just taken it off. So she remarks "Put it on!" What could I do or say? I put on the fucking hood.

two-day hiatus...

I'm back from the aforementioned hiatus now. I couldn't finish up this entry over the last two days and now, here I sit, trying to finish it up by the end of business today. I keep getting distracted by various things. The latest came in the form of a piece of organic swiss milk chocolate that was waved in front of me. But what do you care? I'll tell you what, the chocolate sucked. I had a tiny nibble, just because I wanted to delight myself in some organic chocolate and I was let down. But I will rest easy because the chocolate I ate was produced in an environmentally friendly way. (it still sucked)

I want to now talk about another kind of encounter that I create in the elevators at work sometimes. I was recently in one of said elevators with a colleague of mine and one other person; an older woman who ultimately got off on a floor before ours. We were talking about a few different things at once...the Santana deal, the frigid temperatures...she was clearly listening and looking at both of us as we chatted. I was aggrevated by this, and upon her exit, I said "Hope you enjoyed our conversation. Have a good one." She turned slightly, but the door shut and that was that. I haven't seen her since that day, either. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut, but understand that I didn't use a negative tone when I spoke to her. It was light-hearted, and for all she knows I was being somewhat serious because of the fact that she had to be subjected to our conversation. As in, maybe she didn't have a choice but to listen. We're loud, she's got ears. I really wasn't trying to be a jerk, honest injun.

The whole uncertainty of a situation when you make some sort of comment to a stranger is what makes these things fun, isn't it? More often than not, I find that people are generally nice and open to partaking in a totally surprise, unsolicited conversation. Unless, of course, you're a total dbag and you totally make someone feel like an asshole. One thing I'd really like to do is go into Boloco during peak lunch hours, holding up a sign with the caloric value of their most popular burritos. I walked past there today and the line was out the door. Hey , it's -4° in the sun. Do you really need Boloco that bad? By the way, what you're about to eat has about 1150 calories. What's that? No, I have no idea what you're about to order but all of that shit is BAAAAD. I feel like Kramer in the Kenny Rogers Roasters episode of Seinfeld. Don't eat the burritos...baaad burritos. Mess you up. I've got to say again that I'm really not against that place because they're just another fast food joint, trying to make a buck off of something that tastes pretty good. It's just that, I feel like they advertise as though their product is somehow good for you, and it's just not. It's garbage.

In closing, I need to extend a huge THANK YOU to Jackie, whom I welcomed to this blog no more than a week or so ago. You'll recall that I posted a plug for the Toy Drive that I'm doing with Youk's Kids. I received a delivery from Jackie yesterday, with some toys to donate to these kids and a card saying that she and her fiance wanted to help in some way. And that's awesome. Thanks Jackie and Jason. You guys rule. Hell to the Yeah.

Bobby Petrino Is...

2007-12-12T11:48:00.000-05:00

"HIGH ON THE HOG".

This was the leading headline on ESPN.com this morning. I don't even want to go into the many, many innuendo-tastic ways in which this headline is wrong.

I'm sorry, I can't resist writing this next quip. (for those family readers, I apologize ahead of time...it's beyond me) ***DAD - DO NOT READ THIS ONE TO MOM OUT LOUD. BIG MISTAKE***

Gay men are sometimes referred to as "cocksmokers". Thus, they are also "high on the hog", no? Too much? Listen, if you read this blog then you've read the disclaimer right below the title. It explicitly states, welcome to my brain and its daily malfunctions. They can't all be warm and fuzzy.

Urinal Etiquette, Take Three.

2007-12-11T13:43:00.000-05:00

Interesting comments thus far regarding Urinal Etiquette and the multitude of quandaries that we, as men, are presented with daily.

Another thing I failed to mention about the three urinals in my office is that the one on the far right smells like a piece of haddock that's been sitting out in the summer sun for three days. But I'm drawn to it because the one on the far left doesn't have a splash guard (more to come on these fucking things) so I choose to hold my nose but keep my pants dry.

D-Lo, I can't explain the 45° angle at the urinal. But I have to think that this dude has a bit of stage fright when it comes to emptying the old tank in public. He wants to make absolutely sure that not a sole on this earth can see his peter, much less see him pee. It's weird as hell, though. For sure.

Ok, onto urinal splash guards and why the fuck man can't seem to find a viable way to avoid the urine bouncing back and spraying a man's slacks. The thing that I find to be most confusing is the layout of the guard in the urinal. It's almost always just over the drain in the urinal, making it so you have make sure your stream is pointed straight down at all times. Now, I don't know about you but my trajectory totally varies on a day-to-day basis. If I'm not guiding it, it can go straight down on some days and straight ahead on another. Thus, a splash guard that covers both angles would be great. And I've seen these from time to time and I applaud those urinal manufacturers that use these types of guards. But not nearly enough of you manufacturers do and it's alarming. Here's what happens to me nine times out of ten when I use a new urinal. I take a very basic, bare bones inventory of the unit upon entering the latrine. As long as everything seems pretty normal, I let fly and, as I've mentioned is my norm, look skyward and either whistle or just close my eyes and enjoy the evacuation. The problem is, most of the time I haven't taken a comprehensive enough inventory and I overlook the fact that the splash guard isn't where I'm peeing. I go to zip up and half of the urine is festively decorating the upper part of my slacks.

Why can't all urinals just be lined all around with some sort of foamy piece of material that absorbs the piss? Like a spongy thing that doesn't allow any splashing? Is that too much to ask? I have to figure out how to get the piss out of the sponge so that it doesn't fester...not sure about how that can work from a logistical standpoint but surely there can be some sort of action when you flush that presses the sponge and releases the pee. Feel free to expound on this if it behooves you.

Urinal Etiquette, Take Two.

2007-12-10T14:50:00.000-05:00

Ok, no joke...I just went to the bathroom immediately after posting the previous post about urinal etiquette and I encountered a brand new situation. This fucking guy just brought a sandwich in there with him. And then he didn't wash his hands.

I'm not even going to go into how many things are wrong with this scenario. Be your own judge. I'm gonna be sick.

Urinal Etiquette, Take One.

2007-12-10T11:08:00.000-05:00

Let me start off by congratulating the dynamic duo of Chuck and Steve, who collaborated to come up with the correct answer to my lyrical inquisition:

This line:

I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be...Jackie O, O, O, oh please don't DIE.

is from the Rage Against the Machine song "Tire Me", off of their Evil Empire disc. As my father so appropriately pointed out, Steve is a Yankee fan/member of the Evil Empire...wait, the former Evil Empire. Some things are just meant to be, I guess. And as of this morning, both my father and Steve are proud owners of a Hollister fleece. Navy blue with white typing on the left breast. Quite nice, quite nice. More contests to follow...the next one will involve a prize of a Hollister fleece blanket. It's nice, you'll like it.

I had a few thoughts at the urinal this afternoon, as I drained my bladder for the third time today. There has got to be some sort of set guidelines for the bathroom, especially the urinals. The stalls carry their own set of codes and regulations but they're far less stringent since it is, after all, a private stall with a door. In terms of the urinal, there are some unspoken laws that need to be addressed because as some guys prove almost every day, these laws aren't universal.

First off, depending on the layout of your men's room, there are probably several stalls in a line or something of that nature. I have not been blessed with stall walls, or dividers, at this building's men's room. So privacy is at a minimum. Nonetheless, there are three urinals total. As a rule of thumb, when all three stalls are vacant, you are to choose either stall on the end. Further, if either end stall is taken, you choose the opposite end stall. The point here is that it is imperative to maintain as much space between urinators as possible. It's a matter of comfort, a matter of privacy and a matter of common sense...in my opinion.

Second, we have GOT to determine a universal distance for standing at the urinal. As in, you should be standing no more than three inches away from the actual urinal when you start to urinate. Ever been next to that drunk d-bag at the bar who stands like three feet away and kind of acts like he's shooting fish in a barrel? Yeah, unacceptable. Peeing is not a game, it's something we all do quite often as a human necessity. Let's keep it on that level and just stand no more than 3-4 inches away as we piss, ok?

Third, you may look up, you may look down, you may look straight ahead. Side to side is absolutely out of the question. Me personally, I'm a fan of looking up at the ceiling and whistling as I do my thing at the urinal. It's a great way of saying, "don't talk to me while I pee".

Fourth, if you must converse with another dude at the urinals, please keep this conversation contained within the following topics: sports, beer, cars. Actually, can't we just can all urinal discussion in general? There seems to be this feeling in corporate America that the urinals are a great place to catch up on the weekend, talk about the game, etc. Just wait until you're at the sink to do that shit. Conversation may spark the urge to look at the other person in the conversation and that's not supposed to happen at the urinal. See above.

Finally, there's this issue of noises that you may be allowed to make while you evacuate. This morning, and this kind of prompted this whole post, I was at a stall over from this janitor-looking fella who was making some truly weird noises at his stall. His etiquette was atrocious, by the way. Eyes side to side, standing a foot away and his method of getting out the last drops appeared to be borderline pornographic from my periphery. I digress...we're talking moaning, grunting, panting...everything. Aside from a medical condition, I can't think of any good reason why a man would have to grunt and moan while taking a piss. I'm ok with the occasional "oh, man" or "good god" if it's one of those times where you've been in a car for eight hours and your bladder nearly exploded. But avoid the noises. ***extenuating circumstances here might include passing a stone...noises totally ok in this case***

I think that does it, but feel free to add your own clauses and amendments to this list. One alternative form that I've seen and used at the urinal is the lean-to. I've used this in the past when inebriated....you put your forearm on the wall that the urinal is attached to and lay your head on your arm in a resting pose. This leaves out any possibility to look astray or talk. And it's relaxing.

Oh, Jackie.

2007-12-06T10:06:00.000-05:00

Anyone that can name this tune gets a free fleece from the company I work for. Seriously, I'll send it to you...the first one to get it.

I want to be Jackie Onassis
I want to wear a pair of dark sunglasses
I want to be...Jackie O, O, O, oh please don't DIE.

Don't use google, that's just pathetic.

How many people named Jackie do you know? I don't know many, that's for damn sure. The one Jackie that I remember is someone that I never even met. She was a friend of a friend from college and she was someone that a group of girls playfully referred to as 'Jackie Buttcrackie'. I always loathed to hear this nickname spoken, because it really got under my skin. I don't know why, and it still does to this day. There's no reason for it, except for maybe not liking the people that came up with this nickname. That must be it. Wow, I just figured out why I hate it so much. Today is a good day.

I'd like to tell you of a girl named Jackie that is slowly becoming more of a part of my life as time goes on. I've spoken with her recently, but we've never met in person. Her story is one of true beauty and wonder...achievement and defying odds...struggle and depression. I'd like you all to listen to this story and think about what it means to you. It may mean nothing at all, and truthfully that's what I expect. But that just means you're a terrible person without a heart, soul or modicum of decency. Nah, I'm kidding. 'Tis the season to be a sardonic asshole, right?

Jackie is special. I know her through a close friend of mine that wanted me to have a chance to know someone like Jackie. There aren't many people in the world like her and you're about to find out why that is.

Standing not a shade under 7 feet tall, Jackie is a behemoth. Born a normal size, she sky-rocketed to over six feet tall by the fourth grade. Imagine the torment of fourth-graders to a six-footer...that happens to be female. Forget about glories on the basketball court at recess...no one wanted her on their team, no one wanted her as a friend...even teachers were reluctant to have Jackie in their classrooms. She was intimidating, gangly, and downright scary to be around. And it's pretty tough to make yourself invisible at that height. She had to have a special desk, a special cubby hole, a special coat hook and even a special lunch. Her appetite was massive and no single taco, apple sauce and snack pack pudding lunch was going to feed her rapidly growing frame. (the local high school would send over three regular lunches on a daily basis for Jackie...at least someone cared)

By the end of fourth grade, a six-foot, four-inch Jackie couldn't take it anymore. She told her parents that school wasn't for her and there had to be something else out there...something that would make her feel accepted; feel like a part of something where others were like her. After some careful research, she finally found a group of people that shared her plight. Enter Barnum & Bailey and their travelling freak show; more specifically, freakishly tall.

You've probably all at least heard of the freaks at the circus, right? And don't be afraid to use that term loosely because Jackie will be the first one to tell you that she's an absolute fucking freak. She interviewed with 20/20 once; they were doing a piece on such circus folk. When asked if it upset her that she had been cast out in such a cold way, she replied "Are you serious? Look at me. I'd have done the same thing if I were on the other end. I'm seven feet tall, open your eyes." Indeed...and I suppose it's better to accept your freakishness early on. It's probably much less damaging.

Since the normally tender age of nine, Jackie has been travelling with the B&B Circus and loving her life. People look at her in awe every day. Children ask for autographs all the time, a far cry from pointing and either laughing or screaming in fear. She's famous, in a way. She has fans, many friends and a family of circus folk who are just like her. She's even found love with a man named Igor from Romania. Igor stands over eight feet tall and has been featured on several documentaries on the Discovery Channel. To Igor, Jackie is not a freak. She's more normal, more beautiful and more special than any average-sized human could ever be. They've been married for three years this January and are expecting their first child over the summer. Odds are, that kid will be a fucking freak, too. But not to them.

Sure, none of this is true. But there really is a girl named Jackie that I don't know all that well. And for all I know she is in the circus.

And now I've wasted a really decent chunk of my day coming up with this mumbo-jumbo. And it was all for you, Jackie. Oh, Jackie. Maybe we'll meet someday.

Whoa, baby.

2007-12-04T09:19:00.000-05:00

There's this one commercial on tv that I've seen a few times lately...it kind of bothers me because the tagline is "It's the most advanced piece of technology you'll ever pee on." I don't remember the product name, but it's obviously a pregnancy test. Is it just me, or does anyone else find this a little unsettling? I mean, for one thing it's a pregnancy test. I don't think most women like to associate something as delicate as a pregnancy test with a rather sardonically intonated commercial such as this. Shouldn't there be a softer, gentler tone for a pregnancy test commercial? If not, then I have some ideas that might share the same philosophy of this piece of advanced technology that you can pee on.

I think we're all aware that most pregnancy tests offer a simple symbol of the results. Maybe (+) and you're pregnant, (-) you're not. I think 'Clear Blue Easy' comes up blue if you're pregnant and some other color if you're not. And some of them can be confusing, like say, maybe it shows one line if you're pregnant and two lines if you're not. I don't know for sure but it sounds familiar. There are tons of commercials for these things out there.

My first thought after seeing this latest commercial was, why not just create a test that gives a verbal result as opposed to the symbol? For instance, if you're pregnant there would be a programmed response of "baby" and if you're not, "no baby". Then it occured to me that people might not hear the "no" or think they didn't hear the no and get all excited for no reason. No good, right? Then again, nothing is fail proof so who knows. Perhaps it would be more effective if the responses were a crowd cheering if you're pregnant and a crowd booing if you're not. This would be ideal for the sports fan out there. For the game show fan, there would be a series of 'dings' if you're pregnant and a buzzer if you're not. Carnival fans would have a test that sounds a siren if you're pregnant and a 'wah, wah, waaaaaaah' for not pregnant.

Purely sports-themed pregnancy tests would be as follows:

For Red Sox fans, the Sox logo appears if you're pregnant and the Yankee logo appears if you're not. The opposite happens for Yankee fans. Cubs fans see Derrick Lee's face for pregnant, Steve Bartman's face for not. Giants fans (football) see Phil Simms face for pregnant, Eli Manning's face for not. This next one might be confusing...Man United fans see Beckham in a Man U jersey for pregnant, but for not pregnant, they see him in a Galaxy jersey. Could be tough. For bowling enthusiasts, you'd hear a ball hitting pins if you're pregnant and a gutter ball if you're not. Golf fans would hear a ball going in the cup for pregnant, and a ball going in a water hazard for not. Cycling fans would see Lance Armstrong's face for pregnant and Floyd Landis' face for not.

There's really no end to the possibilities for a pregnancy test and how to show the results. What about a simple thumbs-up or thumbs-down? Maybe a smiley face or a frown? I think there should be a line tailored towards men, where for a negative result you hear something like "somebody's firin' blanks", or "can you say Erectile Disfunction??"

Why? Because. Because Why?

2007-12-03T14:47:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite exchanges to overhear is the classic 'why, because' dialogue.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"I don't know, just because."

"But it can't be just because. Why exactly? There must be a reason."

I don't have much more to comment on as far as that type of dialogue is concerned, but I was reminded of it recently by overhearing a conversation between this guy I work with and one of his candidates (I work for a recruiting firm, in case that was in question. Why do I work for a recruiting firm? Because.). I also overheard this conversation recently:

"Hi, Bill? Hey, it's Pat. How are you?"

"Pat, I'm good thanks, how are you?"

"Good, how are you?"

Hilarious. But it just goes to show that programmed responses sometimes just can't be avoided because they may just jump out of your mouth without the chance to retract them. This previous dialogue is exactly one of those such responses.

Maybe it's more of a nervous reaction, I don't know. Having worked in sales for quite some time, I've heard some pretty funny things come out of the mouths of co-workers. I used to work with a guy who, when asked how he was doing, would say the word "good" about ten times.

"Hi Zack, how are you?"

"Good, good, good, good, good, good, good, good."

I certainly think this is more of a nervous reaction but man, it was fucking funny to hear. I tend to say weird things to clients who give me a hard time on the phone. I have interesting conversations every day I pick up the phone and call potential clients...most don't really have the time to talk when they hear my voice, but my favorite road blocks to overcome are those cold calls to people who have no idea what my company does. I'll say things like "Oh, it's your lucky day then. You'll be pleased to know that I'm a recruiter..." You have to understand that these people that I'm calling receive upwards of twenty calls a day from people who do what I do. I'm pretty much willing to make an ass out of myself on the phone if it means that person at least remembers my name...with positive connotation or not. I recently left a ridiculous voicemail for a client that hadn't returned one of my calls in over three months. It was a play on the Comcast Digital Voice Commercials (sorry Roger, you Tiger now). I explained that I now had Comcast Digital Voice and that we could do business together now. There was more to it, but you get the point. And this woman emailed me shortly thereafter, explaining that I'd have to contact someone in another department, blah, blah, blah. But she got back to me. She did not, however, acknowledge my off-the-cuff voicemail and that would lead me to believe that she wasn't amused in the slightest bit. I need to start listening to Lauren when she tells me that most of the things I find funny really aren't that funny.

So the Sox have upped the ante for Santana, in figuring Jacoby into the final equation. On one hand, as I've discussed with me father and countless guys in my office, I would hate to watch him leave town. I can see him playing center for the Sox for years to come. At the same time, I was very reluctant about the Hanley/Beckett deal and look at where the Sox are following that deal: world champs, 2nd best pitcher in the AL this season. Yes, Florida owns the NL's most productive shortstop and bonafide superstar but Beckett basically won the Sox a World Series. Fans can't complain about that deal. Hooking Santana would be a really good insurance policy for a repeat title and maybe more to come, depending on the health of the whole pitching staff. There's also no guarantee on successful, young September call-ups who tear it up that first time in the bigs; see Dwayne Hosey, 1995 Sox call up with similar numbers. Point is, we just don't know if Ellsbury will be as good as he's shown himself to be in a short amount of time. However, his raw ball skills are undeniable and that's why I love him. He has tremendous intangibles and his baseball IQ is off the charts. In my opinion, those types aren't flashes in the pan. You can't teach speed or the ability to read the ball off the bat in the outfield. We'll see what happens, but Ellsbury is a superstar in the making.

In closing, I'd like to welcome the month of December in a most unloving fashion. Way to make a grand entrance, what with 20-degree temperatures, snow, slush and just a general shittiness. Thanks, and screw you.

Hi Lisa. And Dina. Thanks for reading.

OFFICIAL NOTICE

2007-11-29T15:54:00.000-05:00

Effective November 29th, 2007 at 3:57pm EST, the Empire that has been known as the New York Yankees is officially dissolved.

Well, maybe this is old news and the Empire has been a crumbled mess for some time, but it became clear to me this afternoon via an email from my father. His note told of a colleague of his who happens to be a Yankee fan; I'll call him Steve Regan to protect his identity (his name is actually Steven Regan). Said colleague Regan has expressed utter astonishment as the news of the Red Sox being the frontrunners in the Johan Santana sweepstakes fell upon his pinstriped ears. He had previously just assumed that the Yanks would land him, no question. I admire his pompousness, but it's time to face fact, Steve-O. These current Yankees are not the Yankees of yesteryear. Unfortunately, it's looking more and more like today's Red Sox are owning up to the distinction of something along the lines of Evil Empire...just less evil with better pitching.

Consider a rotation of Johan Santana, Josh Beckett, Daisuke Matsuzaka, Curt Schilling and Wakefield/Buccholz. I would dare to offer that this would be the best starting rotation ever to hit a program in any stadium at any time in the history of baseball. The 1971 Orioles boasted four twenty-game winners, so I would imagine this staff would be the benchmark. True, this proposed Sox staff for 2008 does not include an underwear model (not yet, at least. Wakefield is rumored to be working out a deal with Hanes for a new line of protective skivees called Knuckleballs) but it would feature a multiple Cy Young winner, 5 World Series rings, 1 World Series MVP, 1 LCS MVP and two pitchers who are considered to be in the top 5 of greatest postseason hurlers of all time. Dear me. As the great Jim Hammen said in a recent text, the NL All-Stars wouldn't beat the Sox with Santana in seven games. Well said.

I know it's all speculation still, but it's exciting. Santana's #57 is available, in case anyone was wondering. Delcarmen switched to #17 this season.

Ode To Thanksgiving

2007-11-21T11:44:00.000-05:00

I'd be a real turkey if I didn't write something in honor of the holiday tomorrow, wherein we'll give thanks for stuff and probably eat way too much and ultimately end up feeling like shit for a day or two. But I don't want this post to have a foul tone, so I need to brighten it up a little. I had a few things planned out for this one, but it's looking more and more like I'm going to have to wing it.

T - is for thanks. Give thanks tomorrow. Maybe you're thankful for a World Series Champ, an undefeated football team and the best team in the NBA. Or maybe you live in South Dakota, and you're thankful for...for...I don't know, the Badlands?

H - is for hope. Without hope, what do we have? Well actually, without hope and money what do we have? Without hope, money and sex. Those three things. Without those, what do we have?

A - is for appetite. Bring yours to the table tomorrow and join the average American in consuming 3000+ calories in one sitting. Better dig up those elastic waistband chinos.

N - is for nice. Be nice to those who prepared the food that you'll consume tomorrow. Don't complain about not getting a wing, or a drumstick, or that there's a small, curly hair in the jello mold. Just eat, thank the cooks and shut up.

K - is for knowledge. Know that there are three football games tomorrow, and one is on the NFL network which you won't be able to watch. Unless of course, you have the NFL network. Also know that the only game worth watching is the Green Bay - Detroit game, if for no other reason than the throwback uniforms.

S - is for a lot of things. I have found that the letter 'S' is well represented among the table items at Thanksgiving. Squash, stuffing, string beans, salad, sweet potatoes, sauce (as in cranberry) and many more, depending on what weird shit you have on your table tomorrow. S is also for stupid, as in don't be. Save room for dessert and elect not to have that third re-stuffed potato. Let your father have it because you're at his house and if anyone needs to have the opportunity to use the bathroom at any given time, it's him.

I hope you all have a wonderfully enjoyable and laughter-filled Thanksgiving tomorrow. Just think...when you return to work on Monday, there will be less than a month left until Christmas.

Talk To Me

2007-11-19T08:49:00.000-05:00

I just had a revelation in the bathroom: I spend a good portion of my day talking to inanimate objects. I'm trying to figure out why this is and for the most part, I see it as a reactionary thing. If I find that some object that I'm using is working ineffectively, I then decide that it might very well have the faculties to be making the decision not to work, simply to make my life more difficult.

Lately, the toilet paper dispenser in the men's room at work has given me fits. It's one of those contraptions where you have to push the new roll upward for it to come down the slides and become loose on the tracks. I sit there probably 50% of the time, fiddling with this devil machine, begging it to just let me have access to some toilet paper. What drives me insane is when it's just too tight to release the roll, thus I sit there and tear off piece after piece of paper, until I have a stack of 50-60 2-ply sheets in my hand. Don't even get me started on why this method just doesn't work, but the fact that I have to sit there and pull off each incessant piece makes me angry. Then I start to talk. "Why can't you just let me have some fucking paper? You little bitch. All I want is for you to cooperate. Why can't you? Why?" It gets worse. I'll ask the metal dispenser what its problem is, what I've ever done to it, why it must be this way. And when I've finally finished up, I thank the damn thing as I walk by, in a totally sardonic tone. I wonder if it gets my tone, though. Probably not.

My cell phone is another one that I like to talk to. I'll tell it things like, it's only job is to give me reception so I can make calls and send messages to people. "You only have ONE FUCKING PURPOSE", I'll tell it. Doesn't help. I'll express my distaste by promising that I'll never buy another one of its kind, as if I'm somehow hurting its feelings. Chances are, I'm not. Our most frequent conversation happens when the phone beeps and shows 'low battery'. At that point, I might actually hold the phone in front of my face and utter a very tight-lipped "you suck". Does anyone else do the 'fake throw' of the cell phone? You know, wind up like you're about to hurl a football several yards and then just stop the motion?

I don't talk my kitchen utensils all that much when I'm cooking, but on a recent trip to California I was using some particularly sharp knives during food preparation. I cut myself three separate times in one night, all on the same knife. I was cursing this knife for being too sharp, which makes absolutely no sense at all. If that knife had any balls whatsoever, it would have snapped back at me with something like, "how about you stop being such a clumsy fool, you bozo...after all, I AM A KNIFE. I'M SUPPOSED TO BE SHARP." Alas, it said nothing and just continued to take off layer after layer of skin. What's funny about this one is that I promised the knife after each incision that it would be my last use of it...but I kept going back to it...allowing it to cut me up. Without question, the knife won this battle. If I'm ever back in that same kitchen with that same knife, I'll probably talk to it before usage. "Look, you and me...we've had our differences. But I don't want any trouble this time. I want your help cutting an onion and some cheese. That's it. We cool?" Maybe a different approach will wield more positive outcomes.

I can be positive with some of the objects that I use everyday. There are a few ties that I wear that, for some reason or another, always give me the perfect knot. I'll ask those ties on occasion why they're so good to me. I have this one pen that I use that never runs out of ink, for any reason. I don't even have to say anything to that pen, because it knows how I feel about it. Sometimes you can say a lot by not saying anything at all, that's how it is between me and that pen.

Maybe talking to inanimate objects can be viewed as unhealthy, or just weird. But the imaginary therapist that I've been seeing doesn't think it's weird at all. She said it's totally normal and it shows that I have a very active imagination. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go have a talk with my zipper about why it keeps getting stuck in the fabric of my pants.

Premature Parting Shots*

2007-11-13T12:54:00.000-05:00

Sure, writing two posts in one day after a fortnight of a hiatus seems a bit irrational, but you know what they say...come strong or don't come at all. I'm comin' strong, buddy. You best get out the way if you don't feel like being a part of it.

Ok, now that the unintentionally intentional non-sensical entry paragraph is out of the way, here's the meat and potatoes of the post. Sorry, here's the skin of the potato: Eventually I will be ridding myself of the New Englandness in me, be it soon or in a few years. Subconsciously I've been trying to train myself to like the local sports scene a little bit less than I have over the course of the last 28 or so years. It's been touch and go a few times, I can't lie. But I figure, when I move away from I need to be prepared for the inevitable separation of man and his team(s). Going to games won't be possible unless it's a road game and I'm probably not going to purchase all of the major sports packages for the television. I will need Sox games, I know that much.

I watched far fewer Sox games this season, but I think went to the most games I've been to in a while. This always helps if you're going to start weening off of catching every game in some way, shape or form. I guess I probably should have pointed out that this whole separation is also due to the fact that I am virtually unbearable to watch a game with if my team is involved. Well, I used to be. I've learned how to curb my enthusiasm a little bit, if you will. Sure, it's still there somewhere deep down, but I can hold it in for the most part (In game 6 of the ALCS this year, I erupted in one maniacal, pathetically emotional yelp when JD Drew hit that grand slam. I had been harboring some excitement I guess, and it literally just leaped out. Lauren looked at me in such a way that only someone who loves you/hates how seriously you take this shit can...). I have taught myself to care a little less and take it all a little less seriously and personally when they lose. That's the problem with me and a lot of sports fans around here. We take this shit really personally and that's not a healthy way to root. It took me a long time to realize that Wakefield's floater to Aaron Boone in 2003 wasn't an attack on me at all. When Lugo couldn't hit the ocean with rock, standing on the Tobin, it wasn't because he really wanted to make me miserable. He was just slumping. So I'm over that shit, once and for all. No more taking it personally. Sure, winning the '07 Series helps but it's more than that. I've taught myself.

Still, I will never let go of my love for the Sox. No matter where my life takes me they have some of my heart and soul because they just do. But I'll be ok with being away from it, since I've found some other things in life that matter more and can hold my attention more effectively. And that's saying a whole hell of a lot. The Patriots, on the other hand...

The SpyGate thing? Yeah, they made more of it than they should have and they still dwell on it when yammering on about the asterisk on the hypothesis of a perfect season. Maybe they should. Without going into whether or not every team in the NFL does the same thing or not, I was extremely disappointed when I learned of this whole camera investigation. For the longest time, I had viewed the Patriot franchise as one that was to be revered and modeled after in the world of pro sports. I know this view is/was shared by many others and it's not unique, sure. But from someone like me, who has been a devout fan and follower of this team since longer than I can remember, it was a great, big punch in the stomach. All I could think was, "screw you guys." It was like finding out that my best friend since I was 10 has been sleeping with my girlfriend for the last few months, and who knows who else that I've been with. Sue me for not being over it, because I'm not and I don't know when I will be.

I think what this current team is doing is a great thing because they're on the verge of doing something that has never been done before (if they can go 16-0 and then win out in the playoffs) but it's bittersweet. I would normally be beside myself for the simple fact that it's the Patriots...that it's Brady, the same guy who I see with his hands on his head, shaking that same head in disbelief after winning the big one at such a young age. Perhaps he wasn't shaking his head because he couldn't believe he had done it...maybe he was thinking "jeez, and none of these losers know that we cheated the whole fucking time!" Has he had an unfair advantage with knowing defenses and formations before the other team even knows what they're going to run? I don't know, none of us do. But I'm not over the disappointment. I still watch some of the games, none in their entirety this season but I watch a little. The defining moment of this season came when Brady was picked off to begin the 4th quarter in Indy. That was a huge pick, and it was going to be a big uphill climb to win. It was sure to be a phenomenal ending to the game, and I walked out of a livingroom with a tv that was showing the game. I walked out the door, got into my car and went home...45 minutes later, I flipped the game back on in time to see the time run off the clock...:04, :03, :02, :01...and I changed it. I said to Lauren, "they actually won." And she annoyedly replied, "yeah? that sucks, I wanted them to lose." In a way, so did I.

I had been in Indy last January when the wheels came off the bus and it all came crashing down. It was a very sobering experience. I was so looking forward to this showdown, until the SpyGate shit. I don't care that much anymore. I don't really care if they go undefeated, other than caring that it'll be an enormous historical impact on the sport of pro football. That's an interesting feat...unfortunately, it would forever be associated with that silly asterisk. And that is a shame. I guess it's pretty appropriate though...Bonds breaking Aaron's record, with an asterisk...maybe this in the same year? Makes sense. It's a sign of the times, perhaps.

In conclusion, I've learned how to be more lax in my fandom. And I've learned that I will always take the Sox with me, no matter where I go. Probably the C's, too. But I'm not sure about the Patriots. I feel like I've been burned by them and it's leaving a mark...or an asterisk.

Hey, It's Me.

2007-11-08T16:31:00.000-05:00

Wow, it's been a while since I last reported to my very loyal but very few readers. I wish that I had something monumental to deliver to you, such as the discovery of a new land, a cure for some terminal disease, maybe even news of the end of the world. Hey, I didn't say that it would have been hypothetical good news, did I?

Some of the thoughts that I have been nursing and nurturing since I last pegged the keys follow. Forgive my tendency to be non-sequitous.

How many of you go to the gym on a regular basis? If you are in this population, and by no means does being in this population make you cooler, you probably witness some of the same sights and sounds that I do. Gym noises can be a very funny thing, but dangerous at the same time. You definitely don't want to have the urge to laugh when you're trying to hoist up a few plates on the bench. But it can be hard, especially when you have people that sound like they're either in labor or experiencing the best climax of their life as they pump out some squats. Then there's the older folks at the gym. I've been in a treadmill next to one of these types, as he literally gasped his way through a brisk walk on the treadmill. I wouldn't know whether to encourage him for really working through the obvious pain he's in, or start performing CPR right then and there in order to save his expiring life. This next one is certainly more a part of the 'sight' variety. There's this one dude at our gym who Lauren playfully refers to as 'partial rep guy'. You'd understand if you saw, and you kinda have to see him in order get the full scope of his ridiculousness. I can't knock the guy's commitment to getting to the gym because he's there everyday. However his work ethic is lacking something...like, a full rep? Everything is completely half-assed with this guy. From a distance, it might appear as if he's really pushing out a ton of reps at a mad pace. At closer look, you realize that he's probably doing his body more harm than good with his partial reps. Halfway up, then down. Halfway down, then up. And so on. Ridiculous. He's also one of those dudes that likes to ask if he can work in with you, which is annoying as anything.

I know that a fair bit has transpired since I wrote last, but now that I've actually sat down to write about that stuff, I'm drawing a bit of a blank. The Pats are 9-0 and coming off a bye week...Buffalo on Sunday. Yawn. At this point, it'll just be interesting to see what kind of numbers that offense can put up and how many records can be broken. No, I'm not being the typical arrogant NE fan here. It's just the reality of the situation as I see it. I haven't even watched much of their season because it's been pretty boring. Blowouts aren't the most riveting games to watch. There's just no question that a) the Patriots are the NFL's best with a good amount of separation between them and the rest and b) more of the focus in this town needs to be shifted to the C's until around the first of the year.

Speaking of which...have you seen the C's play this year? I've seen bits and pieces and tons of highlights. A few observations on this team: 1. The big three are just that. They've played like superstars in every game so far, they click as a unit and frankly, it's tough to say that the Celtics starting 5 can be beat by any other 5 in the NBA. The second unit is absolutely a work in progress, but the education of Big Baby is happening and soon enough, he'll be the guy on that unit. His energy and talent should help him to develop into a legit leader and scorer in the NBA. Watch this team play if you can. They appear to be having a lot of fun on the court and you have to be happy for a guy like Paul Pierce, who has endured years and years of 'rebuilding' and young talent. He's never really complained, and how he's been rewarded with Kevin Garnett and Ray Allen to play alongside of him...or vice versa. It's a cool thing.

We're on the heels of fall now, and just getting onto the tiptoes of winter. But this week is the quintessential tweener for weather. It's pretty balmy out there, rather rainy and dreary but totally bearable from a comfort standpoint. I can always stand being wet but being cold just plain blows. So we're looking at upper 50's temperatures this week, but then it's to promptly plunge back down towards that mark of freezing by the weekend. So I will enjoy this seemingly tropical air while it's here, and then I look forward to the inevitable four to six months of weather misery to come. And even then, when it's penis hibernation cold, I'll still be thankful that I'm not in North Dakota. To those I actually know who live or have lived there, come on. You know what I'm talking about.

Keep That Broom Out...

2007-10-29T10:22:00.000-05:00

...Halloween is in two days, you know? What I'm trying to say is that you might as well not bother to put away that World Series broom because this is the time of year when it's most useful.

I struggled with some kind of quirky intro to this post. Truth be told, I sat up in bed last night as the game was wrapping up and I thought about what I would write. A few minutes into my contemplation, Lauren asked me what I would write about. A few minutes ago, my brother Mike emailed me and asked where my post was, suggesting that surely I'd have been up until 1am carving out some sort of literary diatribe on the Series...maybe diatribe isn't the right word but I could fuel this post with the usual sardonic tone. Either way, I wanted to bring in the post with something other than a typical intro about the Sox winning the Series. Ultimately what I came up with fell about ten yards short of where I was aiming for in terms of effectiveness and/or humor. Oh well, win some, lose most.

The Sox winning the Series will always be a special thing to me and to all Sox fans around the globe, but this time it was just a little different than when I experienced in 2004. And if I can say so, I am more excited about the future of this team than I am about the present...tough to admit that, considering what has just transpired...I know. But these are my thoughts.

The other question Lauren posed to me last night had to do with my feelings this time around as opposed to 2004. I didn't have a great answer for her then, and I'm not sure what I've come up with in terms of bloggery is much more poetic but it's been very difficult to put into words. 2004 was a very special year for Sox fans and for me, it meant a good amount of isolation during playoff time. I spent the duration of the Yankee series in solitary, just me, a tv and a stool set up no more than 2 feet in front of the screen. I left it all out there and at the end of that excruciating series I was left with a sense of peace and serenity that only the Dalai Lama could be on par with. I watched the Series with my father and we rejoiced together when the inevitable happened. It was probably one of the happiest moments of my life when Mientkiewicz squeezed that last out and dream became reality. What made that so special was watching that with my father, who had suffered through much more than I had. He had three times the time investment in the Sox that I did and a much more vivid memory of Buckner, Bucky Dent, Carlton Fisk, Jim Lonborg...but it was elation that I had never experienced before. It was something I'll never forget.

Enter the 2007 Series. I have a greater love for this team than I did for the the self-proclaimed 'Idiots'. Sure, Trot is my all-time favorite to ever don the Red and White but this year's team displays the likes of Jacoby Ellsbury, Dustin Pedroia, Pap, Jon Lester...these are homegrown guys just like Trot, but they've barely even begun their careers in baseball. They're excitable, inspiring, electric personalities that seem to get it...they know where they are, the stage they're on and the scrutiny they're under. Or do they? Maybe the early success skews all of that, I don't know. But I adore this team. The 2004 team made me believe...the 2007 team held my belief and did what they were supposed to do. They met my expectations and for that I am grateful. Regardless, neither team owed me anything from the start but they certainly both made it clear to me why I am a fan...because sometimes that emotional investment I make in something as trivial as a hometown team can instill a lot of happiness.

That brings me to a point that I want to make here; a point that really only became apparent to me this season. There are, of course, reasons as to how it became apparent but I will save those for a later post. There's this inherent sense of entitlement with Red Sox fans. There's a feeling that individually, the men who play for the Sox owe them, as fans, something in the way of performance. I can't sat that I thought this in these exact terms in the past, but I have certainly felt my share of entitlement over the years. I felt short-changed by guys like Edgar Renteria and Matt Clement. I've muttered things like "...and we're paying this guy $10 million this year?" The problem with that statement is the "we" aspect. There's no we here. It's them, and it's me, or us as fans that are involved in this relationship. Some might argue that as ticket buyers, we are paying salaries and therefore it's a "we" thing. Well, it's not. Let's be realistic here.

I sat and watched newscasters this season as they covered the Sox in the Series, the ALCS and the ALDS. Most would say things like, "Well folks, we gave it our all tonight and it was just enough..." I would think to myself that when even the media is imparting this sense of "we" onto its viewers, it's hard to not think of it as such. When the largest supplier of furniture in New England offers free furniture to its customers if the Sox win the Series, it might become a "we" situation for a lot of fans since their furniture may now be bought by the Sox if they should win the World Series. "We have to win!", they might have said. Oddly, I look to Manny's statement about whatever happens, happens (or whatever happen, happen) and there's always next year. Years past, I'm livid about this statement from the much-maligned left fielder of the World Champs. This year, not really at all. I thought to myself, hmm. He's absolutely got the right point of view here, even being as it is that he can be such a dog. I agree with Manny. Because in the end, it's a game. No one one this team, the 2004 team, the 1986 team, any of them...none of them owe me a damned thing. In a way, shame on me for having been so completely entrenched in it for so long. Shame on me for having put so many tears, so much sweat and so much vocal strain into what they are doing for so many years. Has it ever mattered? Maybe a little. Has it ever meant more than say, an exam, work or a relationship? Probably. But not anymore. So many things are more important.

Look, I know ballplayers are probably overpaid. Although I don't think I would feel that way if it were me playing in front of 36,000 rabid fans on a fairly regular basis, under that microscope that is the national media. Ultimately, I have a lot of respect for these guys and what they are able to endure over the course of a season. I think many athletes make suitable role models for our youth (leaving a lot of things unsaid there...trust me, I know...that's a whole other post) and on the other side of the steroids and drugs, there are charities like Youk's Kids, the Jimmy Fund and thousands of others that are the recipients of millions of dollars and cumulative efforts of people who want to do right. In a perfect world, we focus on this and save the crap for the back page. No, I'm not delusional and I know what sells and grabs ratings. But it gets old. I digress...watching our hometown team joyously jump around like school boys because they've reached the pinnacle of pro sports will never get old. And I'll never shame myself for letting that make me happy.

Congratulations to the 2007 World Champion Boston Red Sox.

Way to go, boys.

Rolaids in the 'Pen

2007-10-26T07:53:00.000-05:00

That's right, R-O-L-A-I-D-S spells R-E-L-I-E-F. If you have gas, Jonathan Papelbon and Hideki Okajima might just be able to settle your stomach.

Last night at the old ballyard, Curt Schilling was the prime rib, the potatoes and the green beans. Oki and Pap provided the milk and cookies to finish off the meal and everyone went home satisfied. Sure, this wasn't the dominating start that Josh Beckett provided for the faithful on Wednesday evening but it was vintage Schilling. It was the playoff-potent pitcher who has done it before and done it well. And this time, sans bloody sock and free of most of that 2004 drama, he had to be someone entirely different.

Schilling, who now has to be categorized in the 'Crafty Veteran' genre, has to really reach back to hit low 90's on the radar gun. When he throws a riser, it usually means that it's rising right out of the park. But on the other end of that, he's got this deceptive, lose-your-lunch splitter that Troy Tulowitski will be having nightmares about for years to come. It's an interesting feeling when, as a fan, I sit there and watch Schilling and think, "Ok, lead-off man is on, that's fine. Double play perhaps...but that guy won't score." I expect him to put men on base in pretty much every inning that he pitches. And I expect one or two of them to score. But what I don't expect is that he's going to have one of those implosion innings that so many pitchers are susceptible to when things start to go awry. With his experience, knowledge of the game and awareness of his surroundings, I just never get to the point where I know he's going to give up the big hit. Granted, he has done that this season. When he was pitching at maybe 70% of his full health he was that guy who gave up big hits and couldn't manage games. Not playoff Schilling, though. He manages individual pitches, counts, innings and that translates to game management. The result is just what we all saw last night: 1 ER.

Then you get to Oki and Pap, aka milk and cookies. Let's cut through the verbose drama here and call it like it is. In Oki, you get a guy who throws an 88-89mph fastball with movement in to righties and movement out to lefties, a devastating change/curve and the hurky-jerky delivery that would unsettle Rod Carew. Then you bring in Pap, death stare and all, with a deliberate delivery and straight gas, up to 97mph when he's really slingin' it. Add in a 85mph change and it's a perfect differentiation of styles that will make it extremely difficult for hitters to adjust to over the course of an inning or two. And here you have Okajima able to pitch 4, 5 or 6 outs with little to no scarring. That is what's most valuable. Here's a guy who had to take to the bench in September with a dead arm and now he's better than he's been all season (which is saying a LOT) when it matters most.

These pitchers are clearly on a mission to win this 103rd World Series. They have very clear-but game plans when they enter and when they exit, it's a fact that the next in from the bullpen will know what he's going to from the first pitch he throws. Oh, and you also have a dynamite percussion section lead by Admiral Timlin that reminds us all that we're not the only ones enjoying this game. We're all watching a complete team; a dominant force and a purebred World Champion. It's all there, they just have to keep their focus and do what they know they can do.

Close Encounter of the First Kind

2007-10-23T10:18:00.000-05:00

***This entry is dedicated to the wonderful Cindi Goldstein, without whom this encounter would not have been possible***

There's a first time for everything, isn't there? In my case, there's a one and only time for what I experienced out in Malibu/Pacific Palisades, CA last week. This is one of those relationship-defining moments where, following it, nothing can really be considered weird or off limits anymore. In terms of breaking down walls or things of that nature, this would fall under the category of utter annihilation of walls and all things attached to and surrounding them. Disintegration of walls.

After a nice and casual lunch just off the Pacific Coast Highway in the Palisades, Cindi (Lauren's mom, has appeared in the blog a few times prior to) and I elected to go up to the family's house and see the dogs, chat further, spend a little more time together in general. To give you an idea of my relationship with Cindi up until this point, it had pretty much been an easy transition into a friendship from the start. We managed to avoid any real weirdness the first night we met, when upon being left alone very early on in the process, we engaged in a conversation about the future Notre Dame savior, Jimmy Clausen. At that time he was only a commitment, but Cindi had seen him play a while back against her youngest son Tito. Turns out that Jimmy was a few years older than the other boys he was playing with and against, making him look like Tom Brady out there. I digress, though...the point is, we dove into some interesting conversation from the start and never looked back.

Future moments would include dinners, drinking at local watering holes, and learning from Cindi that Jewish women are especially adept at...how do I put this...let's say making their male partner happy? I'll leave it there. But you get the point...no censors with her and I love that. I don't like to watch what I say, and I certainly have a flare for saying the inappropriate at the most inopportune times. All of this being said, none of it would ultimately prepare me for what was to transpire following our lunch that afternoon.

After some light conversation about various things, something happened that would forever change the course of potential-future-mother-in-law/daughter's boyfriend relationships everywhere. Or, at least for me and Lauren's mom. As we sat at the table chatting, she rose from her chair and approached me.

"I need you to do something for Lauren. You have to feel my expanders and tell her what they feel like."

Since I momentarily blacked out when this was posed to me, I probably said one of two things. It was either "Whoa, you want me to feel you up and tell your daughter what it was like???", or "(gulp)...Gagagoogoo." That would be gibberish, since I would have no idea what to say in that situation. But gagagoogoo seems most appropriate.

To give some more background here, Cindi has expanders for her future breast implants, which will be a result of a double mastectomy, which was a result of breast cancer. She has bravely fought through the chemotherapy and surgery and now it's the stage where these expanders are inserted to make room in there for her new "girls", as she referred to them during one of our conversations. These expanders felt like she had stones under her shirt, or small mounds of cement. They feel utterly uncomfortable and intrusive, but apparently they're not so bad. I guess after all that she's been through, nothing can really be all that uncomfortable, even having your daughter's boyfriend feel your boobs...or the place where your boobs will eventually be.

All in all, it was an experience that I will never forget and it most certainly falls under the category of 'Things I Never Thought I'd Get To Do In Life". But I am very, very thankful that I have the kind of relationship with her that I do and I wouldn't have it any other way.