Hey there! I've got a little time before going again, so let me try to sum up the Christmas experience before moving on to more recent events.
Started by going to Maine for a few days. It was like Thanksgiving, but moreso. How, do you ask?
More shopping. Sarah's mom is just getting over surgery (she's fine, thanks), and didn't have a chance to go shopping for presents until late. So we had a little day trip to Bangor, hit the mall, Wal Mart, Borders, you name it. We even managed to wrap up our shopping, getting those last bits that always seem to elude you until the 23rd or so.
More food. I think I've mentioned in the past the role food plays in Sarah's family. Vacations are made or broken on food, and holiday celebrations aren't successful without good food. We had that in spades, considering that Sarah's mom can't cook for fewer than 15 people (it's her job as well, so it's a nice mating of the personal and professional). We had ham and capon (a castrato rooster), plenty of sides, the whole thing.
But what put things over the top food-wise were two British additions. One was chocolate. And not the stuff you get here. Let's just say I have a new found admiration for the products of the Cadbury's company. Unlike American filled chocolates, which tend to include fillings like quince, maple, and okra, they stick to the basics: chocolate, caramel, and nuts. There are some fruit fillings, but they're few and far between (and usually things that make sense, like strawberry).
The other Leftpondian addition is the sausage roll. Very basic idea: sausage meat in a roll, either of puff pastry or (what we had) a biscuit-type covering. I'm not sure how these haven't caught on here, given that it combines meat and bread in a tasty and portable way. If they can serve walleye on a stick at the Minnesota state fair, sausage rolls have a niche here, certainly.
More allergic reaction to cats. We spent more time at home while in Maine. No day trips, and the weather was kind of gross (it poured Christmas eve). That meant spending more time in the house with Sarah's sister's cat. I'm fine with their family cat, who spends a lot of time outdoors and when indoors pretty much confines himself to one spot on the floor. It's the other cat, the young, spastic cat, that gives me problems. I think I took twice as much Benadryl this time for a similar length of stay. Which took care of the problem, but made me a litle dopey. And the cat clawed a shirt of mine! I was not sorry to see the cat go.
After Maine we headed to my sister's in New Hampshire for the day after, where we ate more ham (I think I had more pig-related food that week than in the previous year) and watched six kids open about 30 presents in 34 seconds. No reading the tag, barely even time to register what the gift was in most cases. Just rip, pass along, and rip again. It's a little disconcerting, and it makes me wonder why I don't just buy them all generic games or something. They'd get as much notice as what we did buy in most cases.
If I learned anything at all this holiday season, it's that if you ask for specific items for Christmas, you're bound to get them. My decade long run of "nothing" or "clothes or something" came to a screeching halt this year. Top gifts include the full run of The Prisoner and the first season of The Simpsons on DVD, and two things I didn't ask for: a George Foreman grill (family size!) and a framed copy of where my family name comes from and our coat of arms. Very cool, a gift that Sarah started to compile when we were at Epcot in September.
We're about ready to use one of the gifts I got Sarah, so more later!
30 December 2001
19 December 2001
I just read that Nabisco, in honor of the 100th birtday of Barnum's Animal Crackers, is adding a new animal. You get four to choose from: walrus, cobra, koala, and penguin.
If you want to judge for yourself and vote, go to www.nabiscoworld.com now. As you might imagine, I have an opinion on this that I'll expound upon presently.
Looking at the cookies, I immediately decided against the koala and the cobra. My feeling about animal crackers is that they should be the shape of the animal, not just a cookie with the animal design on it. Neither of these pass the test, though I do think a cobra would be cool if it could be made into a stand alone cracker.
The walrus is, quite honestly, an indistinguishable blob. It could be a manatee, or a slug, or a Barbapapa.
So I cast my vote for the penguin. This will not surprise some of you, as I do have a fondness for penguins. They're my favorite part of the New England Aquarium, and when we were at Sea World this past September, the penguins were the only thing that I wanted to see among the standard exhibits (and, I have to say, the penguin house at Sea World is pretty lame). There's also Opus, the loveable mensch of a penguin from Bloom County, a cartoon fave of mine, even if he looks more like a puffin.
Most of these "we're adding something new" votes tend to rub me the wrong way. It's like a consumer version of cousin Oliver or Scrappy Doo, trying to reinvigorate interest in a product through flash rather than a reinvention involving anything of substance.
Consider the M&M "election" that led to the blue candy. There was no need to change colors. M&Ms are popular, never seemed to waver really, making such a change an obvious marketing ploy for kids, who seem attracted to any food incorporating blue (note all the raspberry flavored things colored blue). You'll notice that the option to not change any color, leaving tan in its rightful place, was never mentioned in the ad. You only heard about it when you called, and who would call intending to vote for a new color only to then change their mind? I called and called, but my one man jihad against a new color of M&M was doomed to failure.
Similar votes for a new Monopoly player token and new Crayola crayon shades were less annoying for some reason. Maybe I just found the process there less disagreeable. In looking at it, the money bag token was an added one, not replacing the traditional tokens (even the more pedestrian ones, like the iron or wheelbarrow). The Crayola vote mostly dealt with naming new shades, though they did solicit names for 8 colors in 1993. They "inducted" the old shades into the hall of fame. The likes of raw umber, yellow green, and maize made way for vivid tangerine, dandelion, and jungle green. Not as annoying as the new shades Crayola named themselves in 1998: brink pink, fuzzy wuzzy brown, banana mania, carribean green. Ack!
At least the idiot who named those got back on his/her feet coming up with the name Verizon.
If you want to judge for yourself and vote, go to www.nabiscoworld.com now. As you might imagine, I have an opinion on this that I'll expound upon presently.
Looking at the cookies, I immediately decided against the koala and the cobra. My feeling about animal crackers is that they should be the shape of the animal, not just a cookie with the animal design on it. Neither of these pass the test, though I do think a cobra would be cool if it could be made into a stand alone cracker.
The walrus is, quite honestly, an indistinguishable blob. It could be a manatee, or a slug, or a Barbapapa.
So I cast my vote for the penguin. This will not surprise some of you, as I do have a fondness for penguins. They're my favorite part of the New England Aquarium, and when we were at Sea World this past September, the penguins were the only thing that I wanted to see among the standard exhibits (and, I have to say, the penguin house at Sea World is pretty lame). There's also Opus, the loveable mensch of a penguin from Bloom County, a cartoon fave of mine, even if he looks more like a puffin.
Most of these "we're adding something new" votes tend to rub me the wrong way. It's like a consumer version of cousin Oliver or Scrappy Doo, trying to reinvigorate interest in a product through flash rather than a reinvention involving anything of substance.
Consider the M&M "election" that led to the blue candy. There was no need to change colors. M&Ms are popular, never seemed to waver really, making such a change an obvious marketing ploy for kids, who seem attracted to any food incorporating blue (note all the raspberry flavored things colored blue). You'll notice that the option to not change any color, leaving tan in its rightful place, was never mentioned in the ad. You only heard about it when you called, and who would call intending to vote for a new color only to then change their mind? I called and called, but my one man jihad against a new color of M&M was doomed to failure.
Similar votes for a new Monopoly player token and new Crayola crayon shades were less annoying for some reason. Maybe I just found the process there less disagreeable. In looking at it, the money bag token was an added one, not replacing the traditional tokens (even the more pedestrian ones, like the iron or wheelbarrow). The Crayola vote mostly dealt with naming new shades, though they did solicit names for 8 colors in 1993. They "inducted" the old shades into the hall of fame. The likes of raw umber, yellow green, and maize made way for vivid tangerine, dandelion, and jungle green. Not as annoying as the new shades Crayola named themselves in 1998: brink pink, fuzzy wuzzy brown, banana mania, carribean green. Ack!
At least the idiot who named those got back on his/her feet coming up with the name Verizon.
18 December 2001
Living near (and for many years, in) a city of such historical significance as Boston, I have a fairly woeful track record for actually visiting the places that make it so. When I worked in Boston and commuted from home, I walked by many of them but never really visited. From what I can tell from talking to other people who live in or near such places they're in the same boat.
I did make a positive effort to correct this the Monday after my 5th high school reunion. This very topic came up when I was talking to a couple of former classmates (neither of whom live in the area anymore), and we decided to get some of this history stuff under our belts. Nothing as formal as walking the Freedom Trail, just hit the city and see what happens.
And what happened, as you might expect from a group of guys in their early 20s, was as much an investigation of downtown watering holes as it was a trip into America's past. We did go to Old Ironsides, the State House, Fanieul Hall, and walked by many of the other famous places. But we also stopped at the Bull and Finch. And at Dockside. And at one or two other places somewhere between North and Back Bay stations. Wasn't as bad as the famed Fourth of July pub crawl (which crawled in the literal sense, and come to think of it wasn't that famed at all), but much of the post meridian portion of the touring was inspired (if not fueled) by not a small portion of beer.
Which led to its own problems. We wouldn't have stopped at the State House except that they were offering free tours. The tours are apparently given by high school kids who get some sort of credit (or an in with a hack to write a glowing college recommendation or something) for giving them. I feel sorry for the two women who had to take us around Charles Bullfinch's finest creation, mostly because we were probably not "respectful" enough, especially for a tour that actually took us to the House and Senate floors (in retrospect, that was very cool).
But what really brought this topic to mind today was last Sunday's recreation of the Boston Tea Party. My friend Denise, being of historical bent and having special interest in the Tea Party, invited a number of us to the recreation. So it was that we gathered at the Old South Meeting House for the "debate" about what to do with the tea sitting on British ships in the harbor.
A local group of colonial-era recreationists played the major roles. They were actually quite fun, into their roles without the forced gravitas that the Civil War recreationists often take. We were encouraged to participate by booing, hissing, and yelling "No taxes!" at certain points. This caused my friend/boss Laura to note that it was "like the Rocky Horror Picture Show, but without the garter."
We also had a character card in one of our programs, which included a name and some text that we could read as part of the debate. As it was a damn dirty Tory character, most of us refused on principle. The one Tory in the group refused on the grounds of not wanting to speak in public. As it was, most of the character cards were read by kids, which seemed fitting.
After the debate, there's usually a procession down to the Tea Party ship, where chests are tossed into the harbor. However, the ship and museum had a little fire this year, so there was no procession. Instead, a fife and drum corps played some tunes outside by the Irish Famine memorial across the street. I know, most folks call it the potato famine. You can still call it that if you want. I don't care.
We followed this bit of history with another Boston tradition: Italian food. Waled over the North End, had a nice meal at a restaurant whose name I can't remember (never can, it seems). Service was slow, but nothing near the abysmal waitstaff we had at Vinny Testa's for the college bowl semester ending social. Desser at Cafe Vittorio, one of the sites of my first date with Sarah, a fact that, when raised, led to a cross examination that was only missing a bare bulb and buckshot-filled length of garden hose.
Anyway, should you not be doing anything next December 16, mosey on down to the Old South Meeting House. Admission is only a buck, which is a small price to pay. Unless you also get one of the tri-cornered hats they were selling, which were cool if too small for my cranium.
I did make a positive effort to correct this the Monday after my 5th high school reunion. This very topic came up when I was talking to a couple of former classmates (neither of whom live in the area anymore), and we decided to get some of this history stuff under our belts. Nothing as formal as walking the Freedom Trail, just hit the city and see what happens.
And what happened, as you might expect from a group of guys in their early 20s, was as much an investigation of downtown watering holes as it was a trip into America's past. We did go to Old Ironsides, the State House, Fanieul Hall, and walked by many of the other famous places. But we also stopped at the Bull and Finch. And at Dockside. And at one or two other places somewhere between North and Back Bay stations. Wasn't as bad as the famed Fourth of July pub crawl (which crawled in the literal sense, and come to think of it wasn't that famed at all), but much of the post meridian portion of the touring was inspired (if not fueled) by not a small portion of beer.
Which led to its own problems. We wouldn't have stopped at the State House except that they were offering free tours. The tours are apparently given by high school kids who get some sort of credit (or an in with a hack to write a glowing college recommendation or something) for giving them. I feel sorry for the two women who had to take us around Charles Bullfinch's finest creation, mostly because we were probably not "respectful" enough, especially for a tour that actually took us to the House and Senate floors (in retrospect, that was very cool).
But what really brought this topic to mind today was last Sunday's recreation of the Boston Tea Party. My friend Denise, being of historical bent and having special interest in the Tea Party, invited a number of us to the recreation. So it was that we gathered at the Old South Meeting House for the "debate" about what to do with the tea sitting on British ships in the harbor.
A local group of colonial-era recreationists played the major roles. They were actually quite fun, into their roles without the forced gravitas that the Civil War recreationists often take. We were encouraged to participate by booing, hissing, and yelling "No taxes!" at certain points. This caused my friend/boss Laura to note that it was "like the Rocky Horror Picture Show, but without the garter."
We also had a character card in one of our programs, which included a name and some text that we could read as part of the debate. As it was a damn dirty Tory character, most of us refused on principle. The one Tory in the group refused on the grounds of not wanting to speak in public. As it was, most of the character cards were read by kids, which seemed fitting.
After the debate, there's usually a procession down to the Tea Party ship, where chests are tossed into the harbor. However, the ship and museum had a little fire this year, so there was no procession. Instead, a fife and drum corps played some tunes outside by the Irish Famine memorial across the street. I know, most folks call it the potato famine. You can still call it that if you want. I don't care.
We followed this bit of history with another Boston tradition: Italian food. Waled over the North End, had a nice meal at a restaurant whose name I can't remember (never can, it seems). Service was slow, but nothing near the abysmal waitstaff we had at Vinny Testa's for the college bowl semester ending social. Desser at Cafe Vittorio, one of the sites of my first date with Sarah, a fact that, when raised, led to a cross examination that was only missing a bare bulb and buckshot-filled length of garden hose.
Anyway, should you not be doing anything next December 16, mosey on down to the Old South Meeting House. Admission is only a buck, which is a small price to pay. Unless you also get one of the tri-cornered hats they were selling, which were cool if too small for my cranium.
17 December 2001
It's been about a week or so since I moved this over to Yahoo-GeoCities, and I have to say so far so good. Easy to set up, was able to FTP with some ease, and I even got the archives thing fixed for those of you who haven't been able to read my collective wisdom since day one (though the latter was more me and the Blogger help files than Y-GC).
I do not like the pop-up ad. It is less annoying than the damned wireless spy camera ones, or the casino ones (with apologies to the DeVeaus). None top the porn pop-ups, which propogate at a speed somewhere between Ebola and light. I've even seen a few times where the ad comes up with some sort of error message, making the window very small. On the other hand, I've also been greeted by large pictures of Lance Bass and Sulley, the big blue hairy thing from Monsters, Inc.. I could do without that. [When I went to check to make sure this posted, the first ad I got was the Sulley one. The second one was Chris Kattan as Corky Romano, which in retrospect is about a billion times worse. -MJC]
But the pros and cons do lean towards me staying here for a while. I may do what Matt Bruce did with his blog, and put up a home page over it so you don't necessarily get the ad on the blog page. I do seem to gets ads on both the main and archive page, so that may not work, but it could be worth a shot.
I do not like the pop-up ad. It is less annoying than the damned wireless spy camera ones, or the casino ones (with apologies to the DeVeaus). None top the porn pop-ups, which propogate at a speed somewhere between Ebola and light. I've even seen a few times where the ad comes up with some sort of error message, making the window very small. On the other hand, I've also been greeted by large pictures of Lance Bass and Sulley, the big blue hairy thing from Monsters, Inc.. I could do without that. [When I went to check to make sure this posted, the first ad I got was the Sulley one. The second one was Chris Kattan as Corky Romano, which in retrospect is about a billion times worse. -MJC]
But the pros and cons do lean towards me staying here for a while. I may do what Matt Bruce did with his blog, and put up a home page over it so you don't necessarily get the ad on the blog page. I do seem to gets ads on both the main and archive page, so that may not work, but it could be worth a shot.
14 December 2001
I am addicted to Oregon Trail.
Let me explain.
Last weekend, we were out Christmas shopping, and Sarah spotted the newest version of this game, and we bought it as a present to ourselves. Or, perhaps more correctly, for Sarah (we thought) as she had played the game during her childhood and had enjoyed it.
Oregon Trail, for those of you who either grew up before its popularity or later, when Parappa the Rapper passes for educational, is a game where you manifest your own destiny by hitting the trail and moving west to the burgeoning lands of Oregon or California. Along the way you fight disease, injury, wagon tipping (the damn things fall over a lot), starvation, etc.
I wasn't thinking that I'd get too into the game, but got hooked fairly quickly. I'm a fan of simulation games anyways, even ones that are targeted for my nieces and nephews, apparently.
I guess there are two things that make me like this game. The first is the way you can make each trip very different by changing your origin and destination, the month and year you start, your former occupation, number of people you're taking with you, and so on. My first few games were pretty straightforward, with a character whose starting bankroll and past experience made trail life relatively easy.
I challenged myself yesterday by starting out earlier (when there are fewer trading posts and forts along the way), heading to Oregon City (which you have to get to by rafting, using what in this day in age is a fairly comical looking video game interface), and having formerly be a pastor, which gave me little money and no practical experience.
My first time out I did get to do one thing repeatedly that a pastor has experience in: officiate at funerals. Lost one kid to cholera, and my wife and other kid to scurvy when we got stuck in the mountains over winter. I died from scurvy not much later. I was hoping for a Donner Party sort of moment, but I suppose facing 9 year olds with the spectre of cannibalism may not be the educational milestone The Leaning Company is shooting for.
Ever ready to face the challenge again, I tried the same trip a second time but tried to learn from my mistakes. I got three quarters of my family to Oregon City (one kid died of some sort of injury, damned if I can remember what now), in rough shape and with nothing but salt-cured fish to eat (though we could have killed an ox for food if needed; I've had to do that before).
My next challenge will be to either (a) make the trip as a teacher, who is at the very bottom of the pay/experience scale, or (b) start trying to lead wagon trains. Not sure if I'm ready for that yet. Hate to be the idiot who take a train bound for Oregon to the Sacramento River valley.
I've asked for The Sims for Christmas, so perhaps I'll be able to report how I torture various people there sometime soon.
Let me explain.
Last weekend, we were out Christmas shopping, and Sarah spotted the newest version of this game, and we bought it as a present to ourselves. Or, perhaps more correctly, for Sarah (we thought) as she had played the game during her childhood and had enjoyed it.
Oregon Trail, for those of you who either grew up before its popularity or later, when Parappa the Rapper passes for educational, is a game where you manifest your own destiny by hitting the trail and moving west to the burgeoning lands of Oregon or California. Along the way you fight disease, injury, wagon tipping (the damn things fall over a lot), starvation, etc.
I wasn't thinking that I'd get too into the game, but got hooked fairly quickly. I'm a fan of simulation games anyways, even ones that are targeted for my nieces and nephews, apparently.
I guess there are two things that make me like this game. The first is the way you can make each trip very different by changing your origin and destination, the month and year you start, your former occupation, number of people you're taking with you, and so on. My first few games were pretty straightforward, with a character whose starting bankroll and past experience made trail life relatively easy.
I challenged myself yesterday by starting out earlier (when there are fewer trading posts and forts along the way), heading to Oregon City (which you have to get to by rafting, using what in this day in age is a fairly comical looking video game interface), and having formerly be a pastor, which gave me little money and no practical experience.
My first time out I did get to do one thing repeatedly that a pastor has experience in: officiate at funerals. Lost one kid to cholera, and my wife and other kid to scurvy when we got stuck in the mountains over winter. I died from scurvy not much later. I was hoping for a Donner Party sort of moment, but I suppose facing 9 year olds with the spectre of cannibalism may not be the educational milestone The Leaning Company is shooting for.
Ever ready to face the challenge again, I tried the same trip a second time but tried to learn from my mistakes. I got three quarters of my family to Oregon City (one kid died of some sort of injury, damned if I can remember what now), in rough shape and with nothing but salt-cured fish to eat (though we could have killed an ox for food if needed; I've had to do that before).
My next challenge will be to either (a) make the trip as a teacher, who is at the very bottom of the pay/experience scale, or (b) start trying to lead wagon trains. Not sure if I'm ready for that yet. Hate to be the idiot who take a train bound for Oregon to the Sacramento River valley.
I've asked for The Sims for Christmas, so perhaps I'll be able to report how I torture various people there sometime soon.
13 December 2001
Yesterday was the annual Babson student affairs divsion holiday lunch and Yankee swap. For those of you not familiar with the Yankee swap, it goes like this: you have a bunch of people bring presents. Everyone who brought a present draws a number. You pick in order, with the ability to either keep your gift or swap it with the gift of someone who went before you. The person who picks first then gets to choose from all the gifts.
My gift was OK, a mix of chocolate type things in a fairly nice holiday bag (snowy harbor scene with a lighthouse and all that; at least one person commented on the bag specifically, so props to Sarah for picking it out). There were 65 numbers. I chose 15. If you followed the way this is done, you realize that this is a crappy number. Given that two of the single digit numbers weren't taken, 15 became even that much more crappy.
I went up with the intention of not taking what was obviously alcohol (a swap fave) or a gag present. Last year, about 10 to 12 people got together and all gave the same gift: the Big Mouth Billy Bass. From what I've heard it was a well executed gag, with some of the fish repackaged, and at least one conspirator taking a Bass to deflect suspicion as to what office was behind the prank.
Needless to say, such skullduggery was warned off this year. That didn't stop some people; my office mate Brian bought a Rotato (a Popeil-style product) but squired scratch tickets in the bottom of the box. Two fish did make re-appearances; I get the sense that at least one Billy Bass will appear at each of these things until everyone who got one no longer works at Babson.
Anyway, I went up and started to look around, and got yelled at for peeking (which I wasn't!), so I just grabbed a box close at hand. It wasn't until I was taking the ribbon off that it dawned on me that I'd probably picked alcohol. I was wondering what I'd get stuck with as I finished unwrapping what turned out to be a bottle of Bailey's.
My thoughts were answered fairly soon, as an office mate of mine traded the snowman kitchen towels he pulled for the Bailey's. He wound up losing the bottle, too, but held on to it for quite some time. There was another bottle of Bailey's that traded hands at least twice. There were 3 bottles of wine that managed to stay with the people who picked them originally, which cheeses me off as I'd actually drink the wine (not a liquor fan per se, though Bailey's would probably be fine).
I tend to have crappy luck at things like this. At the last college bowl secret Santa/Yankee swap/whatever it was I participated in, I got a bag of Body Shop soaps that was intended for a malodorous teammate who didn't show. I suppose that actually worked out in the long run, as I didn't have to buy soap again until April. They weren't bad soaps, come to think of it.
OK, that worked out much better than I remembered (for me; the rest of the team still had to deal with the fumes that teammate put off). And as I think of it, I don't think I even participated in the only Yankee swap held during my tenure at the New England School of Law library.
Not that it wasn't memorable. A set of magnetic poetry got swapped something like six times, especially noteworthy given that there couldn't have been more than 20 people in the swap. That and, well, the library folks were all great to work with, but not the most festive people. I know, reserved librarians, who'd have thought?
My Boy Scout troop also did a present swap (no trading, at least not officially), which generally was dropping in candy to get someone else's candy. The Life Saver "gift books" were always popular. I had one friend do the "big box, small gift" gag by putting a couple of pens in a TV box, and filling the box with shredded paper or styrofoam peanuts or something. Showing that some things never change, one of the Billy Basses that returned yesterday was in just such a manner (the director of my office wound up with that one, proving that revenge is indeed a dish best served cold).
My other loss yesterday came from not getting to take the pointsettia centerpiece home as the most recent hire at my table. That honor went to the new Catholic priest on campus, who started in September. Can't argue against clergy, and I can't even say I wanted the plant that badly.
On a positive note, the food was really good. We also got a gift basket that netted me a $10 Blockbuster card and some candy. So it wasn't a total bust yesterday.
My gift was OK, a mix of chocolate type things in a fairly nice holiday bag (snowy harbor scene with a lighthouse and all that; at least one person commented on the bag specifically, so props to Sarah for picking it out). There were 65 numbers. I chose 15. If you followed the way this is done, you realize that this is a crappy number. Given that two of the single digit numbers weren't taken, 15 became even that much more crappy.
I went up with the intention of not taking what was obviously alcohol (a swap fave) or a gag present. Last year, about 10 to 12 people got together and all gave the same gift: the Big Mouth Billy Bass. From what I've heard it was a well executed gag, with some of the fish repackaged, and at least one conspirator taking a Bass to deflect suspicion as to what office was behind the prank.
Needless to say, such skullduggery was warned off this year. That didn't stop some people; my office mate Brian bought a Rotato (a Popeil-style product) but squired scratch tickets in the bottom of the box. Two fish did make re-appearances; I get the sense that at least one Billy Bass will appear at each of these things until everyone who got one no longer works at Babson.
Anyway, I went up and started to look around, and got yelled at for peeking (which I wasn't!), so I just grabbed a box close at hand. It wasn't until I was taking the ribbon off that it dawned on me that I'd probably picked alcohol. I was wondering what I'd get stuck with as I finished unwrapping what turned out to be a bottle of Bailey's.
My thoughts were answered fairly soon, as an office mate of mine traded the snowman kitchen towels he pulled for the Bailey's. He wound up losing the bottle, too, but held on to it for quite some time. There was another bottle of Bailey's that traded hands at least twice. There were 3 bottles of wine that managed to stay with the people who picked them originally, which cheeses me off as I'd actually drink the wine (not a liquor fan per se, though Bailey's would probably be fine).
I tend to have crappy luck at things like this. At the last college bowl secret Santa/Yankee swap/whatever it was I participated in, I got a bag of Body Shop soaps that was intended for a malodorous teammate who didn't show. I suppose that actually worked out in the long run, as I didn't have to buy soap again until April. They weren't bad soaps, come to think of it.
OK, that worked out much better than I remembered (for me; the rest of the team still had to deal with the fumes that teammate put off). And as I think of it, I don't think I even participated in the only Yankee swap held during my tenure at the New England School of Law library.
Not that it wasn't memorable. A set of magnetic poetry got swapped something like six times, especially noteworthy given that there couldn't have been more than 20 people in the swap. That and, well, the library folks were all great to work with, but not the most festive people. I know, reserved librarians, who'd have thought?
My Boy Scout troop also did a present swap (no trading, at least not officially), which generally was dropping in candy to get someone else's candy. The Life Saver "gift books" were always popular. I had one friend do the "big box, small gift" gag by putting a couple of pens in a TV box, and filling the box with shredded paper or styrofoam peanuts or something. Showing that some things never change, one of the Billy Basses that returned yesterday was in just such a manner (the director of my office wound up with that one, proving that revenge is indeed a dish best served cold).
My other loss yesterday came from not getting to take the pointsettia centerpiece home as the most recent hire at my table. That honor went to the new Catholic priest on campus, who started in September. Can't argue against clergy, and I can't even say I wanted the plant that badly.
On a positive note, the food was really good. We also got a gift basket that netted me a $10 Blockbuster card and some candy. So it wasn't a total bust yesterday.
12 December 2001
11 December 2001
Today would have been my sister Cathy's 34th birthday.
Cathy passed away in 1987, two days before I graduated from high school. As you can imagine, that brings up its own set of issues, which I'll leave aside for the time being.
We had, I suppose, a typical brother-sister relationship for brothers and sisters who are close in age (she was born in 1967, and I toddled along in August '69). For much of my childhood she was my default playmate, the one person who, if around and not busy with one of her friends, could be recruited into doing whatever was on tap. In most cases this wound up being either board games or doing something outside.
Funny thing about the board games is that I beat her in just about everything, but Cathy could whip me in backgammon and chess. And I think I even taught her how to play chess so I'd have someone to play against! I think she was better at planning ahead, taking in moves and connecting them to things that could happen later in the game. I never quite applied that much thought to backgammon (and even if I do now, I tend to lose), and never could with chess.
The outdoor stuff tended to be more fun, and usually involved some brush with authority or life in peril situation. Such as sledding down a neighborhood hill whose run ended abruptly against the wall of a garage. Or going over to Gordon College's ice rink to skate, where she would eventually start playing hockey with a group of guys who were too smitten (and too macho) to stop her from scoring goals. Or any variety of trips over to the town Highway Department truck yard, where we climbed hills of sand, tried to sneak into the barns, and generally cause trouble.
Not surprisingly, things drifted a bit when we got older and into high school. Different friends, interests, and so forth. It's hard to define what happened. Our relationship was as much one of convenience as it was familial, and I suppose we let go of our earlier closeness not so much out of disinterest for the other person as for greater interest in everything else.
Cathy had this humorous, if not just a little dangerous, taste for life. Consider the birthday where she and her friends decided to joyride in my other sister's car. Did I mention this was before Cathy could get her licence? There was also the time her best friend let her drive her car, and Cathy managed to hit a McDonalds' drive thru window in such a way that it was torn from the building. To this day, I have no idea how she did this (and in an AMC Gremlin, no less!).
There was also "The Bucket," an old Fluff jar (one of the big ones) that Cathy and her friends would fill with whatever concoction of alcohol and mixer they had (rum and Coke being the most favored), and bury in the sand at the beach. Less obvious than the kids pounding beers in the parking lot, but more obvious than they thought. Which was a trademark of most of what Cathy did in high school - a glimmer of thought and innovation, but not with enough follow-through not to get busted.
She did manage to pull two things off in one day, though. Her senior year, the senior week "Toga Day" fell on the same day as the election for Student Government Day (or something like that) where a couple of kids per high school go to Boston and pretend that they're the government, from the governor on down. I was running, as were about 6 other people.
Cathy and her friend volunteered to take her homeroom's ballots to the office. Showing the sort of on the spot political moxie that made Richard Daley such an institution, they erased all the votes they could for one of their classmates and switched the votes to me. I came in second, getting to go as an alternate. I didn't find out until much later this had gone on, saving me the need to come up with an excuse to withdraw.
(In an unrelated note, the guy who they took votes away from is now married to a woman who, truth be told. I had a long, unrequited thing for. All water under the bridge, I suppose, but that's karma for you).
Oh, the toga part. Cathy made her's out of an electric blanket. She swore up and down it was just a gag, but she had neatly hidden the controls in one of the folds. That may have been the one day she never complained about being cold.
There are a number of reasons why this day is a hard one for me. I hope the anecdotes I've shared here give some sense of the person my sister was, and the meaning she had in my life. That she was removed from my life with no notice plays a big part in this. Cathy died from a viral infection in her lungs, one that spread rapidly. We had little idea she was sick, never mind with something that would have the end result it did. It's hard to reconcile that my last day with her was spent showing her my yearbook (which ticked her off given her boyfriend's entry) for about 5 minutes and making a joke when she got up to get some water. Of course, how was I to know, but it's hard not to see things in the light of what actually happened.
It's also hard given the effect Cathy's death had on my parents. You always hear the line about nothing being worse than a parent burying a child, but don't understand the truth behind it until you see it take place up close. I was at an age where I realized my parents were human, and had their failings, but the powerlessness this whole thing created was stupefying. Neither of them really ever got over it; it took years for my father to get to the point where you could mention her name in his presence.
But I suppose the hardest thing is thinking about what's been missed. Not having her come for visits when I was at BU. Not seeing her work her interest in literature and kids into something she'd probably have been great at. Not getting a chance to see her with a family of her own, and the entertainment that would come from her getting to deal with the same problems she caused for our folks. The list could run for pages.
When this day rolls around every year, I do what I can to think of the good things. Memories, even of times that didn't go so smoothly, are better than dwelling on things that I can't change. This works, to a point, and there was even one year, bogged down as I was in law school finals, that I was able to chase such thoughts away (even if it really was trading one set of problems for another). But I can never quite get rid of that feeling of sorrow.
My doctor talked to me a couple of months after Cathy died, and said that the hole in my heart where Cathy was would close a little each year. It wouldn't heal, but it would get tiny. He was, by and large, right. But today is that one day where the hole, a pinprick now, deepens. And I have a sense that Decemeber 11 will always be that way.
Cathy passed away in 1987, two days before I graduated from high school. As you can imagine, that brings up its own set of issues, which I'll leave aside for the time being.
We had, I suppose, a typical brother-sister relationship for brothers and sisters who are close in age (she was born in 1967, and I toddled along in August '69). For much of my childhood she was my default playmate, the one person who, if around and not busy with one of her friends, could be recruited into doing whatever was on tap. In most cases this wound up being either board games or doing something outside.
Funny thing about the board games is that I beat her in just about everything, but Cathy could whip me in backgammon and chess. And I think I even taught her how to play chess so I'd have someone to play against! I think she was better at planning ahead, taking in moves and connecting them to things that could happen later in the game. I never quite applied that much thought to backgammon (and even if I do now, I tend to lose), and never could with chess.
The outdoor stuff tended to be more fun, and usually involved some brush with authority or life in peril situation. Such as sledding down a neighborhood hill whose run ended abruptly against the wall of a garage. Or going over to Gordon College's ice rink to skate, where she would eventually start playing hockey with a group of guys who were too smitten (and too macho) to stop her from scoring goals. Or any variety of trips over to the town Highway Department truck yard, where we climbed hills of sand, tried to sneak into the barns, and generally cause trouble.
Not surprisingly, things drifted a bit when we got older and into high school. Different friends, interests, and so forth. It's hard to define what happened. Our relationship was as much one of convenience as it was familial, and I suppose we let go of our earlier closeness not so much out of disinterest for the other person as for greater interest in everything else.
Cathy had this humorous, if not just a little dangerous, taste for life. Consider the birthday where she and her friends decided to joyride in my other sister's car. Did I mention this was before Cathy could get her licence? There was also the time her best friend let her drive her car, and Cathy managed to hit a McDonalds' drive thru window in such a way that it was torn from the building. To this day, I have no idea how she did this (and in an AMC Gremlin, no less!).
There was also "The Bucket," an old Fluff jar (one of the big ones) that Cathy and her friends would fill with whatever concoction of alcohol and mixer they had (rum and Coke being the most favored), and bury in the sand at the beach. Less obvious than the kids pounding beers in the parking lot, but more obvious than they thought. Which was a trademark of most of what Cathy did in high school - a glimmer of thought and innovation, but not with enough follow-through not to get busted.
She did manage to pull two things off in one day, though. Her senior year, the senior week "Toga Day" fell on the same day as the election for Student Government Day (or something like that) where a couple of kids per high school go to Boston and pretend that they're the government, from the governor on down. I was running, as were about 6 other people.
Cathy and her friend volunteered to take her homeroom's ballots to the office. Showing the sort of on the spot political moxie that made Richard Daley such an institution, they erased all the votes they could for one of their classmates and switched the votes to me. I came in second, getting to go as an alternate. I didn't find out until much later this had gone on, saving me the need to come up with an excuse to withdraw.
(In an unrelated note, the guy who they took votes away from is now married to a woman who, truth be told. I had a long, unrequited thing for. All water under the bridge, I suppose, but that's karma for you).
Oh, the toga part. Cathy made her's out of an electric blanket. She swore up and down it was just a gag, but she had neatly hidden the controls in one of the folds. That may have been the one day she never complained about being cold.
There are a number of reasons why this day is a hard one for me. I hope the anecdotes I've shared here give some sense of the person my sister was, and the meaning she had in my life. That she was removed from my life with no notice plays a big part in this. Cathy died from a viral infection in her lungs, one that spread rapidly. We had little idea she was sick, never mind with something that would have the end result it did. It's hard to reconcile that my last day with her was spent showing her my yearbook (which ticked her off given her boyfriend's entry) for about 5 minutes and making a joke when she got up to get some water. Of course, how was I to know, but it's hard not to see things in the light of what actually happened.
It's also hard given the effect Cathy's death had on my parents. You always hear the line about nothing being worse than a parent burying a child, but don't understand the truth behind it until you see it take place up close. I was at an age where I realized my parents were human, and had their failings, but the powerlessness this whole thing created was stupefying. Neither of them really ever got over it; it took years for my father to get to the point where you could mention her name in his presence.
But I suppose the hardest thing is thinking about what's been missed. Not having her come for visits when I was at BU. Not seeing her work her interest in literature and kids into something she'd probably have been great at. Not getting a chance to see her with a family of her own, and the entertainment that would come from her getting to deal with the same problems she caused for our folks. The list could run for pages.
When this day rolls around every year, I do what I can to think of the good things. Memories, even of times that didn't go so smoothly, are better than dwelling on things that I can't change. This works, to a point, and there was even one year, bogged down as I was in law school finals, that I was able to chase such thoughts away (even if it really was trading one set of problems for another). But I can never quite get rid of that feeling of sorrow.
My doctor talked to me a couple of months after Cathy died, and said that the hole in my heart where Cathy was would close a little each year. It wouldn't heal, but it would get tiny. He was, by and large, right. But today is that one day where the hole, a pinprick now, deepens. And I have a sense that Decemeber 11 will always be that way.
04 December 2001
Had the good fortune to get away this past weekend to Chattanooga, Tennessee for a quiz bowl thing there (for those of you who are reading who may not know me- and what are the odds of that?- one of my main hobbies is quiz bowl, sort of a team-based Jeopardy type thing, to give it a really simple explanation).
Flew out of Providence, though the airport is actually in Warwick (one of the many airports that pretend to be somewhere else; I suppose flying in to Windsor Locks CT, Covington KY, and Romulus, MI isn't as informative than flying into Hartford, Cincinnati, and Detroit, either way it's a bad vacation). Anyway, T. F. Green is everything Logan isn't: ample parking, easy to get to and leave from, generally clean and well maintained, and relatively safe.
Took Southwest to Nashville, Southwest Airlines being the "official" airline of the team I play on as three of us have relatively easy access to it (doesn't fly into Philly for our friend Chris, unfortunately). I like Southwest well enough, inasmuch as they're more or less the same as the other airlines, but with less pretense. I can see where some folks feel that's forced, but I don't mind the occasional flight attendant busting out in song over the p.a.
This was the first trip with multiple significant others, as on occasion a wife or girlfriend has made the trip (either to play or to see each other while working in different states). At one point all the wives and girlfriends were going to make the trip, but for various reasons (September 11 related and otherwise) it didn't work. Which was too bad, as the four of them could have played on their own team.
A historical note about my team and its names. Many years ago, at a tournament in Philly, Greg was hanging out with some folks when they stumbled across a list of gag porn movie titles in a weekly paper. One of the titles was A Gerbil Runs Through It, a take off of the fly fishing/homo-erotic brothers in conflict movie with Brad Pitt and Anthony Hopkins. That led to thinking of other movie titles you could do this with, and voila!
Names we've used inclue How Stella Got Her Gerbil Back, Riding in Cars with Gerbils, Il Gerbino, The English Gerbil, and Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Gerbil. There are others, but who can remember?
Tournament itself was fun, finished fourth (behind a team we'd beaten who had a better overall record) after losing a shootout semifinal... just as we did last year. On the positive side, we forced the shootout, rather than being forced into it. Perhaps next year we'll get into one and win it.
We've never gotten to do much sightseeing when we've gone to Chattanooga, but the one stop we did make was quality. A couple years ago we took in the gift shop of the Towing and Recovery Hall of Fame and Museum. Yes, it is just what it sounds like. We'd have had to pay to go in, but as we could see a fair portion of it from the gift shop area, we just bought some stuff and left (I still have my T shirt, one of the few that seemed to survive all my moving). We've not been to the aquarium (the largest fresh water one in the state/US/continent/world, can't remember which), the mall (largest in TN), the Creative Discovery Museum, Lookout Mountain and Rock City, or BellSouth Park, home to the Chattanooga Lookouts minor league baseball team (we have walked around the outside of historic Engel Stadium, the Lookouts' old home that's now a national historic site). At some point we're going to have to go early so we can take a day.
For that matter, we never seem to get much sightseeing done on any of these trips. I don't think we're missing much in Detroit (though we've managed a game at Comerica Park, seeing a Tigers-Twins game in 2000), but I'd like to have time to look around DC again. A future trip to DePauw University in Indiana will highlight a side trip to Notre Dame to take in a hockey game. In some sense it'll also be a family pilgrimage, given my dad's passion for Notre Dame football. We won't discuss how ND blew me off twice when I requested applications for undergrad and law school.
We did hit some "cultural" areas of Tennessee, including Davy Crockett's Smokehouse, which was like Cracker Barrel crossed with a honky tonk. Peanut shells on the floor, down home food, and faux coonskin caps for sale (I passed, considering it probably wouldn't fit). We also made our usual stop at Stuckey's, which is like Woolworth's crossed with a general store crossed with QVC. Small building with pumps out front, lunch counter, and a bunch of semi-worthless crap. If you're looking for a figurine of a bear wearing boxer shorts putting on a bathrobe, stop here. You can get Southern cusine (Moon Pies, Goo Goo Clusters, pecan rolls) on the cheap. Oddly, for a place that sells Moon Pies, they don't sell RC Cola.
Thinking more about the tournament, I managed to get honorable mentions for both my preliminary K-Tell Hell score (K-Tell Hell is kind of like Name that Tune, but using the actual songs) and my individual scoring for the tournament, where I finished 11th (though we think that's off based on our own stat keeping, and that I actually made the top 10, which would annoy me more except that it means I managed to avoid being saddled with one more piece of crap that I'd have to drag back here). My mention for the latter achievement also noted I was the highest scoring player at the tournament that does not wear glasses. Not that I don't need them; I'm sure most of you have seen me in my full body squint when sitting at a computer or trying to read something that's posted on a wall.
So, for all my trouble, the one prize I did take home was an incrediby ugly Jar Jar Binks mug, which will go well with the somewhat less hideous Jar Jar Binks lip balm dispenser I got last year. I feel that my eye for trashworthy prizes is somewhat vindicated given that both the Dr. Laura game and the Monopoly dot.com edition were given away, and I'd had both on my list of prizes for the regional last month (Dr. Laura was given away, the Monopoly was still too expensive).
Notable on the flight back was that Nashville's airport hires, in at least some capacity, Argenbright Inc., the same folks who brought you the Maginot Line-like security at Logan. That Shawn and Chris were stopped and had have their shoes x-rayed (without wearing them, of course) suggests that they're being more circumspect.
However, that they didn't even bother to look in the case of the buzzer system I was carrying on made me worry. The system is a self-contained briefcase which, when broken down for travel, has all sorts of wires inside. There also may be a battery (there's a switch for one, I think, unless I was looking at someone else's made by the same company), so consider that some artful work with Semtex could have nasty implications. NOT THAT I AM ADVOCATING SUCH A COURSE OF ACTION. I just think they could have at least opened the case and prodded a little, like they did in Providence.
Anyway, a fun trip overall, not least of which came from not having anyone complain about my snoring.
Flew out of Providence, though the airport is actually in Warwick (one of the many airports that pretend to be somewhere else; I suppose flying in to Windsor Locks CT, Covington KY, and Romulus, MI isn't as informative than flying into Hartford, Cincinnati, and Detroit, either way it's a bad vacation). Anyway, T. F. Green is everything Logan isn't: ample parking, easy to get to and leave from, generally clean and well maintained, and relatively safe.
Took Southwest to Nashville, Southwest Airlines being the "official" airline of the team I play on as three of us have relatively easy access to it (doesn't fly into Philly for our friend Chris, unfortunately). I like Southwest well enough, inasmuch as they're more or less the same as the other airlines, but with less pretense. I can see where some folks feel that's forced, but I don't mind the occasional flight attendant busting out in song over the p.a.
This was the first trip with multiple significant others, as on occasion a wife or girlfriend has made the trip (either to play or to see each other while working in different states). At one point all the wives and girlfriends were going to make the trip, but for various reasons (September 11 related and otherwise) it didn't work. Which was too bad, as the four of them could have played on their own team.
A historical note about my team and its names. Many years ago, at a tournament in Philly, Greg was hanging out with some folks when they stumbled across a list of gag porn movie titles in a weekly paper. One of the titles was A Gerbil Runs Through It, a take off of the fly fishing/homo-erotic brothers in conflict movie with Brad Pitt and Anthony Hopkins. That led to thinking of other movie titles you could do this with, and voila!
Names we've used inclue How Stella Got Her Gerbil Back, Riding in Cars with Gerbils, Il Gerbino, The English Gerbil, and Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Gerbil. There are others, but who can remember?
Tournament itself was fun, finished fourth (behind a team we'd beaten who had a better overall record) after losing a shootout semifinal... just as we did last year. On the positive side, we forced the shootout, rather than being forced into it. Perhaps next year we'll get into one and win it.
We've never gotten to do much sightseeing when we've gone to Chattanooga, but the one stop we did make was quality. A couple years ago we took in the gift shop of the Towing and Recovery Hall of Fame and Museum. Yes, it is just what it sounds like. We'd have had to pay to go in, but as we could see a fair portion of it from the gift shop area, we just bought some stuff and left (I still have my T shirt, one of the few that seemed to survive all my moving). We've not been to the aquarium (the largest fresh water one in the state/US/continent/world, can't remember which), the mall (largest in TN), the Creative Discovery Museum, Lookout Mountain and Rock City, or BellSouth Park, home to the Chattanooga Lookouts minor league baseball team (we have walked around the outside of historic Engel Stadium, the Lookouts' old home that's now a national historic site). At some point we're going to have to go early so we can take a day.
For that matter, we never seem to get much sightseeing done on any of these trips. I don't think we're missing much in Detroit (though we've managed a game at Comerica Park, seeing a Tigers-Twins game in 2000), but I'd like to have time to look around DC again. A future trip to DePauw University in Indiana will highlight a side trip to Notre Dame to take in a hockey game. In some sense it'll also be a family pilgrimage, given my dad's passion for Notre Dame football. We won't discuss how ND blew me off twice when I requested applications for undergrad and law school.
We did hit some "cultural" areas of Tennessee, including Davy Crockett's Smokehouse, which was like Cracker Barrel crossed with a honky tonk. Peanut shells on the floor, down home food, and faux coonskin caps for sale (I passed, considering it probably wouldn't fit). We also made our usual stop at Stuckey's, which is like Woolworth's crossed with a general store crossed with QVC. Small building with pumps out front, lunch counter, and a bunch of semi-worthless crap. If you're looking for a figurine of a bear wearing boxer shorts putting on a bathrobe, stop here. You can get Southern cusine (Moon Pies, Goo Goo Clusters, pecan rolls) on the cheap. Oddly, for a place that sells Moon Pies, they don't sell RC Cola.
Thinking more about the tournament, I managed to get honorable mentions for both my preliminary K-Tell Hell score (K-Tell Hell is kind of like Name that Tune, but using the actual songs) and my individual scoring for the tournament, where I finished 11th (though we think that's off based on our own stat keeping, and that I actually made the top 10, which would annoy me more except that it means I managed to avoid being saddled with one more piece of crap that I'd have to drag back here). My mention for the latter achievement also noted I was the highest scoring player at the tournament that does not wear glasses. Not that I don't need them; I'm sure most of you have seen me in my full body squint when sitting at a computer or trying to read something that's posted on a wall.
So, for all my trouble, the one prize I did take home was an incrediby ugly Jar Jar Binks mug, which will go well with the somewhat less hideous Jar Jar Binks lip balm dispenser I got last year. I feel that my eye for trashworthy prizes is somewhat vindicated given that both the Dr. Laura game and the Monopoly dot.com edition were given away, and I'd had both on my list of prizes for the regional last month (Dr. Laura was given away, the Monopoly was still too expensive).
Notable on the flight back was that Nashville's airport hires, in at least some capacity, Argenbright Inc., the same folks who brought you the Maginot Line-like security at Logan. That Shawn and Chris were stopped and had have their shoes x-rayed (without wearing them, of course) suggests that they're being more circumspect.
However, that they didn't even bother to look in the case of the buzzer system I was carrying on made me worry. The system is a self-contained briefcase which, when broken down for travel, has all sorts of wires inside. There also may be a battery (there's a switch for one, I think, unless I was looking at someone else's made by the same company), so consider that some artful work with Semtex could have nasty implications. NOT THAT I AM ADVOCATING SUCH A COURSE OF ACTION. I just think they could have at least opened the case and prodded a little, like they did in Providence.
Anyway, a fun trip overall, not least of which came from not having anyone complain about my snoring.
28 November 2001
OK, as you've seen I will soon have to move my little corner of the Web somewhere else. The only problem is, where?
Babson, sadly, does not have Web hosting. I've been looking at some of the free stuff, but haven't found anything I really like yet. There are some free services that are OK, but I fear that I'll somehow screw myself. There are a few others with reasonable fees, but I don't think I need all the Web services that come with it (though I suppose I could get my family all on a coen.com Web site).
So I'll figure this out at some point. My only real concerns are (a) affordability and (b) no pop-up or banner ads. A couple of the free services include a small banner on the page, which might not be so bad, but I have to take a look first.
Not much else new to report today. We were talking about Christmases past at lunch today, and it reminded me of a story my mom used to tell. When I was very small (probably no more than 3 or 4), I was all over my mom to get me "magic stairs" for Christmas. She had no idea what I meant by this, and being very small I couldn't give too much guidance. She trucked all over the North Shore trying to find this item (which she figured was some sort of toy), asking at every department, toy, and gift store she could find.
At some point after all of this searching, we were in a store one day, when I turned and pointed to a set of magic stairs. Turns out I wanted an escalator for Christmas. (Would have been a waste in a house with only 12 steps on its staircase, and the machinery would have blocked access to the basement, but what did I know?)
My mother was ready to commit some form of child abuse at that point, but managed not to. That she told this story at least once a year at holiday time leads me to think she got over it, but the Chia head gag gift I got when I first started to show some power alleys was probably related.
Babson, sadly, does not have Web hosting. I've been looking at some of the free stuff, but haven't found anything I really like yet. There are some free services that are OK, but I fear that I'll somehow screw myself. There are a few others with reasonable fees, but I don't think I need all the Web services that come with it (though I suppose I could get my family all on a coen.com Web site).
So I'll figure this out at some point. My only real concerns are (a) affordability and (b) no pop-up or banner ads. A couple of the free services include a small banner on the page, which might not be so bad, but I have to take a look first.
Not much else new to report today. We were talking about Christmases past at lunch today, and it reminded me of a story my mom used to tell. When I was very small (probably no more than 3 or 4), I was all over my mom to get me "magic stairs" for Christmas. She had no idea what I meant by this, and being very small I couldn't give too much guidance. She trucked all over the North Shore trying to find this item (which she figured was some sort of toy), asking at every department, toy, and gift store she could find.
At some point after all of this searching, we were in a store one day, when I turned and pointed to a set of magic stairs. Turns out I wanted an escalator for Christmas. (Would have been a waste in a house with only 12 steps on its staircase, and the machinery would have blocked access to the basement, but what did I know?)
My mother was ready to commit some form of child abuse at that point, but managed not to. That she told this story at least once a year at holiday time leads me to think she got over it, but the Chia head gag gift I got when I first started to show some power alleys was probably related.
The end of an era:
"Our records indicate that you are no longer affiliated with Boston University. Therefore, your ACS account will expire at 5:00 A.M. on 18 December 2001. Unfortunately, due to the need to allocate computing resources to new students, we are unable to grant extensions beyond this date. Please be sure to download copies of any of your files, address books, or e-mail you might need later, well before your account expires."
"Our records indicate that you are no longer affiliated with Boston University. Therefore, your ACS account will expire at 5:00 A.M. on 18 December 2001. Unfortunately, due to the need to allocate computing resources to new students, we are unable to grant extensions beyond this date. Please be sure to download copies of any of your files, address books, or e-mail you might need later, well before your account expires."
27 November 2001
I was going to write today on the similarities between my fantasy football team and the Patriots, both of whom have come back from the dead (relatively) to get back into the playoff hunt. It was going to compare a variety of personnel and schedule issues, and would have been interesting to no one.
What saved all of us from this fate was an article over on Boston.com that the USA is not just the richest and mightiest country in the world, but it's also the most swingin', as it leads all nations (or all those surveyed, at least) in a number of sexual categories, including total number of experiences, average number of partners, and average age of one's "first time."
Americans have roughly 25% more "encounters," twice as many partners, and starts having sex a full two years earlier than the global average. From a public health standpoint, this is a little worrisome, as it means that the risk for STIs, unwanted pregnancy, and the rest of the problems that can come with wanton carnality are up. On the other hand, with the economy in the dumper and everyone thinking they're going to go up in flames or down in a sea of spores, what's the harm in a little more lovin'?
In some respects, this should be no surprise. Extrapolate this from nations to individuals, and it makes perfect sense that the rich, powerful country gets all the nookie. More often than not, the hunk with the Porsche and the daddy who's a bank president gets the hottie over the guy driving an Escort who helps out in the family variety store. I know, when it comes down to it we love the person and not the things, but we're not talking love here. We're talking sex, and the alpha male (or female) reigns.
Looking at the countries involved, you have Canada, Holland, the Czechs, all very nice, kind of dull perhaps, getting some action but not running with the big dogs. How to explain that the "big dogs" include Greece, Croatia, and South Africa? Two theories:
1. Sex is, by and large, something you can still do for free. Or, considering a condom manufacturer sponsors the survey, for the price of some latex.
2. The countries are "exotic" or it's the accent. Almost every woman I've even met goes gaga for an Australian accent (though the Aussies rank surprisingly low). The same deal here (though, I suppose, most of the folks in the survey have an accent in comparison to me).
You'd think India and China would rank higher given their populations, but I'm assuming a combination of traditional social structures and poor contraception result in more pregnancy per encounter than usual.
Most interesting stat to me: Japan averaged out with 36 encounters a year, but with over 10 partners. You'd think such infrequency would make things seem brand new every time. Perhaps it's one of those TQM things.
Will anyone join me in petitioning Congress to replace "In God We Trust" with "If the Country's Rockin', Don't Come A-Knockin'" on our money?
What saved all of us from this fate was an article over on Boston.com that the USA is not just the richest and mightiest country in the world, but it's also the most swingin', as it leads all nations (or all those surveyed, at least) in a number of sexual categories, including total number of experiences, average number of partners, and average age of one's "first time."
Americans have roughly 25% more "encounters," twice as many partners, and starts having sex a full two years earlier than the global average. From a public health standpoint, this is a little worrisome, as it means that the risk for STIs, unwanted pregnancy, and the rest of the problems that can come with wanton carnality are up. On the other hand, with the economy in the dumper and everyone thinking they're going to go up in flames or down in a sea of spores, what's the harm in a little more lovin'?
In some respects, this should be no surprise. Extrapolate this from nations to individuals, and it makes perfect sense that the rich, powerful country gets all the nookie. More often than not, the hunk with the Porsche and the daddy who's a bank president gets the hottie over the guy driving an Escort who helps out in the family variety store. I know, when it comes down to it we love the person and not the things, but we're not talking love here. We're talking sex, and the alpha male (or female) reigns.
Looking at the countries involved, you have Canada, Holland, the Czechs, all very nice, kind of dull perhaps, getting some action but not running with the big dogs. How to explain that the "big dogs" include Greece, Croatia, and South Africa? Two theories:
1. Sex is, by and large, something you can still do for free. Or, considering a condom manufacturer sponsors the survey, for the price of some latex.
2. The countries are "exotic" or it's the accent. Almost every woman I've even met goes gaga for an Australian accent (though the Aussies rank surprisingly low). The same deal here (though, I suppose, most of the folks in the survey have an accent in comparison to me).
You'd think India and China would rank higher given their populations, but I'm assuming a combination of traditional social structures and poor contraception result in more pregnancy per encounter than usual.
Most interesting stat to me: Japan averaged out with 36 encounters a year, but with over 10 partners. You'd think such infrequency would make things seem brand new every time. Perhaps it's one of those TQM things.
Will anyone join me in petitioning Congress to replace "In God We Trust" with "If the Country's Rockin', Don't Come A-Knockin'" on our money?
26 November 2001
The Thanksgiving just past marked a first in my life: the first Thanksgiving spent without another member of my immediate family. I opted to spend the time with Sarah and her family in Maine. While not a serious producer of angst, I was interested to see how this would go. And, when all was said and done, you know what the biggest difference was between this Thanksgiving and last?
The stuffing.
Sarah's mom makes stuffing the English way, meaning it's much more wet than what we usually cram into the bird. It also uses sausage meat, which makes the stuffing a meal in itself. Not that I was complaining, as I helped myself to good sized portions of it. The one drawback, though, is that the stuffing seems to, how shall I say, speed and intensify certain bodily processes. It didn't reach Blazing Saddles proportions, but, well, let's just leave it at that.
Our continued run of warm weather (don't get me started again) made its way up the coast, meaning that I was going around mid-coast Maine in late November without a coat on. Usually there's snow on the ground by now.
In any event, the nice weather facilitated a day trip to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park (though, as I think of it, it was probably the coldest day of the trip). We hit Acadia first. Acadia is best known for Cadillac Mountain, the highest peak on the Atlantic coast and the spot in the continental US that first sees daylight (can anyone guess what part of the US gets daylight before this? Email me if you think you know!). It's not that high (1500 feet, much shorter than I thought), and you can drive up it, so we did that.
Great views going up, but the summit was socked in. There's what appears to be sea grass on the summit, too, which is very hard to get one's head around. We did get a good picture of a tern sitting on the roof of a car. The owners of the car, clearly not sure what to do, decided to feed it God knows what from their car. Idiots.
We drove around, looking at some of the other things up there, but made a horrific discovery. All of the bathrooms were closed. This caused us to cut our visit short (never did find the Sieur de Mont spring) and head for Bar Harbor, with its well marked and signed public restroom facility.
Bar Harbor's downtown is full of the snooty tourist shops that one would find in any of the New England coastal towns where families in Volvos get "back to nature" at a rented house. Many of the shops have cutesy names, though the only one that comes to mind is Carmen Verandah's, a restaurant with outdoor dining (aside: their menu included sushi grade yellowtail that they then cooked. The whole idea of sushi grade fish is to EAT IT AS SUSHI.).
So it was a lot of high end knick-knacks and stuff, with about half the shops closed for the season. If you're looking for scrimshaw, T-shirts with Maine-related slogans, or overpriced confections, you're all set in Bar Harbor.
My only purchase was an $.85 glass of blueberry soda, served at the Rexall Drug lunch counter. Kind of funny that something like that would be a highlight, but consider how few drug stores still have a lunch counter or a soda fountain. I can get overpriced carvings at any number of places.
The other cultural highlight was our trip to Bangor on Saturday that included stops at the Wal-Mart, the Bangor Mall, and a Chinese buffet place which was quite good. Not much to add there, except that the Bangor Mall had the water massage tables that Jon Couture was going on about in his blog. Smaller lines, but none of us partook.
Wrapped up the trip with a visit to my sister, who seemed to like only having to deal with her family (and our aunt) on Thanksgiving. We got to meet their "new" dog (new to them, but it's about 12 years old), which only firms my resolve to get a dog. Perhaps not something that big and hairy (it's a golden lab), but a dog nevertheless.
The stuffing.
Sarah's mom makes stuffing the English way, meaning it's much more wet than what we usually cram into the bird. It also uses sausage meat, which makes the stuffing a meal in itself. Not that I was complaining, as I helped myself to good sized portions of it. The one drawback, though, is that the stuffing seems to, how shall I say, speed and intensify certain bodily processes. It didn't reach Blazing Saddles proportions, but, well, let's just leave it at that.
Our continued run of warm weather (don't get me started again) made its way up the coast, meaning that I was going around mid-coast Maine in late November without a coat on. Usually there's snow on the ground by now.
In any event, the nice weather facilitated a day trip to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park (though, as I think of it, it was probably the coldest day of the trip). We hit Acadia first. Acadia is best known for Cadillac Mountain, the highest peak on the Atlantic coast and the spot in the continental US that first sees daylight (can anyone guess what part of the US gets daylight before this? Email me if you think you know!). It's not that high (1500 feet, much shorter than I thought), and you can drive up it, so we did that.
Great views going up, but the summit was socked in. There's what appears to be sea grass on the summit, too, which is very hard to get one's head around. We did get a good picture of a tern sitting on the roof of a car. The owners of the car, clearly not sure what to do, decided to feed it God knows what from their car. Idiots.
We drove around, looking at some of the other things up there, but made a horrific discovery. All of the bathrooms were closed. This caused us to cut our visit short (never did find the Sieur de Mont spring) and head for Bar Harbor, with its well marked and signed public restroom facility.
Bar Harbor's downtown is full of the snooty tourist shops that one would find in any of the New England coastal towns where families in Volvos get "back to nature" at a rented house. Many of the shops have cutesy names, though the only one that comes to mind is Carmen Verandah's, a restaurant with outdoor dining (aside: their menu included sushi grade yellowtail that they then cooked. The whole idea of sushi grade fish is to EAT IT AS SUSHI.).
So it was a lot of high end knick-knacks and stuff, with about half the shops closed for the season. If you're looking for scrimshaw, T-shirts with Maine-related slogans, or overpriced confections, you're all set in Bar Harbor.
My only purchase was an $.85 glass of blueberry soda, served at the Rexall Drug lunch counter. Kind of funny that something like that would be a highlight, but consider how few drug stores still have a lunch counter or a soda fountain. I can get overpriced carvings at any number of places.
The other cultural highlight was our trip to Bangor on Saturday that included stops at the Wal-Mart, the Bangor Mall, and a Chinese buffet place which was quite good. Not much to add there, except that the Bangor Mall had the water massage tables that Jon Couture was going on about in his blog. Smaller lines, but none of us partook.
Wrapped up the trip with a visit to my sister, who seemed to like only having to deal with her family (and our aunt) on Thanksgiving. We got to meet their "new" dog (new to them, but it's about 12 years old), which only firms my resolve to get a dog. Perhaps not something that big and hairy (it's a golden lab), but a dog nevertheless.
16 November 2001
There is something seriously wrong with the weather.
The Boston Globe's website currently lists the temperature in Boston at 69 degrees. SIXTY NINE DEGREES! It is November 16, 2001. This is not right.
I suppose I should revel in this very late spurt of Indian Summer, but it only confirms my belief that we're on the brink of really doing some serious damage to this planet. I remember growing up and having nuclear war be the big threat. The big difference here is that we can take apart nuclear weapons (see this week's summit between Bush and Putin). We can't do that with whatever has me walking around without a coat less than a week before Thanksgiving.
Not that this is unprecedented. I remember going to BU when I was in junior high to see the high school play for the eastern Massachusetts football title (divison 5, then the smallest). It was over 70 that day, the first Saturday in December. I certainly didn't worry then, but I suppose I knew less. There is something to be said for knowing just enough to be dangerous.
If anyone from the UN is reading, can you do something about this? You guys control the weather, right? And if not, what the hell is taking so long? We pay good money for you to start taking over the planet.
In an unrelated note, happy Ramadan if you're celebrating it. Sorry about the bombs. Perhaps what's left of the Taliban can help put an end to them by turning over you know who.
The Boston Globe's website currently lists the temperature in Boston at 69 degrees. SIXTY NINE DEGREES! It is November 16, 2001. This is not right.
I suppose I should revel in this very late spurt of Indian Summer, but it only confirms my belief that we're on the brink of really doing some serious damage to this planet. I remember growing up and having nuclear war be the big threat. The big difference here is that we can take apart nuclear weapons (see this week's summit between Bush and Putin). We can't do that with whatever has me walking around without a coat less than a week before Thanksgiving.
Not that this is unprecedented. I remember going to BU when I was in junior high to see the high school play for the eastern Massachusetts football title (divison 5, then the smallest). It was over 70 that day, the first Saturday in December. I certainly didn't worry then, but I suppose I knew less. There is something to be said for knowing just enough to be dangerous.
If anyone from the UN is reading, can you do something about this? You guys control the weather, right? And if not, what the hell is taking so long? We pay good money for you to start taking over the planet.
In an unrelated note, happy Ramadan if you're celebrating it. Sorry about the bombs. Perhaps what's left of the Taliban can help put an end to them by turning over you know who.
14 November 2001
My last entry seemed to touch a cord, as both of my known regulars have commented on it, one in an email, and the other from a link on his own blog (which I'd link to here, except that I'm a moron). I wasn't expecting such feedback, and I have to admit it was a pretty nice ego boost.
The problem comes, of course, with following up. To use a baseball analogy, you can't hit a home run every time you're at the plate. So I suppose the answer may be to just let it flow, and take the whiffs with the dingers. I'm sure there's a more appropriate non-sports analogy I could use, but I like this one.
This situation also gives me a chance to plug one of my favorite books, Complete and Utter Failure by Neil Steinberg. In it there's a section on folks who peak early and fall to obscurity. I don't think I'm quite in the league of those mentioned there, but personally I hope that I can write more like I did on Sunday and less like, well, usual.
Anyway, moving to more typical topics, the Patriots' win on Sunday was both gratifying and worrisome. Gratifying in that the team is above .500, and Antowain Smith helped propel my fantasy football team to the same record. Worrisome in that if they only beat Buffalo by 10, what are our odds against St. Louis and New Orleans. I can only hope we get an honest to God winter night on Sunday, as that should slow the Rams down enough to keep things close.
Pointless stat for the day: since 1998, the Pats are 7-10 against teams from place names with more than one word in them.
More later!
The problem comes, of course, with following up. To use a baseball analogy, you can't hit a home run every time you're at the plate. So I suppose the answer may be to just let it flow, and take the whiffs with the dingers. I'm sure there's a more appropriate non-sports analogy I could use, but I like this one.
This situation also gives me a chance to plug one of my favorite books, Complete and Utter Failure by Neil Steinberg. In it there's a section on folks who peak early and fall to obscurity. I don't think I'm quite in the league of those mentioned there, but personally I hope that I can write more like I did on Sunday and less like, well, usual.
Anyway, moving to more typical topics, the Patriots' win on Sunday was both gratifying and worrisome. Gratifying in that the team is above .500, and Antowain Smith helped propel my fantasy football team to the same record. Worrisome in that if they only beat Buffalo by 10, what are our odds against St. Louis and New Orleans. I can only hope we get an honest to God winter night on Sunday, as that should slow the Rams down enough to keep things close.
Pointless stat for the day: since 1998, the Pats are 7-10 against teams from place names with more than one word in them.
More later!
11 November 2001
Have you ever heard something that brought you back, even for a couple seconds, to a past moment in your life? I had one of those moments on Friday.
I was walking down campus to the post office, and passed the campus radio station, which pipes music to the outside on a small speaker. They were playing "Lucky Man" by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. That started the process, given my predeliction for prog rock and the song's age. I kept walking, and the song faded into the background.
Then came the second sound, the one that really took me back. The deep thrum of the wind as it passes through the trees, rustling the leaves on both branches and ground, rose up from everywhere. And for a few seconds, between that and the song (which was barely audible by then), I was back to grade school.
I remembered great days in the fall when you'd go to the high school football game, sneak in through the golf course, and not watch any of the game because you were playing pick-up games with friends (and the occasional team of kids from the opponent's town, games that often saw more punches than passes thrown). Then the walk home, hearing that thrum, smelling leaves burning and chimneys getting their first work of the season.
It was also the sound of any number of days playing in the woods around town, cutting through backyards and seeing what was back there in the land no one really used. Or the sound of home, when it was quiet (not often!) and the wind would get all the pine trees in the neighborhood to sway.
It was a lot for a few seconds. Then a truck out on Forest Street banged its empty trailer and it was back to now. Too bad.
I was walking down campus to the post office, and passed the campus radio station, which pipes music to the outside on a small speaker. They were playing "Lucky Man" by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. That started the process, given my predeliction for prog rock and the song's age. I kept walking, and the song faded into the background.
Then came the second sound, the one that really took me back. The deep thrum of the wind as it passes through the trees, rustling the leaves on both branches and ground, rose up from everywhere. And for a few seconds, between that and the song (which was barely audible by then), I was back to grade school.
I remembered great days in the fall when you'd go to the high school football game, sneak in through the golf course, and not watch any of the game because you were playing pick-up games with friends (and the occasional team of kids from the opponent's town, games that often saw more punches than passes thrown). Then the walk home, hearing that thrum, smelling leaves burning and chimneys getting their first work of the season.
It was also the sound of any number of days playing in the woods around town, cutting through backyards and seeing what was back there in the land no one really used. Or the sound of home, when it was quiet (not often!) and the wind would get all the pine trees in the neighborhood to sway.
It was a lot for a few seconds. Then a truck out on Forest Street banged its empty trailer and it was back to now. Too bad.
08 November 2001
Yesterday's mention of the The Simpsons got me thinking about TV in general. And now you're going to pay!
I have not seen many of the new shows for this season, and never will where some of them are concerned (see you in hell, Citizen Baines). There are a few that I keep meaning to catch but never do. Crossing Jordan, about a medical examiner who solves crimes, avoids the "Gen-Y Quincy" label by (a) being set in Boston, and (2) starring Jill Hennessey, who was the scrumptious Claire Kinkade on Law & Order, the original. It's on opposite Monday Night Football, and you think that the games, as crappy as most of them have been this year, would give me time to tune in. Maybe this week, as another AFC Central kickfest is on tap.
I've also had some interest in Law & Order: Criminal Intent to see just how far they can take the francise, and The Education of Max Bickford, just to see Richard Dreyfuss chew the scenery and illustrate why aging hippies entering their AARP years aren't pretty.
I have been watching Enterprise, which is entertaining but perhaps not the breathtaking re-invention of Trek that folks have been hoping for (not to mention, it may have the worst theme song in television history, worse even than that Friends song that drove everyone crazy when it was released as a single). Bakula is a good captain, but everyone else is just kind of there. The doctor is prickly, the Vulcan is logical, and so on.
Caught the premiere of 24, the show Fox would have hyped by shaving the numbers into the hairline of all World Series participants if possible. Pretty good, some interesting effects when they split the screen to show different people in different locations (how else can you do TV in real time and not stay in the same room?). The CIA cliches do get rolled out, most notably in the set design (a gleaming post-modern counter-terror office) and the technology, which apparently allows access to highly encripted bank records in minutes.
My biggest beef in the show is the casting of the character Nina, who is caught in some sort of love triangle with Kiefer Sutherland's character and Tony, a computer savvy John Turturro wannabe. The actress, whose name escapes me, played an old girlfriend on Ed and bugged the hell out of me there. Over an entire series... ugh.
I also got dragged into watching the premier of Temptation Island 2. Sarah is a delightful woman of numerable charms, a caring soul whose love and admiration is infinitely appreciated. But her taste in TV is really hit or miss. I will say, though, that I had a hard time concentrating on my book as four couples entered a Costa Rican paradise populated by bimbos and himbos alike. Most entertaining was the introduction of the "temptors," who all paraded onto the set wearing light blue hooded robes. It was like a deleted scene from "Animal House 3" or "Revenge of the Nerds: the Community College Years."
Pity The Tick for being wedged between this and Family Guy, a show of modest charms. Speaking of which, you had all best watch The Tick when it airs tonight (8:30 eastern, 7:30 central), or I'll be forced to... I don't know, whine about you here. Not the most effective threat.
I have not seen many of the new shows for this season, and never will where some of them are concerned (see you in hell, Citizen Baines). There are a few that I keep meaning to catch but never do. Crossing Jordan, about a medical examiner who solves crimes, avoids the "Gen-Y Quincy" label by (a) being set in Boston, and (2) starring Jill Hennessey, who was the scrumptious Claire Kinkade on Law & Order, the original. It's on opposite Monday Night Football, and you think that the games, as crappy as most of them have been this year, would give me time to tune in. Maybe this week, as another AFC Central kickfest is on tap.
I've also had some interest in Law & Order: Criminal Intent to see just how far they can take the francise, and The Education of Max Bickford, just to see Richard Dreyfuss chew the scenery and illustrate why aging hippies entering their AARP years aren't pretty.
I have been watching Enterprise, which is entertaining but perhaps not the breathtaking re-invention of Trek that folks have been hoping for (not to mention, it may have the worst theme song in television history, worse even than that Friends song that drove everyone crazy when it was released as a single). Bakula is a good captain, but everyone else is just kind of there. The doctor is prickly, the Vulcan is logical, and so on.
Caught the premiere of 24, the show Fox would have hyped by shaving the numbers into the hairline of all World Series participants if possible. Pretty good, some interesting effects when they split the screen to show different people in different locations (how else can you do TV in real time and not stay in the same room?). The CIA cliches do get rolled out, most notably in the set design (a gleaming post-modern counter-terror office) and the technology, which apparently allows access to highly encripted bank records in minutes.
My biggest beef in the show is the casting of the character Nina, who is caught in some sort of love triangle with Kiefer Sutherland's character and Tony, a computer savvy John Turturro wannabe. The actress, whose name escapes me, played an old girlfriend on Ed and bugged the hell out of me there. Over an entire series... ugh.
I also got dragged into watching the premier of Temptation Island 2. Sarah is a delightful woman of numerable charms, a caring soul whose love and admiration is infinitely appreciated. But her taste in TV is really hit or miss. I will say, though, that I had a hard time concentrating on my book as four couples entered a Costa Rican paradise populated by bimbos and himbos alike. Most entertaining was the introduction of the "temptors," who all paraded onto the set wearing light blue hooded robes. It was like a deleted scene from "Animal House 3" or "Revenge of the Nerds: the Community College Years."
Pity The Tick for being wedged between this and Family Guy, a show of modest charms. Speaking of which, you had all best watch The Tick when it airs tonight (8:30 eastern, 7:30 central), or I'll be forced to... I don't know, whine about you here. Not the most effective threat.
07 November 2001
Tom Menino got re-elected to his third full term last night. In his acceptance speech, he stated that he would strive to make this his "best term ever."
I don't know if Menino has speechwriters, but if he does (and I'm guessing he does, considering that his off the cuff speaking skills generally consist of mumbling and getting flustered), I hope they wrote that by accident. I'd hate to think they're funning on him by making him speak in Comic Book Guy language.
But should he ever drop a reference to Hi and Lois during a State of the City address, we'll have our answer.
I don't know if Menino has speechwriters, but if he does (and I'm guessing he does, considering that his off the cuff speaking skills generally consist of mumbling and getting flustered), I hope they wrote that by accident. I'd hate to think they're funning on him by making him speak in Comic Book Guy language.
But should he ever drop a reference to Hi and Lois during a State of the City address, we'll have our answer.
06 November 2001
Scant days after celebrating baseball breaking out of the clutches of the Evil Empire that ruled the postseason with an iron grip for years, "Commissioner" Bud Selig pops up and says, "hey, we think dropping a couple of teams is a swell idea," thereby confirming that the rapid expansion that marked the early part of his tenure was a gigantic mistake.
What is unfortunate is that the teams that appear like they're going to pay the price are two that have been around for a while. All speculation centers on the Montreal Expos and Minnesota Twins as bust up bait.
Why them? Montreal's case is pretty easy to state, given the lack of interest in the team, the unmitigated disaster of their stadium, and the general stupidity of the folks who've run and owned the team over the last decade.
What makes things too bad is that, if the Expos had any sort of stability, they'd be the dynasty people talk about. Imagine a rotation with both Pedro and the Big Unit and an offense with Larry Walker, Moises Alou (at least I think it was that Alou), and Vladi Guerrero.
So while I'll shed a tear at their demise (figuratively, at least), I can understand why they'll go.
The same cannot be said for the Minnesota Twins, who recenly awoke from many years of futility to make a run at the AL Central. The argument for their folding states that they can't turn a sustained profit.
Consider that, in the first year in some time that the team was successful, they did turn a modest profit. Perhaps ensuring future success would ensure future profits? Some lousy teams are profitable (hello Cubs), but for many teams their financial success is in some way related to their playing success. A lesson that many owners either don't want to hear or would prefer to ignore.
There's also the ugly little thought that Carl Polhad, the cold-blooded creature that owns the Twins, would likely get a payout well above the value of the team to close up shop. You may remember this is the same Polhad that jerked Kirby Puckett around during free agency at the height of Puckett's career. If you don't think Polhad would take the money and run, you probably thought the same thing about Robert Irsay, Art Modell, and Bud Adams. Of course, they got money, new stadia, and still got to play.
Especially vexing is the "commissioner"'s apparent collusion in all of this. Not surprising, given that Selig is himself an owner, who would probably see the value of his club increase if there were fewer of them. Not to mention that he'll likely get a decent player out of whatever dispersal draft is held. I'm sure Selig is discharging his duty impartially.
And I almost typed that with a straight face.
Question: why aren't the Florida Marlins, a team that consistently runs a deficit, plays in a football stadium, and has only been marginally competitive since their short term World Series success, an option for folding? Who, outside of a 30 mile radius of Miami (and I'm being generous with the radius) would give a damn if they disappeared?
Of course, for my money, you could also take any team out of a group consisting of Anaheim, Texas, Milwaukee, or Tampa Bay. Or all of them.
We'll have to wait and see where this leads, but I have an uneasy feeling about this. My hope is that this is some grandstand play by the Billionaire Boneheads Club to get a new stadium for one of its own. My fear is that it's not.
What is unfortunate is that the teams that appear like they're going to pay the price are two that have been around for a while. All speculation centers on the Montreal Expos and Minnesota Twins as bust up bait.
Why them? Montreal's case is pretty easy to state, given the lack of interest in the team, the unmitigated disaster of their stadium, and the general stupidity of the folks who've run and owned the team over the last decade.
What makes things too bad is that, if the Expos had any sort of stability, they'd be the dynasty people talk about. Imagine a rotation with both Pedro and the Big Unit and an offense with Larry Walker, Moises Alou (at least I think it was that Alou), and Vladi Guerrero.
So while I'll shed a tear at their demise (figuratively, at least), I can understand why they'll go.
The same cannot be said for the Minnesota Twins, who recenly awoke from many years of futility to make a run at the AL Central. The argument for their folding states that they can't turn a sustained profit.
Consider that, in the first year in some time that the team was successful, they did turn a modest profit. Perhaps ensuring future success would ensure future profits? Some lousy teams are profitable (hello Cubs), but for many teams their financial success is in some way related to their playing success. A lesson that many owners either don't want to hear or would prefer to ignore.
There's also the ugly little thought that Carl Polhad, the cold-blooded creature that owns the Twins, would likely get a payout well above the value of the team to close up shop. You may remember this is the same Polhad that jerked Kirby Puckett around during free agency at the height of Puckett's career. If you don't think Polhad would take the money and run, you probably thought the same thing about Robert Irsay, Art Modell, and Bud Adams. Of course, they got money, new stadia, and still got to play.
Especially vexing is the "commissioner"'s apparent collusion in all of this. Not surprising, given that Selig is himself an owner, who would probably see the value of his club increase if there were fewer of them. Not to mention that he'll likely get a decent player out of whatever dispersal draft is held. I'm sure Selig is discharging his duty impartially.
And I almost typed that with a straight face.
Question: why aren't the Florida Marlins, a team that consistently runs a deficit, plays in a football stadium, and has only been marginally competitive since their short term World Series success, an option for folding? Who, outside of a 30 mile radius of Miami (and I'm being generous with the radius) would give a damn if they disappeared?
Of course, for my money, you could also take any team out of a group consisting of Anaheim, Texas, Milwaukee, or Tampa Bay. Or all of them.
We'll have to wait and see where this leads, but I have an uneasy feeling about this. My hope is that this is some grandstand play by the Billionaire Boneheads Club to get a new stadium for one of its own. My fear is that it's not.
Honestly, I don't have that much on my mind today, but fear that leaving the "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead" lyrics up too long may be creepy.
I did find out over the weekend that I have at least one reader, dispelling the myth that I've been typing into the wind all this time. A hearty Blogalicious thanks to Mrs. Allyson Harper-Nixon for actually reading this. Assuming you didn't quit after reading about my concern over Parmalat.
It's election day today, though without the frisson of last year, when even the most jaded citizen stayed up to see the networks claim that Al Gore had won Neptune. It is funny to think in all the furor over the election last year that most election (and election coverage) practices seem to be the same. Not that we've had a lot to measure by; the mayoral election in Boston today appears to be a formality, and the special election to fill Joe Moakley's seat just happened to fall on 9/11. It seems like the only place where I read anything about new voting technology anymore is the Wired website, and even that isn't what it once was.
I hope this is just the result of what's "news worthy" and not a typical out of mind, out of sight response. Americans are not always that good about learning a lesson and growing from it. Please see the second oil crisis of the 1970s as an example. My hope is that the 2004 election is chadless, but I don't expect it.
Oh, and my obligatory Patriots mention. They won over the Falcons in Atlanta, showing their more typical defense and one of the odder touchdowns I've seen when a pass to David Patten bounced off him and into the arms of Troy Brown, who was a good 5 yards away. They get Buffalo at home this week (damn well better be a win), then have the Rams and Saints back to back. They play the Rams at night, so one can hope that we get some nice mid-November weather right about then. It may be the only way to slow them down.
I did find out over the weekend that I have at least one reader, dispelling the myth that I've been typing into the wind all this time. A hearty Blogalicious thanks to Mrs. Allyson Harper-Nixon for actually reading this. Assuming you didn't quit after reading about my concern over Parmalat.
It's election day today, though without the frisson of last year, when even the most jaded citizen stayed up to see the networks claim that Al Gore had won Neptune. It is funny to think in all the furor over the election last year that most election (and election coverage) practices seem to be the same. Not that we've had a lot to measure by; the mayoral election in Boston today appears to be a formality, and the special election to fill Joe Moakley's seat just happened to fall on 9/11. It seems like the only place where I read anything about new voting technology anymore is the Wired website, and even that isn't what it once was.
I hope this is just the result of what's "news worthy" and not a typical out of mind, out of sight response. Americans are not always that good about learning a lesson and growing from it. Please see the second oil crisis of the 1970s as an example. My hope is that the 2004 election is chadless, but I don't expect it.
Oh, and my obligatory Patriots mention. They won over the Falcons in Atlanta, showing their more typical defense and one of the odder touchdowns I've seen when a pass to David Patten bounced off him and into the arms of Troy Brown, who was a good 5 yards away. They get Buffalo at home this week (damn well better be a win), then have the Rams and Saints back to back. They play the Rams at night, so one can hope that we get some nice mid-November weather right about then. It may be the only way to slow them down.
05 November 2001
Ding Dong! The Witch is dead.
Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch!
Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead.
Wake up, sleepy head
Rub your eyes, get out of bed.
Wake up, the Wicked Witch is dead.
She's gone where the goblins go,
Below - below - below.
Yo-ho, let's open up and sing and ring the bells out.
Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.
Let them know
The Wicked Witch is dead!
Which old Witch? The Wicked Witch!
Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is dead.
Wake up, sleepy head
Rub your eyes, get out of bed.
Wake up, the Wicked Witch is dead.
She's gone where the goblins go,
Below - below - below.
Yo-ho, let's open up and sing and ring the bells out.
Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.
Let them know
The Wicked Witch is dead!
02 November 2001
I promised you an update about something I did last Friday, but have't come through yet, thanks to the European warm milk syndicate and a certain baseball team I refuse to mention. So here it is.
My girlfriend, the Sarah I keep referring to, doesn't read these pages. Well, she did once, but announced a boycott given my contention that she has a small but serious issue when it comes to driving directions. All of this is unfortunate, as my little story here is directly related to another of her little character traits.
With increasing frequency over the last few months (and not unrelated to the weddings we've attended and my brother's engagement), Sarah continues to inquire as to when she may get a diamond ring of her very own. Now while in many men this would induce some sort of low grade fever and hives, I'm very comfortable with the idea of marriage. I mean, we've been dating for over 2 years, living together for four or five months, and we've both pretty much admitted that we are beyond the point of no return as far as commitment goes.
Still, there's one issue at hand where engagment is concerned: money. I don't have any. Or, more specifically, I don't have any that isn't already earmarked for one of my various creditors, rapacious bloodsuckers one and all. This makes buying such an item difficult, especially when you add in a beleaguered credit history (those rapacious bloodsuckers again).
But on the financial plus side, my sibs and I are in the process of selling the family home. Not that many bites, given the current economic and social clime, but it would be a big chunk of change. Certainly enough for a ring.
Thus, off to the jewelry store we went. Oddly enough, Sarah was the more resistant of the two of us. All of her talk melted in the face of actually going to look, due to some non-specific "embarrasment." As I have noted before, Sarah is not one for speaking up, and I think this qualified. I made some noises about her perhaps not really wanting to do this, which cleared up her problems. Off to the Natick Mall!
We didn't have a specific plan, outside of going to a jewelry store, looking at some rings, and getting a definite ring size. We happened into Kay Jewelers, and after a little standing around looking, a very friendly woman came over and took us through things.
The good news, for me, is that anything over .75 carats looks really odd on Sarah's petitie hands. I don't mean to be a cheapskate about things, but this cleared a pretty big hurdle. The only problem we had is that they were pushing their own uncertified diamonds, which I'm not too crazy about. You have insurance issues there, and I'm not sure I trust their in-house grading.
Side note: if anyone reading this is able to take the "Gemstones" class the BU offers through the geology department, do it. It actually comes in handy in times like this.
Then came the expected "would you like to sign up for a Kay Card blah blah blah," which I figured would be a good out, as my credit causes card applications to burst into flames and wail in anguish. So you can imagine my surprise when I qualified for an amount just enough to purchase a ring. Hmm.
But I passed, saying I wanted to surprise Sarah. Which I do, but I also didn't want to commit right then to a ring I wasn't fully comfortable with. Kind of funny to think I'm the one doing most of the worrying here, but caveat emptor and all that.
All in all, it was a surprisingly calm experience. The sales person did make the assumption that we were going to buy then and there a little quick, but I suppose that's one of those sales things. I didn't plan to buy the actual ring there, but with the card I just may do so, at least to spread things out. Is it a trap? Probably. But outside of bubble gum machines, this is probably the best way I'm going to have to do this.
Unless someone wants to buy a house?
My girlfriend, the Sarah I keep referring to, doesn't read these pages. Well, she did once, but announced a boycott given my contention that she has a small but serious issue when it comes to driving directions. All of this is unfortunate, as my little story here is directly related to another of her little character traits.
With increasing frequency over the last few months (and not unrelated to the weddings we've attended and my brother's engagement), Sarah continues to inquire as to when she may get a diamond ring of her very own. Now while in many men this would induce some sort of low grade fever and hives, I'm very comfortable with the idea of marriage. I mean, we've been dating for over 2 years, living together for four or five months, and we've both pretty much admitted that we are beyond the point of no return as far as commitment goes.
Still, there's one issue at hand where engagment is concerned: money. I don't have any. Or, more specifically, I don't have any that isn't already earmarked for one of my various creditors, rapacious bloodsuckers one and all. This makes buying such an item difficult, especially when you add in a beleaguered credit history (those rapacious bloodsuckers again).
But on the financial plus side, my sibs and I are in the process of selling the family home. Not that many bites, given the current economic and social clime, but it would be a big chunk of change. Certainly enough for a ring.
Thus, off to the jewelry store we went. Oddly enough, Sarah was the more resistant of the two of us. All of her talk melted in the face of actually going to look, due to some non-specific "embarrasment." As I have noted before, Sarah is not one for speaking up, and I think this qualified. I made some noises about her perhaps not really wanting to do this, which cleared up her problems. Off to the Natick Mall!
We didn't have a specific plan, outside of going to a jewelry store, looking at some rings, and getting a definite ring size. We happened into Kay Jewelers, and after a little standing around looking, a very friendly woman came over and took us through things.
The good news, for me, is that anything over .75 carats looks really odd on Sarah's petitie hands. I don't mean to be a cheapskate about things, but this cleared a pretty big hurdle. The only problem we had is that they were pushing their own uncertified diamonds, which I'm not too crazy about. You have insurance issues there, and I'm not sure I trust their in-house grading.
Side note: if anyone reading this is able to take the "Gemstones" class the BU offers through the geology department, do it. It actually comes in handy in times like this.
Then came the expected "would you like to sign up for a Kay Card blah blah blah," which I figured would be a good out, as my credit causes card applications to burst into flames and wail in anguish. So you can imagine my surprise when I qualified for an amount just enough to purchase a ring. Hmm.
But I passed, saying I wanted to surprise Sarah. Which I do, but I also didn't want to commit right then to a ring I wasn't fully comfortable with. Kind of funny to think I'm the one doing most of the worrying here, but caveat emptor and all that.
All in all, it was a surprisingly calm experience. The sales person did make the assumption that we were going to buy then and there a little quick, but I suppose that's one of those sales things. I didn't plan to buy the actual ring there, but with the card I just may do so, at least to spread things out. Is it a trap? Probably. But outside of bubble gum machines, this is probably the best way I'm going to have to do this.
Unless someone wants to buy a house?
01 November 2001
I think I'm going to cry.
The Diamondbacks had the Yankees down 3-1 going into the bottom of the 9th. Tino Martinez hits a 2 run homer to tie. Then fancy boy Derek Jeter wins it in the 10th with his own homer.
Will someone put a stake through the Yankee's hearts already? Can someone stand up and beat them down, please? Curt Schilling can only do so much, especially on short rest. This is intolerable. Please, please for the love of Mike can we just have someone else win the Series? Or why should I even bother? Or care
Fucking Yankees. Damn.
The Diamondbacks had the Yankees down 3-1 going into the bottom of the 9th. Tino Martinez hits a 2 run homer to tie. Then fancy boy Derek Jeter wins it in the 10th with his own homer.
Will someone put a stake through the Yankee's hearts already? Can someone stand up and beat them down, please? Curt Schilling can only do so much, especially on short rest. This is intolerable. Please, please for the love of Mike can we just have someone else win the Series? Or why should I even bother? Or care
Fucking Yankees. Damn.
30 October 2001
Parmalat frightens me.
For those of you who've not encountered it, Parmalat is milk that's been stabilized so it can be sold on the market shelves alongside sodas and juices, without refrigeration.
There's something oddly unnerving about milk that doesn't need to be kept cold. It'd be like selling boxed salad next to breakfast cereals or raw meat next to canned tuna. It's just not right!
I'm sure there was a whole board room of corpulent Franco-Swiss food industrialists who laughed themselves silly thinking of how the average American would react to this. In some ways, I'm not fully sure this isn't some sort of European joke, like the Maginot Line or the metric system.
One of the few things I remember about all the books I read as a kid was whenever the protagonist was in Europe, they couldn't find a cold drink anywhere on the Continent. Everything was room temperature, and you'd have an easier time springing Albert Speer from Spandau than getting a glass with ice in it.
I bring this up because Sarah bought a bunch of Parmalat milk boxes (like juice boxes) to take with her lunch. I should be happy that she's getting her calcium, but I worry that we're on a path that will bring Museli, Nutella, and the like into our pantry. She thinks I'm over-reacting, and I probably am, but I've still got a nagging thought that this is all part of some EU plot.
In a completely unrelated matter, it was nice to see the Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin special on TV again. I miss those specials, especially as they were a nice break on holidays you didn't expect, like the specials for Thanksgiving and Veterans Day. Then there's the Davey and Goliath Easter special, where Davey's grandmother dies. I understand it was to reinforce the idea of resurrection and eternal life with God, but that's pretty damn heavy for a kid's program.
And on that subject, should I ever become President, my first act will be to introduce legislation requiring that the Grinch Who Stole Christmas must be shown on free TV, and not controlled by cable networks. Ted Turner be damned.
For those of you who've not encountered it, Parmalat is milk that's been stabilized so it can be sold on the market shelves alongside sodas and juices, without refrigeration.
There's something oddly unnerving about milk that doesn't need to be kept cold. It'd be like selling boxed salad next to breakfast cereals or raw meat next to canned tuna. It's just not right!
I'm sure there was a whole board room of corpulent Franco-Swiss food industrialists who laughed themselves silly thinking of how the average American would react to this. In some ways, I'm not fully sure this isn't some sort of European joke, like the Maginot Line or the metric system.
One of the few things I remember about all the books I read as a kid was whenever the protagonist was in Europe, they couldn't find a cold drink anywhere on the Continent. Everything was room temperature, and you'd have an easier time springing Albert Speer from Spandau than getting a glass with ice in it.
I bring this up because Sarah bought a bunch of Parmalat milk boxes (like juice boxes) to take with her lunch. I should be happy that she's getting her calcium, but I worry that we're on a path that will bring Museli, Nutella, and the like into our pantry. She thinks I'm over-reacting, and I probably am, but I've still got a nagging thought that this is all part of some EU plot.
In a completely unrelated matter, it was nice to see the Charlie Brown and the Great Pumpkin special on TV again. I miss those specials, especially as they were a nice break on holidays you didn't expect, like the specials for Thanksgiving and Veterans Day. Then there's the Davey and Goliath Easter special, where Davey's grandmother dies. I understand it was to reinforce the idea of resurrection and eternal life with God, but that's pretty damn heavy for a kid's program.
And on that subject, should I ever become President, my first act will be to introduce legislation requiring that the Grinch Who Stole Christmas must be shown on free TV, and not controlled by cable networks. Ted Turner be damned.
29 October 2001
I was on call this weekend, meaning I had to stick close to campus in case my assistance was needed for anything. Apparently it wasn't, as I didn't get paged once. I did get one or two calls, purely informational, over the week. While I like the quiet of on-call, I think I'd almost prefer being on call less but getting used more. At least then it'd feel like I'm doing something.
Being on-call also meant staying home on Saturday, allowing me to watch a lot of college football. Problem being then that all the teams I wanted to win didn't. Oklahoma? Sorry. Notre Dame? Back to South Bend with you. Georgia? Not enough firepower to take out Florida (which I wouldn't have cared about except that Steve Spurrier is such a whiner). Stanford's upset of UCLA was mildly entertaining, even though I picked UCLA in the ESPN.com college pick 'em game. I'll take the loss there to further confuse the national picture in the dim hopes of getting a playoff someday.
I can put all of this aside, though, thanks to the 9-1 domination the D-Backs put on the Yankees. I wonder if Dan Duquette or any of the Sox brass was watching the game, seeing what can happen when you go for pitchers that don't have more surgeries than wins over the last two seasons. Throw in last night's Big Unit masterpiece, and I'm feeling pretty good about things. Of course, I felt the same way when Oakland took a 2-0 lead back to the Bronx. so I'm going to chastize myself for a while.
The Pats lost their annual tilt against the Broncos. No surprise there. Why does the NFL make the Pats play these guys every year? Even in years where the Broncs were in the Super Bowl and the Pats in the toilet bowl, the game would pop up on the next year's schedule, invariably in Denver, to boot. Perhaps it's some antiquated notion of letting AFL teams play each other, but if that's the case why don't we get to play San Diego more, like when they sucked as bad as the Pats did (or do)?
Oh, and BU hockey runs its record to 3-0 with a 4-0 win over Merrimack. Woo!
The non-sport part of my weekend was a trip Sunday morning to Wal-Mart in Walpole (you'll come for the Wal-Mart, you'll stay for the prison). Sarah has this thing about Wal-Mart, having grown up under its sway in Maine. I just see it as the logical extension of Ames, Bradlees, and the other regional discount stores Wal-Mart has put out of business. While I don't share the spiritual dimension with her, I figured I may find some cheap crap to use as prizes for college bowl, so I went. That and she wouldn't go without me, and I'd hear about it if I was steadfast in not going.
I'd like to raise a point here about Mapquest. IT SUCKS. AND NOT IN THAT GOOD WAY, EITHER. Their directions put us on Route 1 GOING THE EXACT OPPOSITE WAY WE SHOULD HAVE GONE. We drove up and down a few times, passed Foxboro Stadium a couple times (saw the new CMGI Field; it's big!), and finally asked at a gas station (made Sarah ask; she's always making me ask for things she wants, so I figured it was her turn).
I can safely say after having gone to the Wal-Mart that my indifference is pretty much warranted. The prices are good, not great, and they definitely make their money back in some areas (such as all the matching bathroom stuff we bought). We did get our first Christmas tree (three feet and fake; what were you expecting? It's October for cryin' out loud.), and some candy for Halloween. Was it worth the trip. Not really, though I assume Sarah would answer differently.
We then head back on Route 1 for lunch at the Old Country Buffet, having never eaten there before. It could be the most egalitarianly gluttonous place in America. You pay, sit wherever there's space, and eat. And eat. And eat. The food is pretty much standard "American" fare but not fast food (roast beef, fried chicken, and the like, not burgers, pizza, and dogs). Nothing taragon glazed, pistachio encrusted, or cooked using an ingredient or technique in French. We did wonder how they made their money, until we noticed that the majority of the patrons were either kids or seniors, two groups not noted for their rapacious appetites. Don't know if I'd go back, but it worked out well considering we'd not eaten yet.
Yes, if my weekends were any more exciting I'd have a coronary. There is one other thing we did this weekend that I haven't mentioned, and will later.
Being on-call also meant staying home on Saturday, allowing me to watch a lot of college football. Problem being then that all the teams I wanted to win didn't. Oklahoma? Sorry. Notre Dame? Back to South Bend with you. Georgia? Not enough firepower to take out Florida (which I wouldn't have cared about except that Steve Spurrier is such a whiner). Stanford's upset of UCLA was mildly entertaining, even though I picked UCLA in the ESPN.com college pick 'em game. I'll take the loss there to further confuse the national picture in the dim hopes of getting a playoff someday.
I can put all of this aside, though, thanks to the 9-1 domination the D-Backs put on the Yankees. I wonder if Dan Duquette or any of the Sox brass was watching the game, seeing what can happen when you go for pitchers that don't have more surgeries than wins over the last two seasons. Throw in last night's Big Unit masterpiece, and I'm feeling pretty good about things. Of course, I felt the same way when Oakland took a 2-0 lead back to the Bronx. so I'm going to chastize myself for a while.
The Pats lost their annual tilt against the Broncos. No surprise there. Why does the NFL make the Pats play these guys every year? Even in years where the Broncs were in the Super Bowl and the Pats in the toilet bowl, the game would pop up on the next year's schedule, invariably in Denver, to boot. Perhaps it's some antiquated notion of letting AFL teams play each other, but if that's the case why don't we get to play San Diego more, like when they sucked as bad as the Pats did (or do)?
Oh, and BU hockey runs its record to 3-0 with a 4-0 win over Merrimack. Woo!
The non-sport part of my weekend was a trip Sunday morning to Wal-Mart in Walpole (you'll come for the Wal-Mart, you'll stay for the prison). Sarah has this thing about Wal-Mart, having grown up under its sway in Maine. I just see it as the logical extension of Ames, Bradlees, and the other regional discount stores Wal-Mart has put out of business. While I don't share the spiritual dimension with her, I figured I may find some cheap crap to use as prizes for college bowl, so I went. That and she wouldn't go without me, and I'd hear about it if I was steadfast in not going.
I'd like to raise a point here about Mapquest. IT SUCKS. AND NOT IN THAT GOOD WAY, EITHER. Their directions put us on Route 1 GOING THE EXACT OPPOSITE WAY WE SHOULD HAVE GONE. We drove up and down a few times, passed Foxboro Stadium a couple times (saw the new CMGI Field; it's big!), and finally asked at a gas station (made Sarah ask; she's always making me ask for things she wants, so I figured it was her turn).
I can safely say after having gone to the Wal-Mart that my indifference is pretty much warranted. The prices are good, not great, and they definitely make their money back in some areas (such as all the matching bathroom stuff we bought). We did get our first Christmas tree (three feet and fake; what were you expecting? It's October for cryin' out loud.), and some candy for Halloween. Was it worth the trip. Not really, though I assume Sarah would answer differently.
We then head back on Route 1 for lunch at the Old Country Buffet, having never eaten there before. It could be the most egalitarianly gluttonous place in America. You pay, sit wherever there's space, and eat. And eat. And eat. The food is pretty much standard "American" fare but not fast food (roast beef, fried chicken, and the like, not burgers, pizza, and dogs). Nothing taragon glazed, pistachio encrusted, or cooked using an ingredient or technique in French. We did wonder how they made their money, until we noticed that the majority of the patrons were either kids or seniors, two groups not noted for their rapacious appetites. Don't know if I'd go back, but it worked out well considering we'd not eaten yet.
Yes, if my weekends were any more exciting I'd have a coronary. There is one other thing we did this weekend that I haven't mentioned, and will later.
25 October 2001
You remember when Pokemon or some such cartoon was causing seizures in Japan because of the rapid scene changes? I have something like that going on in my office today.
The fire alarm for the building is being tested (at least that's the story we're getting), and so the alarm keeps going off randomly. We don't get the noise, which is good (we got part of it once, actually, it's one of those voice ones that tells you to get the hell out), but we do get the high intensity light going off for 45 seconds at a time. The strobe effect gives us a club feel, but I'm waiting for my central nervous system to shut down from overstimulation. No worries about people not seeing the light, trust me.
Funny headline on Yahoo earlier. Rumsfeld: catching Osama hard. It's like something Barbie would say. It's been replaced by something more like standard English, but I had a good laugh thinking the Secretary of Defense has the verbal skills of a 7 year old.
It's warm today. October 25, and it's over 70 degrees out. I WANT MY FALL BACK! This is my favorite season, and it's being disrupted. Indian summer is fine in the first week of October (consider this: temps dropped into the 40s that week), but not the last. One of the benefits about being on a suburban campus now is getting to see leaves change. The drawback: student complaints about leaf blowers running in the morning.
I have to feel a little sorry for Trent Dilfer right about now. Wins the Super Bowl, gets cut by the Ravens, can't get a job, finally lands in Seattle, and Matt Hassleback gets every opportunity to play in front of him, even after Dilfer led the team to wins over Jacksonville and Denver. Hassleback is not that good, but was in Green Bay at the same time Mike Holmgren was. Holmgren busted a gut to get Hassleback, and seems determined to have him play so it doesn't look like a bad move. Perhaps we should reference the Chicago Bears here: QB of the future played like crap, team won when unheralded Jim Miller was at the controls. Miller kept getting jerked around, is now finally the starter again, and the Bears are 4-1 or 5-1. Granted the defense is the main factor there, but it helps to have a QB who won't lose the game for you.
Here's a Saturday twin bill for you: Oklahoma-Nebraska at high noon (fitting, go Sooners!) and World Series game 1 at 7:30, Schilling against Mussina (go Snakes!).
The fire alarm for the building is being tested (at least that's the story we're getting), and so the alarm keeps going off randomly. We don't get the noise, which is good (we got part of it once, actually, it's one of those voice ones that tells you to get the hell out), but we do get the high intensity light going off for 45 seconds at a time. The strobe effect gives us a club feel, but I'm waiting for my central nervous system to shut down from overstimulation. No worries about people not seeing the light, trust me.
Funny headline on Yahoo earlier. Rumsfeld: catching Osama hard. It's like something Barbie would say. It's been replaced by something more like standard English, but I had a good laugh thinking the Secretary of Defense has the verbal skills of a 7 year old.
It's warm today. October 25, and it's over 70 degrees out. I WANT MY FALL BACK! This is my favorite season, and it's being disrupted. Indian summer is fine in the first week of October (consider this: temps dropped into the 40s that week), but not the last. One of the benefits about being on a suburban campus now is getting to see leaves change. The drawback: student complaints about leaf blowers running in the morning.
I have to feel a little sorry for Trent Dilfer right about now. Wins the Super Bowl, gets cut by the Ravens, can't get a job, finally lands in Seattle, and Matt Hassleback gets every opportunity to play in front of him, even after Dilfer led the team to wins over Jacksonville and Denver. Hassleback is not that good, but was in Green Bay at the same time Mike Holmgren was. Holmgren busted a gut to get Hassleback, and seems determined to have him play so it doesn't look like a bad move. Perhaps we should reference the Chicago Bears here: QB of the future played like crap, team won when unheralded Jim Miller was at the controls. Miller kept getting jerked around, is now finally the starter again, and the Bears are 4-1 or 5-1. Granted the defense is the main factor there, but it helps to have a QB who won't lose the game for you.
Here's a Saturday twin bill for you: Oklahoma-Nebraska at high noon (fitting, go Sooners!) and World Series game 1 at 7:30, Schilling against Mussina (go Snakes!).
24 October 2001
Crisis averted.
Saw the doctor, all my problems are relatively simple to deal with. The "mole" that we thought was going south is actually something called a "skin tab" which is pretty much an extra fold/lump of skin. The color change is apparently normal, and they'll bleed pretty easily, which explains the crusty stuff. I did have one fall off a few years ago (also normal), so I should have known better. Still, good to check.
My heel problem is Achilles related, but is more or less nagging and not anything requiring invasive medical treatment. Got a bunch of exercises to do to build it up, so we'll see how that goes.
The one issue I didn't plan on addressing, asthma, did come up. Doctor took a listen, didn't think I sounded all that well, and put me on a new inhaler. Which, come to find out, HMO Blue doesn't cover. Not wanting to drop $53 on it, I'm waiting to see if there's something that is covered that I can go on.
The biggest adventure yesterday was just getting there. Called a local cab company, asked for a 3 PM pickup. The never showed. So I had to scramble to get a co-worker to take me over, and it turns out she thought we were going to their administrative location, not the doctors' building. So I was about 10 minutes late, which meant I got called just after paying for my visit. Timing is everything.
Other than that fun, things are quiet. Work's been odd, don't quite have my head in the game. Less focus than usual, which may explain why I'm writing this at my desk. Part of it is a need to get more integrated in what Campus Life does at Babson; my co-workers teach in the first year experience program, have professional organization roles, etc. So it could be more a matter of delving into things that interest me, and there are a couple things that look promising.
Watched Quills last night, which was a decent movie if not just a little screwed up. I know, a movie about the Marquis de Sade is screwed up? Go figure! Didn't know Michael Caine was in it, so between that and The Cider House Rules he's been in some quality stuff. Which means he's due to be in Rocky X or Jaws 2002: Electric Boogaloo or something.
Saw the doctor, all my problems are relatively simple to deal with. The "mole" that we thought was going south is actually something called a "skin tab" which is pretty much an extra fold/lump of skin. The color change is apparently normal, and they'll bleed pretty easily, which explains the crusty stuff. I did have one fall off a few years ago (also normal), so I should have known better. Still, good to check.
My heel problem is Achilles related, but is more or less nagging and not anything requiring invasive medical treatment. Got a bunch of exercises to do to build it up, so we'll see how that goes.
The one issue I didn't plan on addressing, asthma, did come up. Doctor took a listen, didn't think I sounded all that well, and put me on a new inhaler. Which, come to find out, HMO Blue doesn't cover. Not wanting to drop $53 on it, I'm waiting to see if there's something that is covered that I can go on.
The biggest adventure yesterday was just getting there. Called a local cab company, asked for a 3 PM pickup. The never showed. So I had to scramble to get a co-worker to take me over, and it turns out she thought we were going to their administrative location, not the doctors' building. So I was about 10 minutes late, which meant I got called just after paying for my visit. Timing is everything.
Other than that fun, things are quiet. Work's been odd, don't quite have my head in the game. Less focus than usual, which may explain why I'm writing this at my desk. Part of it is a need to get more integrated in what Campus Life does at Babson; my co-workers teach in the first year experience program, have professional organization roles, etc. So it could be more a matter of delving into things that interest me, and there are a couple things that look promising.
Watched Quills last night, which was a decent movie if not just a little screwed up. I know, a movie about the Marquis de Sade is screwed up? Go figure! Didn't know Michael Caine was in it, so between that and The Cider House Rules he's been in some quality stuff. Which means he's due to be in Rocky X or Jaws 2002: Electric Boogaloo or something.
23 October 2001
So I'm going to the doctor today. This may not sound like a big deal, and truth be told it probably isn't, but it's the first appointment I've had with this guy, so it'll be interesting to see what comes of it.
I have three specific medical issues to discuss:
1. Both of my feet hurt, specifically the heels. The left heel hurts along the bottom, the right seems to be an Achilles problem that started during summer softball. Lack of health insurance prevented a timely medical response on my part, at least until August, when lethargy set in.
2. I've got some sort of rash on my back. I think it's sun-related, as it kicked up after we returned from Florida.
3. Related to that, I think, is a mole on my neck which doesn't look right. There's also a new mole-like spot on my left side. Given my mother's apparent skin cancer (she had something, but never got it checked), this is the issue that has me most concerned. I'd write John McCain for advice, but with the anthrax and all my letter will probably get shredded and burned.
In other news, as you've probably noticed by now I don't like the Yankees. As much as I can feel sympathy for the people of New York City, I still don't like the Yankees. I hope they get swept by the D-Backs. I hope Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling throw back to back perfect games. I hope Paul O'Neill whines so much that Kraft sends him a big block of cheddar. I hope Derek Jeter gets back together with Mariah Carey just in time for Game 1. I hope, I hope, I hope.
And what good will all this hoping do? I'm afraid to ponder that question.
Question: when does the rumor start that Major League Baseball ordered teams to let the Yankees win the World Series? Not that they couldn't win the thing on their own, but logic never wills out where a conspiracy can be asserted.
New England Patriots are 3-3. Odder still. At least we get the Rams, Saints, and Browns at home. Saints are clearly vulnerable (they lost to the Falcons, a team not unlike the Pats, really, in terms of expected results), and the Browns pose a question of when they'll run out of smoke and mirrors. The Rams are the real deal; pray for inclement weather to slow them down.
Throw in the undefeated BU hockey team (and the 1-3-1 BC team), and it's a decent week, sports-wise. Now if the sun would just come out...
I have three specific medical issues to discuss:
1. Both of my feet hurt, specifically the heels. The left heel hurts along the bottom, the right seems to be an Achilles problem that started during summer softball. Lack of health insurance prevented a timely medical response on my part, at least until August, when lethargy set in.
2. I've got some sort of rash on my back. I think it's sun-related, as it kicked up after we returned from Florida.
3. Related to that, I think, is a mole on my neck which doesn't look right. There's also a new mole-like spot on my left side. Given my mother's apparent skin cancer (she had something, but never got it checked), this is the issue that has me most concerned. I'd write John McCain for advice, but with the anthrax and all my letter will probably get shredded and burned.
In other news, as you've probably noticed by now I don't like the Yankees. As much as I can feel sympathy for the people of New York City, I still don't like the Yankees. I hope they get swept by the D-Backs. I hope Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling throw back to back perfect games. I hope Paul O'Neill whines so much that Kraft sends him a big block of cheddar. I hope Derek Jeter gets back together with Mariah Carey just in time for Game 1. I hope, I hope, I hope.
And what good will all this hoping do? I'm afraid to ponder that question.
Question: when does the rumor start that Major League Baseball ordered teams to let the Yankees win the World Series? Not that they couldn't win the thing on their own, but logic never wills out where a conspiracy can be asserted.
New England Patriots are 3-3. Odder still. At least we get the Rams, Saints, and Browns at home. Saints are clearly vulnerable (they lost to the Falcons, a team not unlike the Pats, really, in terms of expected results), and the Browns pose a question of when they'll run out of smoke and mirrors. The Rams are the real deal; pray for inclement weather to slow them down.
Throw in the undefeated BU hockey team (and the 1-3-1 BC team), and it's a decent week, sports-wise. Now if the sun would just come out...
19 October 2001
In the short time that I've been doing this, I've come to realize that the whole computer thing passed me at some point. Not sure when, but I'm willing to bet it was about 1993, when I was mired with a Mac Classic that was behind the curve even when I bought it.
My inability to properly put up a link to Jon Couture's site, coupled with my apparent inability to set up the archive for this poor excuse for web content, really sent the message home. From interactions with co-workers I think I'm doing well for folks over 30 without a technical background.
But I do wonder how things would have turned out if I'd gone with computer science as a major. I'd like to think I'd be in Mark Cuban's shoes. For those of you who don't know him, he's the guy behind Real.com, who is worth umpteen billion dollars thanks to his getting out in time. He now owns the Dallas Mavericks. My dream here is fueled by the impending sale of the Red Sox, something along the lines of "Mad Internet Billionaire Coen Buys BoSox; Promises to have Duquette Publicly Flogged."
Come to think of it, that may be a new revenue stream for them. Five bucks a go, all money to defray the cost of releasing Carl Everett and bringing in Jason Giambi. Better still, trade Everett to, say, the Yakult Swallows for 8 or 9 pitching prospects.
Very little excitement in my life right now. I'm going to a Tupperware party tonight, with the plan to catch up with former colleagues who were invited. Except most of them aren't going. I do have a misplaced fascination with burping plastics, so the night may not be a total loss.
Funny headline at Boston.com this morning. It stated that US ground troops were on the ground in Afghanistan. Where else would ground troops be? In the clouds? I know, semantics and all, but it was one of those "master of the obvious" things.
My inability to properly put up a link to Jon Couture's site, coupled with my apparent inability to set up the archive for this poor excuse for web content, really sent the message home. From interactions with co-workers I think I'm doing well for folks over 30 without a technical background.
But I do wonder how things would have turned out if I'd gone with computer science as a major. I'd like to think I'd be in Mark Cuban's shoes. For those of you who don't know him, he's the guy behind Real.com, who is worth umpteen billion dollars thanks to his getting out in time. He now owns the Dallas Mavericks. My dream here is fueled by the impending sale of the Red Sox, something along the lines of "Mad Internet Billionaire Coen Buys BoSox; Promises to have Duquette Publicly Flogged."
Come to think of it, that may be a new revenue stream for them. Five bucks a go, all money to defray the cost of releasing Carl Everett and bringing in Jason Giambi. Better still, trade Everett to, say, the Yakult Swallows for 8 or 9 pitching prospects.
Very little excitement in my life right now. I'm going to a Tupperware party tonight, with the plan to catch up with former colleagues who were invited. Except most of them aren't going. I do have a misplaced fascination with burping plastics, so the night may not be a total loss.
Funny headline at Boston.com this morning. It stated that US ground troops were on the ground in Afghanistan. Where else would ground troops be? In the clouds? I know, semantics and all, but it was one of those "master of the obvious" things.
18 October 2001
My back itches. My throat feels funny. I'm having a bad hair day.
It must be anthrax.
I have to agree with the esteemed Jon Couture (whose blog that I'm aping for some reason is availabe at http://people.bu.edu/joncooch, which I'm not going to try to link considering I really screwed things up last time I tried) that we're all a little wound up on this subject.
Folks, the bottom line is that 99.9999999927% of us are unimportant enough to get anthrax mailed to us, or don't work for someone who is important enough. You can lay in all the Cipro you want, but you'll find that you're at more risk to get the flu or be hit by a bus while crossing the street.
And if you're going to hoard antibiotics, there are far cheaper ones that are as effective against anthrax. Penecillin, for example. Leave the Cipro for the folks who actually need it because they've got some resistant strain of something because idiot patients get idiot doctors to give them antibiotics when they have a cold or other viral infection.
Not that I don't have a game plan for beating anthrax. I'm spending all my non work time hiding under my bed, and soak all my mail in bleach for an hour before opening.
Oh, fuck the Yankees, too.
It must be anthrax.
I have to agree with the esteemed Jon Couture (whose blog that I'm aping for some reason is availabe at http://people.bu.edu/joncooch, which I'm not going to try to link considering I really screwed things up last time I tried) that we're all a little wound up on this subject.
Folks, the bottom line is that 99.9999999927% of us are unimportant enough to get anthrax mailed to us, or don't work for someone who is important enough. You can lay in all the Cipro you want, but you'll find that you're at more risk to get the flu or be hit by a bus while crossing the street.
And if you're going to hoard antibiotics, there are far cheaper ones that are as effective against anthrax. Penecillin, for example. Leave the Cipro for the folks who actually need it because they've got some resistant strain of something because idiot patients get idiot doctors to give them antibiotics when they have a cold or other viral infection.
Not that I don't have a game plan for beating anthrax. I'm spending all my non work time hiding under my bed, and soak all my mail in bleach for an hour before opening.
Oh, fuck the Yankees, too.
17 October 2001
Seeing how long the last entry was, I'll try to wrap this wedding thing up.
Ceremony was very nice, a mix of Catholic and Protestant traditions. Matt's dad gave the sermon, and looked a little imaptient while we Catholics were singing our allelulias before the Gospel reading. I suppose they don't do that. You could also pick out the Prots in the group who wanted to keep going with the Our Father after we stop.
The real entertainment started when we left the church. Now, I've spent the better part of my life as the navigator, the person who uses the map and/or directions, and usually do pretty well. This time, not so much. As we were leaving, the 3 or 4 cars in front turned left, opposite of the directions. I figure we should follow them, as they were locals (some of Allyson's extended family) and knew where they were going.
They did know where they were going. It just turned out that where they were going was the CVS in Blackstone, not the Franklin Country Club. My next mistake was then not waiting for them to resume following, but going back to the church to start fresh. Compounding things were the two cars following us, full of BUCB types who would be so understanding of our mix up. Of course.
We got back to the church, started to follow the directions (after a missed turn or two getting back to the church). We proceed to a street we need, next to the National Marker Company (why does that name sound like a front for the CIA?). I've already read out these name, and instead of turning, Sarah does her thing where she repeats the street name as a question. We pass the street. After that, we stopped being in the lead. And talking, though that sorted itself out.
So I was late for the picture taking, but no worries as they were still on Matt, Allyson, and their family. Two problems during this:
1. TOO COLD! Lots of wind, temps in the low 50s if that. Not so bad for those of us in tuxes, but the bridesmaids had to go back to their cars for whatever they could find (yes, coat offers were made, we're not philistines here).
2. The pictures were being done near the 18th green. You'd think golfers would hold off. No. During a set of photos, a ball lands about 10 feet from where Matt and Allyson are standing (thankfully, the SOB found the trap). No warning, no call of "fore" that we could tell. So when that jackass when to hit, we started coughing when he got to the top of his backswing. Still made the shot, but I like to think he was farther from the pin.
The reception was marked by an encore of the Chicken Dance, which is apparently a family favorite on Allyson's side. There was also a "Gonga Line" (for the Gongaleski family, which makes up a lot of Allyson's extended family) with limbo pole. It was also marked by a plot between me, Sarah, and the Bruce to get Jon Couture to dance with his "pseudo-girlfriend" (his description!). And the slow dances, not just the White Man's Overbite dances. Mission accomplished, though Jon may just be the whitest guy I know.
Oh, and there was also a really pathetic circle dance to "God Bless the USA" or "Proud to be an American" or whatever that lousy Lee Greenwood song is. You've heard it. The DJ also did a lousy job of trying to tie it in.
And there was a polka. Not only was there a polka, but people danced to it. And not just old folks, but people my own age (and younger!). One of the other ushers, a cousin of Allyson's, was married over the summer, and they danced no fewer than six of them.
And that was about it. We went back to the hotel, a bunch of us had pizza (such is the nightlife in Medway or wherever the hell we were). And as much as I enjoyed being with friends and seeing those close to me enter into matrimony, I was never as glad as last weekend, when I was on call and didn't have to leave the apartment if I didn't want to.
Ceremony was very nice, a mix of Catholic and Protestant traditions. Matt's dad gave the sermon, and looked a little imaptient while we Catholics were singing our allelulias before the Gospel reading. I suppose they don't do that. You could also pick out the Prots in the group who wanted to keep going with the Our Father after we stop.
The real entertainment started when we left the church. Now, I've spent the better part of my life as the navigator, the person who uses the map and/or directions, and usually do pretty well. This time, not so much. As we were leaving, the 3 or 4 cars in front turned left, opposite of the directions. I figure we should follow them, as they were locals (some of Allyson's extended family) and knew where they were going.
They did know where they were going. It just turned out that where they were going was the CVS in Blackstone, not the Franklin Country Club. My next mistake was then not waiting for them to resume following, but going back to the church to start fresh. Compounding things were the two cars following us, full of BUCB types who would be so understanding of our mix up. Of course.
We got back to the church, started to follow the directions (after a missed turn or two getting back to the church). We proceed to a street we need, next to the National Marker Company (why does that name sound like a front for the CIA?). I've already read out these name, and instead of turning, Sarah does her thing where she repeats the street name as a question. We pass the street. After that, we stopped being in the lead. And talking, though that sorted itself out.
So I was late for the picture taking, but no worries as they were still on Matt, Allyson, and their family. Two problems during this:
1. TOO COLD! Lots of wind, temps in the low 50s if that. Not so bad for those of us in tuxes, but the bridesmaids had to go back to their cars for whatever they could find (yes, coat offers were made, we're not philistines here).
2. The pictures were being done near the 18th green. You'd think golfers would hold off. No. During a set of photos, a ball lands about 10 feet from where Matt and Allyson are standing (thankfully, the SOB found the trap). No warning, no call of "fore" that we could tell. So when that jackass when to hit, we started coughing when he got to the top of his backswing. Still made the shot, but I like to think he was farther from the pin.
The reception was marked by an encore of the Chicken Dance, which is apparently a family favorite on Allyson's side. There was also a "Gonga Line" (for the Gongaleski family, which makes up a lot of Allyson's extended family) with limbo pole. It was also marked by a plot between me, Sarah, and the Bruce to get Jon Couture to dance with his "pseudo-girlfriend" (his description!). And the slow dances, not just the White Man's Overbite dances. Mission accomplished, though Jon may just be the whitest guy I know.
Oh, and there was also a really pathetic circle dance to "God Bless the USA" or "Proud to be an American" or whatever that lousy Lee Greenwood song is. You've heard it. The DJ also did a lousy job of trying to tie it in.
And there was a polka. Not only was there a polka, but people danced to it. And not just old folks, but people my own age (and younger!). One of the other ushers, a cousin of Allyson's, was married over the summer, and they danced no fewer than six of them.
And that was about it. We went back to the hotel, a bunch of us had pizza (such is the nightlife in Medway or wherever the hell we were). And as much as I enjoyed being with friends and seeing those close to me enter into matrimony, I was never as glad as last weekend, when I was on call and didn't have to leave the apartment if I didn't want to.
13 October 2001
Two weddings. Two states. Two days. Too much.
My theory about weddings is that they come in waves. You get a wave after folks graduate from college, another wave if you have a lot of friends in grad school, and another wave of folks who, for lack of anything better, panic when they reach a certain age (there's probably a post-high school wave, but in my little WASPy town getting married at such an age would be gauche). At this point in my life, I should be through all this, getting ready for the wave of family weddings when the kids grow up.
But working in education tends to obliterate such lines. Consider that I have a girlfriend who just graduated from college, and remain friends with someone who's a senior (Jon Couture, the current BU collge bowl president; more on that in the future). I also worked with 50 or so college students each year at BU, which just adds to the number of people I know of marrying age.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I got invited to four weddings this year. The first was for a former co-worker, who was marrying a former RA. Had to miss that, as I'd just taken the Babson job and was in training.
This left 3 weddings. In eight days. The first, my friend Scott Monty's, was almost like a warm up for what followed. A Saturday morning wedding in Ipswich, Massachusetts, followed by a Sunday afternoon wedding in Slatersville, Rhode Island. And I was in that wedding, which necessitated getting there Saturday evening.
The craziness started Friday afternoon, when I went with Matt Harper-Nixon (the groom), his brother Dan, and his stepfather Baz to get tuxedos. We trundled down to North Attleboro, near the Rhode Island line, an ironic trip considering the tux place has an outlet in Needham, where Matt now lives. It was a nice drive, if nothing else.
So we get to the tux place, and we all start trying stuff on. My main thought was that I felt bad for the women in the wedding, as they probably went through ten times the aggravation with the dresses. Nice tux, maroon vest and tie, very traditional. Dan and I did see a printed vest with jungle creatures that we thought would look nice, but Allyson (the bride) probably wouldn't appreciate the rhinos the way we did.
Not surprisingly, my tux didn't fit. To be fair, most of it did. The pants, though, were too short, and the jacket was too small. The latter development was odd, considering the jacket was the same size as my suit jacket, which fits perfectly. They can do the pants in the store, but to get a proper jacket they have to contact the warehouse. Which makes it sound like they have to call in a materials science expert or get Lockheed to design the thing, which doesn't make me feel self conscious at all.
The rest of Friday passed without incident. Hung out a little, then off to Jillian's for the bachelor party, which consists of men drinking while playing manly games like pool and darts. Neat aside there is that, as an usher, my gift from Matt was a set of cuff links shaped like dart boards. He picked links for all the guys in the wedding based on interests or our relationship to him. Not that I'm such a great dart player; we just spent a lot of time in the past drinking and throwing darts.
Saturday dawns. I rouse myself, still feeling the beer and ribs (yum), and we start getting ready for the cross country assault. I wish I had better skills to put maps in here to show where we were going. We left Wellesley, me in my new olive suit (which looks better than it sounds), and Sarah in a lavender print dress (which also looks better than it sounds, thanks to my wonderful powers of description). Ipswich is a good hour away, up near my home town of Manchester.
Along the way, we drive through Hamilton and Wenham, proud members of the New England fraternity of small towns with village greens, white wooden churches, and rambling houses. Sarah spent most of this part of the drive saying "I want to live here!", a sentiment chilled by the cold hard reality of real estate prices in that part of the state. Should I ever get on Millionaire and land the big prize, we would just have enough money to buy a house there.
The wedding in Ipswich was for my friend Nancy, a former RA colleague of mine who I hadn't seen since before she moved to New York to go to Columbia. That was kind of the theme of the day, as I wound up re-acquainting myself with several people I don't think I've seen since 1998. There was Rachel, another RA friend, who was a bridesmaid (and is getting married in a month); Nate, a friend of Nancy's who was a resident of mine many years ago (getting married next week); Kristen, another RA friend (who is already married); and Dawn, an RA from the building next door (finally, someone I know who isn't married). There were also several people I kind of knew, friends of Nancy's from BU, a friend or two from Ipswich, her family, and so on. Not that I re-introduced myself to most of them, but you get the picture. I was still better off than Sarah, who didn't know anyone there but me.
Wedding was outside, under threatening circumstances. Cloudy, then breaking up, then much cloudier. The justice of the peace, sensing time was of the essense, sped through the ceremony, but did an excellent job of not seeming rushed. The wind picked up as things went along, and at one point Nancy's veil was standing straight up. The ceremony was an interesting mix of things: just a guitar player for music, readings of literature and a native American marriage blessing (neither Nancy or Dave have that background, but it was a nice reading). Not what I would choose, but then again I have that whole 2000 years of religious tradition to deal with.
Reception was on site where the wedding was, so no travel there, thankfully. Not much to say about the reception, except that I was limping around like a fool, thanks to a softball injury from the summer (heel) that decided that that day would be the best day to flare up as it hasn't in months. You may be wondering why I've not seen a doctor. Good question, one that, outside of sheer laziness, doesn't have an answer.
So we ate, didn't dance (people were not dancing in droves; no one is drunk enough in the afternoon), I caught up with folks, and the sun came out. A change was in the air; it was sunny but windy and cold, a bracing wind to prepare us for our trip. We took the hint and made tracks.
The trip to Rhode Island was straightforward enough, until we got back onto 295 after picking up the tux. We're looking for exit 9B. We got off 295 at 1A. So I figure head north, the opposite direction we went from, and the numbers should rise. And they did. To 2A and 2B, which put us back on 95. I didn't count on the exits being re-numbered in Rhode Island. This was an easily fixed omen for the next day, one which we did not heed.
Getting to the church was interesting, as the directions tended to give landmarks like the "wood chopping guy," which was just what it sounds like, but smacks of the SNL skit with the New England game show where people give directions ("turn left at the wicked fat kid selling fireworks"). At one point I thought we were to follow route 146 to the end, which if we did we'd wind up in Worcester. Even when you mean to go to Worcester, you don't want to be there, which made me re-read the directions. I figured out the exit we needed just as we were passing the first sign for it. Crisis averted.
I will note at this point that Sarah, as much as I love her, has this disconcerting habit of listening to you read directions, and then ask it back as a question when you're right on top of the turn you need to make. This will come up again later.
We get to the church, St. John the Evangelist. Odd coincidence, as the church we've been going to in Wellesley shares the name. I will say I like the Rhode Island one much better. It is here that I meet most of Matt's family for the first time. Let it be said here and now that he shares an uncanny resemblance to his dad and his uncle. You may be wondering how it can be uncanny if they're related. Suffice it to say the three could be clones.
It was also interesting to watch Matt's parents, their new spouses, and the rest of the family interact. Very friendly, much more friendly than I expected, though I admit my judgment is clouded by my brother's divorce (which is a whole other story).
Allyson and her family arrived in stages, and all I can say is that they are all very blond or near blond (though I think there is one cousin or sister who's brunette). The ceremony is a joint production between the priest and Matt's dad, who is a minister in one of the Protestant faiths. My job as an usher is pretty easy; seat people beforehand, walk Matt's stepmom down, and walk out with one of the bridesmaids.
A note at this time regarding that last step. I can say this having cleared it with Sarah, who understood where I was coming from much better than I thought (with apologies for my underestimation). This was the first wedding EVER , where I was paired with an attractive and apparently unattached bridesmaid. Past matches included a pregnant co-worked of my sister, my new sister in law's married sister, a woman who'd just given birth to twins, and at least one girlfriend of a long-time friend of mine. To be honest, it's not like I'd have gotten anywhere were I not with Sarah; my bumbling with women would be legendary if it weren't locked deep away in the farthest recesses of my brain. But I just wanted to make the point that this is one of the many examples of fate smacking me around like a red-headed stepchild.
Then it was off to the rehearsal dinner. Rhode Island has many unique culinary delights. Take the Awful Awful, a 24 ounce frappe (milkshake to you heathens in the hinterland) that has the consistency of freshly-mixed concrete. Sadly, the Newport Creamery, the chain that offers them, is mostly closed now, as the owners decided to reinvest their profits in a house in Florida. Then there's coffee milk, which, well, isn't as much a delight as something that I rather not try.
But then there's family style chicken. Normally, food in big tubs doesn't sound appealing. It sounds like every school lunch, military mess, and prison chow line come together. But in this case, ignore your instincts. It starts with your average garden salad, followed by pasta (penne in a simple tomato sauce). Then, all at once, you get potatos (fries and roasted) and this rosemary oven-roasted chicken that won't stay on the bone long enough for you to get it to your plate. So, so good. If you ever find yourself in the Blackstone Valley, seek this out. You've not lived until you've stuffed yourself silly with chicken.
We get to the hotel kind of late, but find a note from friend Mark Beazley, aka The Beezer. He's part of the large college bowl contingent at the wedding, a contingent which, I'd have to think is unlike other college bowl wedding contingents, wound up being well dressed and freshly groomed. The room was spacious, two double beds, and had one wall that was covered with mirrors. Just what sort of place Matt and Allyson booked us in I don't know.
The Beezer lives in Brookly and works for American Baby magazine. He may be the only straight guy there (or so I assume). Kind of a funny job for a guy who managed to wangle credit out of interning for Marvel Comics for a semester.
We also meet up with Matt the Bruce, a name so entrenched that even he goes by it. The Bruce was a Harvard undergrad, and came to BU for law school. This was a perfect entry into the world of software development, where he still has a job with a company out in San Francisco. Almost everything post-Harvard for The Bruce has some sort of strange college bowl tie that I don't think I can do justice explaining here. In the, what, year and change since I'd seen him last, The Bruce has grown his hair out. Too short to warrant a ponytail, too bushy to count as a mullet, even though I accused him of such. Given his prediliction for hair metal, either style would be fitting.
OK, more later, too much typing!
My theory about weddings is that they come in waves. You get a wave after folks graduate from college, another wave if you have a lot of friends in grad school, and another wave of folks who, for lack of anything better, panic when they reach a certain age (there's probably a post-high school wave, but in my little WASPy town getting married at such an age would be gauche). At this point in my life, I should be through all this, getting ready for the wave of family weddings when the kids grow up.
But working in education tends to obliterate such lines. Consider that I have a girlfriend who just graduated from college, and remain friends with someone who's a senior (Jon Couture, the current BU collge bowl president; more on that in the future). I also worked with 50 or so college students each year at BU, which just adds to the number of people I know of marrying age.
So I shouldn't have been surprised when I got invited to four weddings this year. The first was for a former co-worker, who was marrying a former RA. Had to miss that, as I'd just taken the Babson job and was in training.
This left 3 weddings. In eight days. The first, my friend Scott Monty's, was almost like a warm up for what followed. A Saturday morning wedding in Ipswich, Massachusetts, followed by a Sunday afternoon wedding in Slatersville, Rhode Island. And I was in that wedding, which necessitated getting there Saturday evening.
The craziness started Friday afternoon, when I went with Matt Harper-Nixon (the groom), his brother Dan, and his stepfather Baz to get tuxedos. We trundled down to North Attleboro, near the Rhode Island line, an ironic trip considering the tux place has an outlet in Needham, where Matt now lives. It was a nice drive, if nothing else.
So we get to the tux place, and we all start trying stuff on. My main thought was that I felt bad for the women in the wedding, as they probably went through ten times the aggravation with the dresses. Nice tux, maroon vest and tie, very traditional. Dan and I did see a printed vest with jungle creatures that we thought would look nice, but Allyson (the bride) probably wouldn't appreciate the rhinos the way we did.
Not surprisingly, my tux didn't fit. To be fair, most of it did. The pants, though, were too short, and the jacket was too small. The latter development was odd, considering the jacket was the same size as my suit jacket, which fits perfectly. They can do the pants in the store, but to get a proper jacket they have to contact the warehouse. Which makes it sound like they have to call in a materials science expert or get Lockheed to design the thing, which doesn't make me feel self conscious at all.
The rest of Friday passed without incident. Hung out a little, then off to Jillian's for the bachelor party, which consists of men drinking while playing manly games like pool and darts. Neat aside there is that, as an usher, my gift from Matt was a set of cuff links shaped like dart boards. He picked links for all the guys in the wedding based on interests or our relationship to him. Not that I'm such a great dart player; we just spent a lot of time in the past drinking and throwing darts.
Saturday dawns. I rouse myself, still feeling the beer and ribs (yum), and we start getting ready for the cross country assault. I wish I had better skills to put maps in here to show where we were going. We left Wellesley, me in my new olive suit (which looks better than it sounds), and Sarah in a lavender print dress (which also looks better than it sounds, thanks to my wonderful powers of description). Ipswich is a good hour away, up near my home town of Manchester.
Along the way, we drive through Hamilton and Wenham, proud members of the New England fraternity of small towns with village greens, white wooden churches, and rambling houses. Sarah spent most of this part of the drive saying "I want to live here!", a sentiment chilled by the cold hard reality of real estate prices in that part of the state. Should I ever get on Millionaire and land the big prize, we would just have enough money to buy a house there.
The wedding in Ipswich was for my friend Nancy, a former RA colleague of mine who I hadn't seen since before she moved to New York to go to Columbia. That was kind of the theme of the day, as I wound up re-acquainting myself with several people I don't think I've seen since 1998. There was Rachel, another RA friend, who was a bridesmaid (and is getting married in a month); Nate, a friend of Nancy's who was a resident of mine many years ago (getting married next week); Kristen, another RA friend (who is already married); and Dawn, an RA from the building next door (finally, someone I know who isn't married). There were also several people I kind of knew, friends of Nancy's from BU, a friend or two from Ipswich, her family, and so on. Not that I re-introduced myself to most of them, but you get the picture. I was still better off than Sarah, who didn't know anyone there but me.
Wedding was outside, under threatening circumstances. Cloudy, then breaking up, then much cloudier. The justice of the peace, sensing time was of the essense, sped through the ceremony, but did an excellent job of not seeming rushed. The wind picked up as things went along, and at one point Nancy's veil was standing straight up. The ceremony was an interesting mix of things: just a guitar player for music, readings of literature and a native American marriage blessing (neither Nancy or Dave have that background, but it was a nice reading). Not what I would choose, but then again I have that whole 2000 years of religious tradition to deal with.
Reception was on site where the wedding was, so no travel there, thankfully. Not much to say about the reception, except that I was limping around like a fool, thanks to a softball injury from the summer (heel) that decided that that day would be the best day to flare up as it hasn't in months. You may be wondering why I've not seen a doctor. Good question, one that, outside of sheer laziness, doesn't have an answer.
So we ate, didn't dance (people were not dancing in droves; no one is drunk enough in the afternoon), I caught up with folks, and the sun came out. A change was in the air; it was sunny but windy and cold, a bracing wind to prepare us for our trip. We took the hint and made tracks.
The trip to Rhode Island was straightforward enough, until we got back onto 295 after picking up the tux. We're looking for exit 9B. We got off 295 at 1A. So I figure head north, the opposite direction we went from, and the numbers should rise. And they did. To 2A and 2B, which put us back on 95. I didn't count on the exits being re-numbered in Rhode Island. This was an easily fixed omen for the next day, one which we did not heed.
Getting to the church was interesting, as the directions tended to give landmarks like the "wood chopping guy," which was just what it sounds like, but smacks of the SNL skit with the New England game show where people give directions ("turn left at the wicked fat kid selling fireworks"). At one point I thought we were to follow route 146 to the end, which if we did we'd wind up in Worcester. Even when you mean to go to Worcester, you don't want to be there, which made me re-read the directions. I figured out the exit we needed just as we were passing the first sign for it. Crisis averted.
I will note at this point that Sarah, as much as I love her, has this disconcerting habit of listening to you read directions, and then ask it back as a question when you're right on top of the turn you need to make. This will come up again later.
We get to the church, St. John the Evangelist. Odd coincidence, as the church we've been going to in Wellesley shares the name. I will say I like the Rhode Island one much better. It is here that I meet most of Matt's family for the first time. Let it be said here and now that he shares an uncanny resemblance to his dad and his uncle. You may be wondering how it can be uncanny if they're related. Suffice it to say the three could be clones.
It was also interesting to watch Matt's parents, their new spouses, and the rest of the family interact. Very friendly, much more friendly than I expected, though I admit my judgment is clouded by my brother's divorce (which is a whole other story).
Allyson and her family arrived in stages, and all I can say is that they are all very blond or near blond (though I think there is one cousin or sister who's brunette). The ceremony is a joint production between the priest and Matt's dad, who is a minister in one of the Protestant faiths. My job as an usher is pretty easy; seat people beforehand, walk Matt's stepmom down, and walk out with one of the bridesmaids.
A note at this time regarding that last step. I can say this having cleared it with Sarah, who understood where I was coming from much better than I thought (with apologies for my underestimation). This was the first wedding EVER , where I was paired with an attractive and apparently unattached bridesmaid. Past matches included a pregnant co-worked of my sister, my new sister in law's married sister, a woman who'd just given birth to twins, and at least one girlfriend of a long-time friend of mine. To be honest, it's not like I'd have gotten anywhere were I not with Sarah; my bumbling with women would be legendary if it weren't locked deep away in the farthest recesses of my brain. But I just wanted to make the point that this is one of the many examples of fate smacking me around like a red-headed stepchild.
Then it was off to the rehearsal dinner. Rhode Island has many unique culinary delights. Take the Awful Awful, a 24 ounce frappe (milkshake to you heathens in the hinterland) that has the consistency of freshly-mixed concrete. Sadly, the Newport Creamery, the chain that offers them, is mostly closed now, as the owners decided to reinvest their profits in a house in Florida. Then there's coffee milk, which, well, isn't as much a delight as something that I rather not try.
But then there's family style chicken. Normally, food in big tubs doesn't sound appealing. It sounds like every school lunch, military mess, and prison chow line come together. But in this case, ignore your instincts. It starts with your average garden salad, followed by pasta (penne in a simple tomato sauce). Then, all at once, you get potatos (fries and roasted) and this rosemary oven-roasted chicken that won't stay on the bone long enough for you to get it to your plate. So, so good. If you ever find yourself in the Blackstone Valley, seek this out. You've not lived until you've stuffed yourself silly with chicken.
We get to the hotel kind of late, but find a note from friend Mark Beazley, aka The Beezer. He's part of the large college bowl contingent at the wedding, a contingent which, I'd have to think is unlike other college bowl wedding contingents, wound up being well dressed and freshly groomed. The room was spacious, two double beds, and had one wall that was covered with mirrors. Just what sort of place Matt and Allyson booked us in I don't know.
The Beezer lives in Brookly and works for American Baby magazine. He may be the only straight guy there (or so I assume). Kind of a funny job for a guy who managed to wangle credit out of interning for Marvel Comics for a semester.
We also meet up with Matt the Bruce, a name so entrenched that even he goes by it. The Bruce was a Harvard undergrad, and came to BU for law school. This was a perfect entry into the world of software development, where he still has a job with a company out in San Francisco. Almost everything post-Harvard for The Bruce has some sort of strange college bowl tie that I don't think I can do justice explaining here. In the, what, year and change since I'd seen him last, The Bruce has grown his hair out. Too short to warrant a ponytail, too bushy to count as a mullet, even though I accused him of such. Given his prediliction for hair metal, either style would be fitting.
OK, more later, too much typing!
11 October 2001
OK, things seem to be working now. The initial post didn't show up, so I did a test (as you can see below) and both published at the same time. Woo hoo for me!
I promised an intro, so here we go. For those of you who don't know me (or not that well), I am a 32 year old residence director at Babson College in Wellesley, Massachusetts. I work with students to make sure they're getting what they need/want out of college (at least the legal things), and to help them out if there are problems. I also get to work with them when they're apparently the cause of a problem, but through a student-run system. So it's a step removed, less adversarial.
It's not a bad job, though the hours can be a little crazy. It's not for the 9 to 5 crowd. I'm usually in a meeting on Monday nights, sometimes Tuesday and Wednesday nights as well. I'm also on call during non office hours for a week at a time. So I could get called at 3 a. m. for something. But it hasn't happenned yet, so I'll keep my fingers crossed.
So you may be wondering why my web page is on a Boston University server when I don't work there. Well, I used to. I also was a student there, for many more years than was wise. Not sure why they haven't cut me off from my email and web stuff, but they haven't. I figure it's a small refund for the many, MANY thousands of dollars I spent there on education.
I live on campus, in a residence hall, which isn't as bad as it sounds. It's a relatively quiet building, and the residents don't come pounding on my door. There's even a deck off the back, which will come in handy when we're finally able to use it.
And by "we" I mean me and my girlfriend, Sarah, who lives with me. In a historical note, it never seemed like I'd ever say anything like that. No, not the lady killer, me. Met Sarah at BU, things worked out, and here we are. She also works for BU, in Personnel, dealing with non-retirement benefits (health, dental, insurance, and the like). Interesting fact: I'm 9 years older than she is. Which I'm sure some of you will find creepy. Too bad.
My immediate family consists of my brother Myles and sister Maureen. Both older; I'm the youngest. Both of my parents have passed, my mom in '98, my dad just about a year ago. Mom had cancer, dad a variety of liver ailments (which we think included cancer given how things went, but we didn't feel a huge need to check). I also had another sister, Cathy, who was about a year and a half older than me, who passed away just before I graduated from high school. There's a disturbing trend among the Coen family to pass away early. Both my paternal grandfather and my dad's only brother died when they were in their early 60s, though at the time my grandfather died (mid to late 1960s) it wasn't unusual for that to happen. They both died from cardiovascual things, which at least tells me what I should focus on as the aging thing continues.
On a more life-affirming note, both Myles and Maureen have 3 kids, two boys and a girl each. They're all between 4 and 9, which is much more managable than the time they were all between six months and six years.
So that's the fam, and they'll come up from time to time. More later on my weekend of weddings just past.
I promised an intro, so here we go. For those of you who don't know me (or not that well), I am a 32 year old residence director at Babson College in Wellesley, Massachusetts. I work with students to make sure they're getting what they need/want out of college (at least the legal things), and to help them out if there are problems. I also get to work with them when they're apparently the cause of a problem, but through a student-run system. So it's a step removed, less adversarial.
It's not a bad job, though the hours can be a little crazy. It's not for the 9 to 5 crowd. I'm usually in a meeting on Monday nights, sometimes Tuesday and Wednesday nights as well. I'm also on call during non office hours for a week at a time. So I could get called at 3 a. m. for something. But it hasn't happenned yet, so I'll keep my fingers crossed.
So you may be wondering why my web page is on a Boston University server when I don't work there. Well, I used to. I also was a student there, for many more years than was wise. Not sure why they haven't cut me off from my email and web stuff, but they haven't. I figure it's a small refund for the many, MANY thousands of dollars I spent there on education.
I live on campus, in a residence hall, which isn't as bad as it sounds. It's a relatively quiet building, and the residents don't come pounding on my door. There's even a deck off the back, which will come in handy when we're finally able to use it.
And by "we" I mean me and my girlfriend, Sarah, who lives with me. In a historical note, it never seemed like I'd ever say anything like that. No, not the lady killer, me. Met Sarah at BU, things worked out, and here we are. She also works for BU, in Personnel, dealing with non-retirement benefits (health, dental, insurance, and the like). Interesting fact: I'm 9 years older than she is. Which I'm sure some of you will find creepy. Too bad.
My immediate family consists of my brother Myles and sister Maureen. Both older; I'm the youngest. Both of my parents have passed, my mom in '98, my dad just about a year ago. Mom had cancer, dad a variety of liver ailments (which we think included cancer given how things went, but we didn't feel a huge need to check). I also had another sister, Cathy, who was about a year and a half older than me, who passed away just before I graduated from high school. There's a disturbing trend among the Coen family to pass away early. Both my paternal grandfather and my dad's only brother died when they were in their early 60s, though at the time my grandfather died (mid to late 1960s) it wasn't unusual for that to happen. They both died from cardiovascual things, which at least tells me what I should focus on as the aging thing continues.
On a more life-affirming note, both Myles and Maureen have 3 kids, two boys and a girl each. They're all between 4 and 9, which is much more managable than the time they were all between six months and six years.
So that's the fam, and they'll come up from time to time. More later on my weekend of weddings just past.
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