Ok, maybe they were never titled random though threads, but you get the idea. And just to make sure I don't get in trouble with Vallone for not posting enough, I figured this was a good way to get you back into my creepy little mind.
-Saw an ad tonight for a do-it-yourself butterfly kit. I have only one question after seeing this: Is there anyone over the age of 5 that lacks a degree in some form of physiological science that isn't creeped the hell out by butterflies? Think about it. Caterpillars crawl around, eat a bunch of greens, double in size, double in size again, and again, then magically create a cocoon out of themselves, crawl out of it and FLY THE EFF AWAY. Really? This is what nature intended?
Maybe I'll start leaning back to divine intervention, because really, that's some whacked out crap right there. Nature doesn't have that good imagination. That's the sort of thing nightmares are made of, and I'm pretty sure after eons of fighting Satan, God has some crazy dreams. Anyway, if you aren't freaked out by a time-lapsed picture sequence of a catterfly, then I don't trust you.
-Is it weird that I like Kanye West on a purely aesthetic level? No, no, not that type of aesthetic. He's not my version of Meghan's obsession with Colin Firth. No, I just happen to really like his voice. I'm pretty sure if he was rapping a song about driving off the Tobin, I'd get in my car and head north. Ok, maybe I'm revealing a little too much about myself here. And he's a whiny bitch anyway, which annoys me. But if you ever know I'm behind a closed door, and you hear him crooning away, well, assume it isn't safe to enter, or the grounds of "Andrew Alone Time".
-Saw a headline on CNN yesterday, but I didn't snag it to drop here on the blog - but it was a picture of an American soldier who had lost his sight but was learning how to see. Not sure if you've ever been skiing, and seen these vision-impaired folks with their vision-unimpaired guides (and their neat matching vests). And I think its really great that they were taking one of our Heros skiing - but as usual, I'm a terrible person, and all I could think of is Laney being the person teaching the lesson. Wow. Talk about trauma!
-I just found 4 songs by 311 on Rhapsody that I've never EVER (NEVER EVER, NEVER, NEVER EVER! -thank you for that one Ian) heard before! How is that even possible? I'm not sure if in the history of the universe the term "311gasamed" has been used (and how would one go about saying that anyway? I'm pretty sure it can only be typed), but one thing I am sure if that it just happened right here on my couch.
-I've got to say I'm not surprised by this article. Of course, the only delimma that I have personally is figuring out how early is too early when it comes to starting drinking on parade day. But I love the laissez-faire attitude here in Boston (and NY) - now THAT is the way to play indifferent!! Blame the public for the indecency! The church says it isn't responsible for civic celebrations... I'm sure that they'd have something different to say about a cross-dressing transexual parade down the streets of Southie (wait, so what clothing do they wear regularly? help me figure this out), but for now, I'm happy to say that I'll be with the rest of the heathens on Palm Sunday, and I may not have the church's blessing, but at least I don't have their curse either.
-It's funny the things you'll find when you head north... Its not quite an elk... but you know... (thanks again Ian... you keep setting 'em up, I'll keep knockin' 'em down.)
-And lastly, I'm with Matt here. This story is meaningful to a LOT of people, whether they know it or not. 401k plan participants are given a lot of responsibility when it comes to managing their retirement funds (which I completely agree with), but they shouldn't have to deal with irresponsible fiduciaries. I'm not saying that everyone should go out and sue Towers Perrin or Diversified Investments, but the threat of that should hopefully mean that these companies carry out their duties with a little more care.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Calling All Wisconsin Conservatives
To Meghan's point every time I'm watching election results, there is only so much of the talking heads on CNN, ect, that you can take (though my threshold for pundency is certainly higher than hers). What did we learn tonight? I'll sum up very briefly what you already know: McCain is the Republican Nominee-Elect, if there is such a thing (and there certainly wouldn't be if it weren't for Huckabee), and Obama has catapulted from having tremendous upside potential to leading the race, but, as always, narrowly.
Matt will argue all sorts of fancy things about the media and Hillary, about Obama and speeches, and it will all be far more well informed than what I know and you will read here. That's what a degree in politics will get you. But a degree in criminal justice always gets you thinking, what's the evidence?
Here are the (loosely based) statements of facts: McCain will be the Republican nominee, and though early, he polls worse against Obama than he does against Hillary. Obama is endowed with charisma and momentum (among, I can assume, other things that Hillary is not). And, most notably (more in a moment), McCain is not a true, er, core, conservative, and, up until now, didn't have the support of the "core" conservatives.
Of course, that doesn't really matter now, does it? The "core" conservatives don't have one of their own to choose, and they are acting as if their party let them down. Maybe, just maybe, the "core" conservatives aren't the majority (remember the Moral Majority? They were neither moral nor a majority, yet they donned the title, didn't they?) and the rest of the Republican party, your run of the mill conservatives and moderates, are having their way.
The "core" conservatives are saying that McCain will have to make his mea culpas to their contingency before he harnesses their vote, and yet the tone in their demand belies the problem within; they are in fact the ones that need McCain, and not the other way around. Now that he is the nominee-elect, the "core" can only hope that he is the lesser of two evils (their words, not mine) - when you have one candidate on the left, and one in the middle, the right can't exactly make demands of the centrist and honestly make him believe that if the demands aren't met, they'll vote left, or not vote at all (with the same net result).
So before the "core" is left with no recourse at all, its time to put out a call to all Wisconsin conservatives: you have a choice to make. You can go to the polls next week and waste a vote and hit up Huck for a delagate or two, or you can pull the lever for McCain and fall into line - but you'll be doing this in November anyway.
No, the smart move, in an open election such as yours, is to go to the polls and do what's best for McCain - pick up the Democratic ticket and fill in the circle, punch the ticket, pull the lever, or rig the Diebold machine for Hillary. Your party will benefit twice; by swinging (some) momentum back to Hill, you'll further your own stability in comparison to the Dems, and you'll also give Clinton Jr. a chance to face McCain in November - which, though you'll never admit it now, or ever - is what you really want at this point anyway.
Think about it. The folks on CNN won't tell you this. The Republican party won't tell you this. But I am telling you this. Just think about it. You can thank me later.
Matt will argue all sorts of fancy things about the media and Hillary, about Obama and speeches, and it will all be far more well informed than what I know and you will read here. That's what a degree in politics will get you. But a degree in criminal justice always gets you thinking, what's the evidence?
Here are the (loosely based) statements of facts: McCain will be the Republican nominee, and though early, he polls worse against Obama than he does against Hillary. Obama is endowed with charisma and momentum (among, I can assume, other things that Hillary is not). And, most notably (more in a moment), McCain is not a true, er, core, conservative, and, up until now, didn't have the support of the "core" conservatives.
Of course, that doesn't really matter now, does it? The "core" conservatives don't have one of their own to choose, and they are acting as if their party let them down. Maybe, just maybe, the "core" conservatives aren't the majority (remember the Moral Majority? They were neither moral nor a majority, yet they donned the title, didn't they?) and the rest of the Republican party, your run of the mill conservatives and moderates, are having their way.
The "core" conservatives are saying that McCain will have to make his mea culpas to their contingency before he harnesses their vote, and yet the tone in their demand belies the problem within; they are in fact the ones that need McCain, and not the other way around. Now that he is the nominee-elect, the "core" can only hope that he is the lesser of two evils (their words, not mine) - when you have one candidate on the left, and one in the middle, the right can't exactly make demands of the centrist and honestly make him believe that if the demands aren't met, they'll vote left, or not vote at all (with the same net result).
So before the "core" is left with no recourse at all, its time to put out a call to all Wisconsin conservatives: you have a choice to make. You can go to the polls next week and waste a vote and hit up Huck for a delagate or two, or you can pull the lever for McCain and fall into line - but you'll be doing this in November anyway.
No, the smart move, in an open election such as yours, is to go to the polls and do what's best for McCain - pick up the Democratic ticket and fill in the circle, punch the ticket, pull the lever, or rig the Diebold machine for Hillary. Your party will benefit twice; by swinging (some) momentum back to Hill, you'll further your own stability in comparison to the Dems, and you'll also give Clinton Jr. a chance to face McCain in November - which, though you'll never admit it now, or ever - is what you really want at this point anyway.
Think about it. The folks on CNN won't tell you this. The Republican party won't tell you this. But I am telling you this. Just think about it. You can thank me later.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Left versus Right, Walgreens, Dumplings
I may sound like a broken record, but I didn't have a swell day. This is pretty much a constant for me, so I will spare you the gory details (except this one: "2a-7". Don't ask. Unless you are really bored, then google that, plus Money Market, and then bang your head against your CPU tower, or the corner of your laptop, repeatedly, until red liquid dribbles from your temple).
Meghan asked me to stop at Walgreens to see if her pictures were there. Now, you may remember a time when your pictures may or may not be there, mainly because the 1 hr photo shop wasn't as fast as you were dropping them off and then immediately going to pick them up because you wanted to see 500 pictures of your boring cousin on your lame vacation. Its a little different these days, due to the whole internet thing. Now, the process is a little more abstract; we take pictures, store them on a small disc, transfer them to a big disc, upload them, download them, send them online to the store, and then, after two weeks, complete and utterly forget that you've had the poor guy behind the walgreens counter print your pictures, slowly letting the dust settle on the package, until we kindly ask our husbands to just drop in unexpectly on the picture man and ask for our now antiquated snapshots.
Unfortunately, the pictures caught the last dust-bunny express to Albuquerque and the sniviling little man pleads ignorant to your unwelcomed questions about your pictures.
Fortunately, there happens to be a Chinese Resturant right next to this particular Walgreens (the Resturant itself may actually be a comination of steel & pine however, the food served within is decidedly unauthenticly Chinese). Recalling my day (the bloodloss due to conversations about "2a-7" has slowed my brain considerably, so I stood in the cooooold a little longer than is normal), and the relative disappointment about the pictures (relative meaning on a scale from 0 to .001), I decided that a beer and some dumplings might not be all that bad. Especially when recalling the conversation that Meghan and I had 7 days prior:
Scene: 43W 29, 5:30 pm, on a Tuesday
Meghan (phone in hand): I'm getting a calzone. (the period is silent, but not subtle.)
Me: What?
Meghan (reaching for menu, angered by my perplexity): I'm getting a calzone.
Me: Oohkay. Uhm, sounds good. Why?
Meghan (looking downright fierce): THERE'S NO CHOCOLATE IN THE HOUSE. (even less subtle period at the end of the sentence. Making me think its time to go vote and then head to class).
Me (considering the mathmatics of -Chocolate = +Calzone + Delivery, and the physics involved with my response): ...
Meghan (staring): Do you want one?
Me (scared to answer either way): Sure... sounds good (running out door. End Scene).
So when I decided that some dumplings, a wonton soup and a bud light wasn't logical, it did manage to fall into the logic of the above conversation, and coupled with my freezing fingers and nose, and the sudden realization that if I didn't have a beer, I would have to go back to work with one less beer having been consumed between shifts, well, that pushed me over the edge.
Whats great about this particular establishment is that there are two bars and one dining room. The bars seem to flank the dining room, though they are completely different in structure. The one of the left is the length of the building and has a few pool tables, though its most notable for its narrowness and length, as well as its flat screen tvs (Angelina Jolie and Mr. & Mrs. Smith turned out to be just as entertaining as Sportscenter). The other bar is square, small, and is notable for its patrons; locals classified somewhere between the species Cantonae Heartyous and Cantonae Grizzledous. Their enjoyment of all things, uhm, well, whatever locals enjoy every monday night at 6 pm in a semi-sketchy bar, is entertaining. However, like most things these days, I lean left, and head to the wide open, empty, big screened bar where I can enjoy the nothingness that comes to my brain after purging thoughts of my conversations with Bank of America.
Whats my point here? I'm pretty sure its Left Right Walgreens Dumplings. Bloodloss. Time to return the Redbox movie before I pass out.
Meghan asked me to stop at Walgreens to see if her pictures were there. Now, you may remember a time when your pictures may or may not be there, mainly because the 1 hr photo shop wasn't as fast as you were dropping them off and then immediately going to pick them up because you wanted to see 500 pictures of your boring cousin on your lame vacation. Its a little different these days, due to the whole internet thing. Now, the process is a little more abstract; we take pictures, store them on a small disc, transfer them to a big disc, upload them, download them, send them online to the store, and then, after two weeks, complete and utterly forget that you've had the poor guy behind the walgreens counter print your pictures, slowly letting the dust settle on the package, until we kindly ask our husbands to just drop in unexpectly on the picture man and ask for our now antiquated snapshots.
Unfortunately, the pictures caught the last dust-bunny express to Albuquerque and the sniviling little man pleads ignorant to your unwelcomed questions about your pictures.
Fortunately, there happens to be a Chinese Resturant right next to this particular Walgreens (the Resturant itself may actually be a comination of steel & pine however, the food served within is decidedly unauthenticly Chinese). Recalling my day (the bloodloss due to conversations about "2a-7" has slowed my brain considerably, so I stood in the cooooold a little longer than is normal), and the relative disappointment about the pictures (relative meaning on a scale from 0 to .001), I decided that a beer and some dumplings might not be all that bad. Especially when recalling the conversation that Meghan and I had 7 days prior:
Scene: 43W 29, 5:30 pm, on a Tuesday
Meghan (phone in hand): I'm getting a calzone. (the period is silent, but not subtle.)
Me: What?
Meghan (reaching for menu, angered by my perplexity): I'm getting a calzone.
Me: Oohkay. Uhm, sounds good. Why?
Meghan (looking downright fierce): THERE'S NO CHOCOLATE IN THE HOUSE. (even less subtle period at the end of the sentence. Making me think its time to go vote and then head to class).
Me (considering the mathmatics of -Chocolate = +Calzone + Delivery, and the physics involved with my response): ...
Meghan (staring): Do you want one?
Me (scared to answer either way): Sure... sounds good (running out door. End Scene).
So when I decided that some dumplings, a wonton soup and a bud light wasn't logical, it did manage to fall into the logic of the above conversation, and coupled with my freezing fingers and nose, and the sudden realization that if I didn't have a beer, I would have to go back to work with one less beer having been consumed between shifts, well, that pushed me over the edge.
Whats great about this particular establishment is that there are two bars and one dining room. The bars seem to flank the dining room, though they are completely different in structure. The one of the left is the length of the building and has a few pool tables, though its most notable for its narrowness and length, as well as its flat screen tvs (Angelina Jolie and Mr. & Mrs. Smith turned out to be just as entertaining as Sportscenter). The other bar is square, small, and is notable for its patrons; locals classified somewhere between the species Cantonae Heartyous and Cantonae Grizzledous. Their enjoyment of all things, uhm, well, whatever locals enjoy every monday night at 6 pm in a semi-sketchy bar, is entertaining. However, like most things these days, I lean left, and head to the wide open, empty, big screened bar where I can enjoy the nothingness that comes to my brain after purging thoughts of my conversations with Bank of America.
Whats my point here? I'm pretty sure its Left Right Walgreens Dumplings. Bloodloss. Time to return the Redbox movie before I pass out.
The Flip Side...
And then there are those times you wish the video wasn't available.
Five words I never though I'd say as a Boston Bruins fan:
Get well soon, Richard Zednik.
Five words I never though I'd say as a Boston Bruins fan:
Get well soon, Richard Zednik.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
No word on the status of the Sheriff, who was rushed to the ER with a gunshot wound...
In other news I'm spending the day in Keene... and as Meghan would say, its a "KEENE time!" which in no way makes sense, as keen is an adjective for sharp or acute of mind, but I suppose any enjoyment she finds in coming with me is a bonus.
I just finished Bill Simmons mail bag and i have to say, with each passing day, I find last sunday to be a little easier to handle. Still, I have to wonder, what if Asante had caught that ball... oh well.
But just in case you forgot what it felt like, here's the call, one more time, when they should have made that tackle on Manning (I'm pretty sure this is the actual footage from standard definition tv, however its hard to tell).
Friday, February 8, 2008
In a related story, I left the bathroom relieved.
What this story fails to mention is that he entered the race a black Jewish communist, however the Republican factory fixed him.
Sadly, this model was defective - apparently it was too good at "managing things". Not that I was a Romney supporter, or fan, or anything, but after 8 years of the current administration, don't you kind of want someone that can "manage"? Even if he's not a charismatic leader, well, isn't it still better than a complete dope??
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Times I Wish CNN Video Actually Showed What it Said it Was Going to Show
One of my greatest disappointments in life is that every time I go to CNN, there's always a leading headline that is only in video form, and you think "WOW, I WANT TO SEE THAT!!". And then you find out that what was cool at first is really a lousy video of someone talking about the really cool event. This annoys me to NO END. I'm officially petitioning CNN to either deliver the goods, or stop teasing us. Case in point:
Of course, we'll never know. Because CNN WON'T SHOW THE VIDEO!!
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
An Unlucky Shirt?
I'm sure by now I've said more than enough about the Pats, and there's been a lot said in the local and national media. So I'll spare you another diatribe, this time on the loss. I do want to mention one thing though:
I don't bother believing in these supposed jinxes and curses. Bill Simmons can write an article about whether or not the Pats are the best Boston team ever, even before they play out the Super Bowl, and it doesn't affect the outcome. Meghan can skip the Bruschi jersey and it doesn't affect the outcome. Belichick can wear the red sweatshirt, and it doesn't affect the outcome. I can change my passwords at work, even before the game is played, to a superbowl related theme, and, though its a bit nearsighted, it doesn't affect the outcome of the game. I just don't buy into these things.
Nevertheless, I do believe that in the end, the football gods got their revenge on the Pats. (How exactly can I say that a hoodie doesn't matter, but some fictional gods do? I just can, don't ask questions.) The Giants played an incredible game in week 17, didn't cheat, didn't blow people out, and didn't anger the football gods. They didn't have the best QB (far from, as history has shown), they didn't have the best wide receiver (it will be interesting to see if we keep ours). The football gods said that the Giants should win, and win they did.
Do I get it? Sure. I'm willing to accept it. I'm willing to accept 18-1 (the football gods wanted that too)... what i want to know is, now that the football gods had their way, can't we have them replay the game? Seems like its only fair, now that everyone has exacted their revenge on the Pats...
Ugh, why am I still writing this?? I promised to be brief.
I don't bother believing in these supposed jinxes and curses. Bill Simmons can write an article about whether or not the Pats are the best Boston team ever, even before they play out the Super Bowl, and it doesn't affect the outcome. Meghan can skip the Bruschi jersey and it doesn't affect the outcome. Belichick can wear the red sweatshirt, and it doesn't affect the outcome. I can change my passwords at work, even before the game is played, to a superbowl related theme, and, though its a bit nearsighted, it doesn't affect the outcome of the game. I just don't buy into these things.
Nevertheless, I do believe that in the end, the football gods got their revenge on the Pats. (How exactly can I say that a hoodie doesn't matter, but some fictional gods do? I just can, don't ask questions.) The Giants played an incredible game in week 17, didn't cheat, didn't blow people out, and didn't anger the football gods. They didn't have the best QB (far from, as history has shown), they didn't have the best wide receiver (it will be interesting to see if we keep ours). The football gods said that the Giants should win, and win they did.
Do I get it? Sure. I'm willing to accept it. I'm willing to accept 18-1 (the football gods wanted that too)... what i want to know is, now that the football gods had their way, can't we have them replay the game? Seems like its only fair, now that everyone has exacted their revenge on the Pats...
Ugh, why am I still writing this?? I promised to be brief.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Reflections on Success
I've been excited for Super Bowl Sunday for a while... a long while. In fact, I think I've been excited for tomorrow since one year and two weeks ago, when the Pats were forced to bow out of the playoffs after the Colts managed to muster the strength and do what they hadn't done before - beat the Pats in a must win game. But we all know that story. And while you can say that the Pats team that was on the field in 2007 was fatally flawed - they didn't have a wide receiver worth the paper his contract was printed on - they were a play away from their 4th Super Bowl appearance in six years.
This year's version of the Pats - NE SB 4.0 - doesn't carry the same flaws - that much and more is quite obvious - and after enjoying all of the success that they have had - they and the Sox and Celts (we'll leave the middling B's for another conversation) - I've found myself thinking more and more about how we all got to this place, how as a 26 year old I'm able to forget about growing up following losing teams and now enjoy some of the greatest professional athletic success that any city has had in such a short time.
When the Pats were finally downed by the Colts last year, I had more than a few conversations with friends and co-workers over whether the run of success in Boston was coming to an end - the Pats were two years removed from their incredible 3-titles-in-4-years, and the Sox were heading into a new season with a lot of hype - can you say Dice-K? (side note: who knew we'd be saying Okee-Do-kee as much as Dice-K by the end of the season?) - but after living through off-seasons of hype, and watching the payrolls expand year after year, it was apparent that the Sox weren't following their blueprint to success that had made the '04 team a champion. And though there was the possibility of a number one pick for the Celtics, the winter sports franchises were the saddest group of over-paid athletes East of Rt. 128. Things, once again, were looking down - but it always comes down to the possibilities once you play the game on the field.
October, 1999. Freshman year at Saint A's - I'm fortunate to be living in Hilary Hall, a dorm generally reserved for Sophmores and upperclassmen that don't live in town-house type livng quarters. Each "room" is generally set up for 4 guys, and includes two bedrooms and a living area - not exactly high-class living, but a far more comfortable, and usually more quiet, abode than the sausage-fest that was Dominic Hall. On this one particular Saturday night however, I'm fairly certain that the roof is going to come off from all of the noise. It was as if the entire building was swaying - with each pitch that Pedro threw - and he was throwing a gem, there was a moment of silience, and then cheering for each strike, each out.
The Sox had just made the most improbable comback (little did we know about what was in store for us come 2004), beating the Cleveland Indians 3 games to 2 in the Divisional Series after losing the first two games. Pedro was everything that we wanted Roger to be - he was our savior, coming into the game in relief (and again throwing a gem) in the Cleveland series, and now, versus the (insert deragotory term here) Yankees, he was turning the series around all by himself.
My most lasting memory from that night is of the door across the hall from my room - the guys living there had printed out "K" cards and were taping them to the door after each strikeout. The door was filled as we worked into the later innings.
The rest of the Sox weren't as good as Pedro though - and shortly after a phantom tag at second base by Chuck Knoblauch (the same Chuck Knoblauch that hit ESPN/MSNBC's Keith Olbermann's mom as she was sitting in the stands and he missed a throw to first base wiiiiiiiiide right), the Sox were eliminated once again. For the first time, I started coming to grips with the notion that it wasn't going to happen - I wasn't going to see the Sox win a World Series during my lifetime, mainly because they weren't going to win a world series ever again.
As Meghan constantly reminds me, its really quite silly to spend quite so much time mulling over the doings of the local 9 (or 11, or 6, or what have you); whatever the true reason may be, I like to tell myself that I do it because it is a great escape from the reality that surrounds me.
I suppose that none of our lives are as difficult as we think they are from where we see them at ground level. (Ian may be a possible exception, a) he isn't at ground level, and b) well, you know, he's in Iraq.) For the rest of us, its just a policy, piece of equipment, or electronic funny money (and it belongs to someone else, at that). But on the battlefront that is the day to day grind, the diversion that Sunday afternoon provides is more than welcomed. So if I spend a little too much time thinking about what next season will bring, instead of how well the company reports its next quarter earnings, please forgive me.
November, 2001. Five guys packed into a four person apartment has already made for some interesting situations (not to mention phrase-ology - can you say "andrew lany alone time"?). Though the living situation was less than ideal, it made Sunday afternoon a LOT of fun. The '01 season saw the advent of the Tom Brady regime in New England, and though I'd always been a football fan, living with Matt and dying with each Drew Bledsoe scamper out of the pocket had peaked my interest in the game.
At week ten, with little evidence to support my position other than a hastily drafted Pats schedule on a Post-it note, I outlined to Matt how the 5-4 Pats could lose to the greatest-show-on-turf Saint Louis Rams that weekend, and then roll off four wins in the final six games, and make the playoffs, with an outside shot at the Super Bowl. To my surprise, Matt agreed. I was immediately excited that someone who understood the game a lot better than I did thought my madness might be rooted in some logic.
I was wrong however; the Pats put up a good fight versus the Rams, and rolled off SIX wins in their final six games, to go into the playoffs as the #2 seed in the AFC.
I can't imagine what it was like to work in an office before the rise of the internet. Though doing my job without the online tools that I have access to would be impossible, my sanity would be similarly compromised with out Bill Simmons and Peter King. Their online posts are notable for both their humor and insight as well as the aggrevation that they bring me when they aren't posted in a timely fashion. This of course adds to the sports psychosis that I seem to have (I understand though it seems to be a collective disease). About the only time that I don't get any real joy in taking time out of the work day to read these guys is when the success that our teams have had slips away, and that failure takes the spotlight.
When the Pats lost to the Colts lat year, I would say I was upset, even into the next day (unhealthy? you betcha). However the recent wins and championships have only served to fuel the "there's always next year" mentality. This years disappointment quickly wanes into next years prospects.
October, 2003 The most recent incantation of the Sox-Yanks war has been exhausting, right down to the very end. Out on "my own" for the first time, I'm living on Heavey St. in Manchvegas with a poor job (car sales), poor income, and far too much fun with Madden on the XBox and tv with the guys each day. As the days got colder though, and the baseball season was coming to an end, there was the distinct possibility that the monkey may finally come off the Sox back, and they'd beat the Yankees to go to the World Series.
Game 7, in the living room on Heavey St. was possibly the most stressful few hours of my relatively lax life. We were watching the game on tv but with the local broadcast from the radio.
As Pedro gave way to noone, and later to Tim Wakefield, and Aaron Boone came to bat, the monkey apparently had once again sunk its claws into the back of the Nation and was on board for another long winter of discontent.
As Boone's batted ball left the park to the right of the left field foul pole, none of us had words. I stood, turned off the radio, which doubled as my alarm clock which had to wake me for my early shift at the dealership the next day, and walked into bed. I feel asleep, slowly, and agrily. Never. It was NEVER going to happen. No matter how many other successes the other franchises had. I couldn't even consider being in the same exact spot, 12 months later, after the Sox had been down three games to none, with Champagne in the fridge, ready to celebrate the most improbable victory ever.
As great as experiencing the victories as a fan has been, I've started to realize that the losses can be just as meaningful, which I suppose is what I've been trying to lead up to all along. My nephew Arthur, at the tender age of 9, has not only become one of the formerly most pathetic creatures on earth, a Sox fan, but a sports fan in general, and a Boston sports fan more specifically. And he has been blessed to know little (or none) of the heartache that the rest of us, even the younger ones, have. He experienced a Sox world series win near his nineth birthday, and though he may not recall too clearly, another near his 6th, not to mention the bookending Pats superbowl wins.
For him, a Pats win would be good, but not as great as the feeling of their failure. He's been conditioned in the past year to expect victory at every turn; if the Pats lose, I'll be upset (maybe more than those close to me), and we'll all recover in time (for some, within moments, others, such as myself, in minutes, or hours, or so.) But without having a quantifiable scale to prove my point, I would say that a Pats loss would be better for Arthur to experience than it would be for most of the rest of us (Pats fans). Knowing the heartache that comes with loss is as true a reality as the joy of victory, and until this year, perfection quite literally the least real option available in sports. There's always next year, and if Arthur learns that the hard way, instead of the easy way, it may just make him a better fan. And I'm sure he'll still be able to get out of bed and go to school tomorrow.
Don't get me wrong. I want them to win. I'm just saying is all. It may be good for him if they lose, but for me, I really, really want them to win! We may not be on the field, get to hold the trophy, wear the t-shirts in the locker room or battle it out on the field, but we do get to experience it as fans (its why they're showing the game on TV), and it does create some great, lasting memories.
February, 2002. I was right about one thing when it came to my little sticky notes. The Pats made the superbowl, and once again, they were facing the Rams. The 5-man apartment had become a 15 person orgy of football viewing. Classes be damned, this was one of the best nights I'd ever had, and as the clock was ticking down, the game was everything you could have asked for, if not more.
I may have had a Nostradamus moment with the schedule a few months back, but nothing could have ever tipped my mind to the notion that, with a win slipping out of hand and the game tied, Bill Belechick would have his offense march down the field with moments left to go in the 4th quarter.
The second best memory of the night was watching the ball, rocketed from the foot of soon-to-be hero Adam Vinatari, sailing through the air and between the uprights to seal the Pat's first superbowl. I don't think I've ever, before or since, high-fived, celebrated, or made more sports related phonecalls for the duration that I did that night.
My favorite memory though isn't what was on the screen, but what happened during the celebration there after - as we were watching replays and the presentation of the Lombardi trophy, my brother Philip barged through the door - he had somehow left the party where he had been watching the game, driven to my apartment, and blown through two doors, one that was in all likelyhood locked to such intruders - and tackle-hugged me, and my future wife, in a moment of unbridled joy (and, incidentally a small amount of pain, as we became pinned in between the door, the couch, and Meghan).
To have your team win is great. To be able to celebrate it with friends and family, now thats priceless.
I hope you all enjoy the game, and get to enjoy it thusly. Go Pats!
This year's version of the Pats - NE SB 4.0 - doesn't carry the same flaws - that much and more is quite obvious - and after enjoying all of the success that they have had - they and the Sox and Celts (we'll leave the middling B's for another conversation) - I've found myself thinking more and more about how we all got to this place, how as a 26 year old I'm able to forget about growing up following losing teams and now enjoy some of the greatest professional athletic success that any city has had in such a short time.
When the Pats were finally downed by the Colts last year, I had more than a few conversations with friends and co-workers over whether the run of success in Boston was coming to an end - the Pats were two years removed from their incredible 3-titles-in-4-years, and the Sox were heading into a new season with a lot of hype - can you say Dice-K? (side note: who knew we'd be saying Okee-Do-kee as much as Dice-K by the end of the season?) - but after living through off-seasons of hype, and watching the payrolls expand year after year, it was apparent that the Sox weren't following their blueprint to success that had made the '04 team a champion. And though there was the possibility of a number one pick for the Celtics, the winter sports franchises were the saddest group of over-paid athletes East of Rt. 128. Things, once again, were looking down - but it always comes down to the possibilities once you play the game on the field.
October, 1999. Freshman year at Saint A's - I'm fortunate to be living in Hilary Hall, a dorm generally reserved for Sophmores and upperclassmen that don't live in town-house type livng quarters. Each "room" is generally set up for 4 guys, and includes two bedrooms and a living area - not exactly high-class living, but a far more comfortable, and usually more quiet, abode than the sausage-fest that was Dominic Hall. On this one particular Saturday night however, I'm fairly certain that the roof is going to come off from all of the noise. It was as if the entire building was swaying - with each pitch that Pedro threw - and he was throwing a gem, there was a moment of silience, and then cheering for each strike, each out.
The Sox had just made the most improbable comback (little did we know about what was in store for us come 2004), beating the Cleveland Indians 3 games to 2 in the Divisional Series after losing the first two games. Pedro was everything that we wanted Roger to be - he was our savior, coming into the game in relief (and again throwing a gem) in the Cleveland series, and now, versus the (insert deragotory term here) Yankees, he was turning the series around all by himself.
My most lasting memory from that night is of the door across the hall from my room - the guys living there had printed out "K" cards and were taping them to the door after each strikeout. The door was filled as we worked into the later innings.
The rest of the Sox weren't as good as Pedro though - and shortly after a phantom tag at second base by Chuck Knoblauch (the same Chuck Knoblauch that hit ESPN/MSNBC's Keith Olbermann's mom as she was sitting in the stands and he missed a throw to first base wiiiiiiiiide right), the Sox were eliminated once again. For the first time, I started coming to grips with the notion that it wasn't going to happen - I wasn't going to see the Sox win a World Series during my lifetime, mainly because they weren't going to win a world series ever again.
As Meghan constantly reminds me, its really quite silly to spend quite so much time mulling over the doings of the local 9 (or 11, or 6, or what have you); whatever the true reason may be, I like to tell myself that I do it because it is a great escape from the reality that surrounds me.
I suppose that none of our lives are as difficult as we think they are from where we see them at ground level. (Ian may be a possible exception, a) he isn't at ground level, and b) well, you know, he's in Iraq.) For the rest of us, its just a policy, piece of equipment, or electronic funny money (and it belongs to someone else, at that). But on the battlefront that is the day to day grind, the diversion that Sunday afternoon provides is more than welcomed. So if I spend a little too much time thinking about what next season will bring, instead of how well the company reports its next quarter earnings, please forgive me.
November, 2001. Five guys packed into a four person apartment has already made for some interesting situations (not to mention phrase-ology - can you say "andrew lany alone time"?). Though the living situation was less than ideal, it made Sunday afternoon a LOT of fun. The '01 season saw the advent of the Tom Brady regime in New England, and though I'd always been a football fan, living with Matt and dying with each Drew Bledsoe scamper out of the pocket had peaked my interest in the game.
At week ten, with little evidence to support my position other than a hastily drafted Pats schedule on a Post-it note, I outlined to Matt how the 5-4 Pats could lose to the greatest-show-on-turf Saint Louis Rams that weekend, and then roll off four wins in the final six games, and make the playoffs, with an outside shot at the Super Bowl. To my surprise, Matt agreed. I was immediately excited that someone who understood the game a lot better than I did thought my madness might be rooted in some logic.
I was wrong however; the Pats put up a good fight versus the Rams, and rolled off SIX wins in their final six games, to go into the playoffs as the #2 seed in the AFC.
I can't imagine what it was like to work in an office before the rise of the internet. Though doing my job without the online tools that I have access to would be impossible, my sanity would be similarly compromised with out Bill Simmons and Peter King. Their online posts are notable for both their humor and insight as well as the aggrevation that they bring me when they aren't posted in a timely fashion. This of course adds to the sports psychosis that I seem to have (I understand though it seems to be a collective disease). About the only time that I don't get any real joy in taking time out of the work day to read these guys is when the success that our teams have had slips away, and that failure takes the spotlight.
When the Pats lost to the Colts lat year, I would say I was upset, even into the next day (unhealthy? you betcha). However the recent wins and championships have only served to fuel the "there's always next year" mentality. This years disappointment quickly wanes into next years prospects.
October, 2003 The most recent incantation of the Sox-Yanks war has been exhausting, right down to the very end. Out on "my own" for the first time, I'm living on Heavey St. in Manchvegas with a poor job (car sales), poor income, and far too much fun with Madden on the XBox and tv with the guys each day. As the days got colder though, and the baseball season was coming to an end, there was the distinct possibility that the monkey may finally come off the Sox back, and they'd beat the Yankees to go to the World Series.
Game 7, in the living room on Heavey St. was possibly the most stressful few hours of my relatively lax life. We were watching the game on tv but with the local broadcast from the radio.
As Pedro gave way to noone, and later to Tim Wakefield, and Aaron Boone came to bat, the monkey apparently had once again sunk its claws into the back of the Nation and was on board for another long winter of discontent.
As Boone's batted ball left the park to the right of the left field foul pole, none of us had words. I stood, turned off the radio, which doubled as my alarm clock which had to wake me for my early shift at the dealership the next day, and walked into bed. I feel asleep, slowly, and agrily. Never. It was NEVER going to happen. No matter how many other successes the other franchises had. I couldn't even consider being in the same exact spot, 12 months later, after the Sox had been down three games to none, with Champagne in the fridge, ready to celebrate the most improbable victory ever.
As great as experiencing the victories as a fan has been, I've started to realize that the losses can be just as meaningful, which I suppose is what I've been trying to lead up to all along. My nephew Arthur, at the tender age of 9, has not only become one of the formerly most pathetic creatures on earth, a Sox fan, but a sports fan in general, and a Boston sports fan more specifically. And he has been blessed to know little (or none) of the heartache that the rest of us, even the younger ones, have. He experienced a Sox world series win near his nineth birthday, and though he may not recall too clearly, another near his 6th, not to mention the bookending Pats superbowl wins.
For him, a Pats win would be good, but not as great as the feeling of their failure. He's been conditioned in the past year to expect victory at every turn; if the Pats lose, I'll be upset (maybe more than those close to me), and we'll all recover in time (for some, within moments, others, such as myself, in minutes, or hours, or so.) But without having a quantifiable scale to prove my point, I would say that a Pats loss would be better for Arthur to experience than it would be for most of the rest of us (Pats fans). Knowing the heartache that comes with loss is as true a reality as the joy of victory, and until this year, perfection quite literally the least real option available in sports. There's always next year, and if Arthur learns that the hard way, instead of the easy way, it may just make him a better fan. And I'm sure he'll still be able to get out of bed and go to school tomorrow.
Don't get me wrong. I want them to win. I'm just saying is all. It may be good for him if they lose, but for me, I really, really want them to win! We may not be on the field, get to hold the trophy, wear the t-shirts in the locker room or battle it out on the field, but we do get to experience it as fans (its why they're showing the game on TV), and it does create some great, lasting memories.
February, 2002. I was right about one thing when it came to my little sticky notes. The Pats made the superbowl, and once again, they were facing the Rams. The 5-man apartment had become a 15 person orgy of football viewing. Classes be damned, this was one of the best nights I'd ever had, and as the clock was ticking down, the game was everything you could have asked for, if not more.
I may have had a Nostradamus moment with the schedule a few months back, but nothing could have ever tipped my mind to the notion that, with a win slipping out of hand and the game tied, Bill Belechick would have his offense march down the field with moments left to go in the 4th quarter.
The second best memory of the night was watching the ball, rocketed from the foot of soon-to-be hero Adam Vinatari, sailing through the air and between the uprights to seal the Pat's first superbowl. I don't think I've ever, before or since, high-fived, celebrated, or made more sports related phonecalls for the duration that I did that night.
My favorite memory though isn't what was on the screen, but what happened during the celebration there after - as we were watching replays and the presentation of the Lombardi trophy, my brother Philip barged through the door - he had somehow left the party where he had been watching the game, driven to my apartment, and blown through two doors, one that was in all likelyhood locked to such intruders - and tackle-hugged me, and my future wife, in a moment of unbridled joy (and, incidentally a small amount of pain, as we became pinned in between the door, the couch, and Meghan).
To have your team win is great. To be able to celebrate it with friends and family, now thats priceless.
I hope you all enjoy the game, and get to enjoy it thusly. Go Pats!
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