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.

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.

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!).

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.

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...

Oh, and before I forget, fuck the Yankees. Twice.

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 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.

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.

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!

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.

This is a test. There is no reason to panic.

Yes, I've begun to blog.

Blogging, or weblogging to those of you of a less nerdy persuasion, is a technology that allows anyone to publish on the Web. No design courses or costly software, just me mashing on the keyboard. The friendly folks at Blogger.com do the rest.

So why have I done this? Like all good high school-level essays, three reasons.

1. Lack of skill. I suck at Web pages. It doesn't help that all I've ever used is free or add on design software. I am the king of all-text pages. Be happy Blogger uses some color.

2. Laziness. My plans are always better than my results, so I figure aim low (in the words of Marge Simpson). This will at least allow me to go off on whatever topic fills my head, without the good intentions getting in the way.

3. Everyone else is. An excuse I've rarely used. Blogging is popular, one of the few popular things whose appeal wasn't obfuscated in marketing claptrap or the sentiments of the brain dead. I figure it's better than going out and buying all of N Sync's crap and joining their bandwagon.

So there's my little intro as to why I'm doing this. Up next: an introduction to me, and the people you'll most likely see mentioned.