It's not a misprint... yes it is 3AM on a Sunday night/Monday morning, but I don't have to work tomorrow so to be perfectly honest, I don't really care. First and foremost, however, I must apologize to my loyal readers for not posting in a couple of weeks, and you must be tired of reading the same bitchy post about the Philadelphia Eagles and how they walked around with not much time left on the clock and it's a matter of pride and all that happy yada yada yada... but for the last two weeks, I've been kinda busy... so without further apologetic absurdity, I'm sorry and shut up.
There is good news, however, and I hope that when you read this, you revel in my enlightenment, good revelry or bad... it doesn't matter to me. To be certain, I hope it is the former, but a wise man once told me that you can't control anyone else's feelings, so worry about your own. Actually, I think it was my Uncle Joe that told me (at a very young age, mind you), "fuck 'em if they can't take a joke." So, all joking aside, here's the topic of the rant today. Well, actually, that's a lie. I don't really think that there is a topic, but rather some news, and quite honestly, I don't know a fabulous literary way to phrase this, other than... I've met someone.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I, the confirmed and committed jaded, cynical, sarcastic, annoyed, bitter single guy have met someone wonderful... and it is just indescribable. I'll let that sink in for a minute... on your end and on mine.
Okay... sunk in yet? Apparently it has, because you're still reading. I met someone that makes me feel the way I think you're supposed to feel when you meet someone that you hope makes you feel the way you think you're supposed to feel. If that makes sense, read on. I know I said that it's indescribable a little earlier, but I'll do my best. When I'm around her, I have this feeling that you get when... well, it's kind of a combination of two feelings... it's like when you lean back in a chair, and just before you fall over you catch yourself, and that feeling when you curl up on the couch after a long day and you get the throw pillows just so, where they're just supporting your head in just the right way, and you turn on the TV and there's a Neil Simon movie on. By the way... yes I have throw pillows on my couch, and no, I'm not gay... not that there's anything wrong with that. Regardless... it's that kind of thing... where I'm just myself, and completely comfortable, and I feel safe and warm and cared for and happy that there's this other person around that can elicit these things in me that I thought I locked away somewhere a long, long time ago.
Now that I've gotten the sappy, sensitive, girly stuff out of the way... here's where the story takes a twist. I have seen this person twice in the last 12 years. Again, I know it is 3AM, and again, that's not a misprint... twice in the last 12 years. Actually, three times, but the second time was only for like an hour in an airport when I had a really long layover and the airport was near her house. It's a really long story, and if I write it all out, you're going to be so intrigued that you'll read this post for the rest of the day, you won't get any work done, your boss will fire you, and then I've got that on my conscience. I can't live with that. Now, if you're a girl reading this, and I wrote the whole story, you'd be so romanced by the whole thing, that you'd just break down and cry, because the story is ten times better than any chick flick you've ever rented in your life, and the bonus part is that every word would be true. It's actually pretty unbelievable... but the other side of that coin is that you'd be so overcome with romanticism that you'd cry all day, and your boss would can you like a ham because he couldn't deal with some weepy, sentimental, romanticist broad in his office... so, obviously, it's better for all those involved, either realistically or literarily, that we just move on and have everyone take my word that it's a great story.
First things first... let me get all the administrative bullshit out of the way. Yes, I met her 12 years ago, and in that twelve year interim I've had a few girlfriends. This begs the question... and here is the answer; no, I never cheated on any of you with this person that I just met, or re-met, or whatever the hell you want to call it. There, that's out of the way... please continue to read.
Maybe before I continue this, I should get myself a cocktail... yes, I think I will... please hold.
Aah yes, Bacardi "O" and Sunny D... I figured it's almost time for breakfast, so might as well start the day off right. Shame that I'm out of eggs, sausage and potatos... who am I kidding... none of that stuff has ever been in my domicile.
Anyway... back to the story at hand, although I'm not telling the story. Now... here's the problem... yes, I know it sounds like it's all peaches and cream and everything is perfect right now, but honestly, I've never felt so happy and sad at the same time. Why, you may ask, would I possibly be sad? I have the best job in the world, and someone I think that there could be a really fantastic futre with. Lemme tell ya. She lives 10 hours away. Let me have a sip of my lovely breakfast cocktail whilst I ponder where to go with this post from here.
Couple things... I know I have a rep for falling too hard too fast and if you're one of my loyal readers, you've most likely read the Vegas post and the moving away and leaving someone special behind post, and those are both very true. It's just that... it's a feeling that I can't deny, and I hope and pray that she's out there in the windy city, in her overpriced one-bedroom apartment, staring at the roses that I sent to her office on Valentine's Day, feeling the same thing... and that right now, at 3:41AM, she's snuggled up with the stuffed moose that I bought her at the hockey game I took her to, and she's warm and cozy, and dreaming about taking me to a White Sox/Yankees game.
Ready for the really bizarre part? Yes, she's beautiful, and no, I don't care... granted it's a nice perk, but honestly, she could have six chins and a mole the size of Wisconsin in the middle of her forehead, and I would not care. Again, I would NOT care. Reason being that when we talk, even on the phone, I have this "perma-grin" that the little potter next door can't understand. I get off the phone with her, and I'm in the best mood... I feel like I could play basketball again, and not have to stop for oxygen... but I'm working on the smoking thing. I know that doesn't sound very "me," but that's how it is. Period. This part of the post is not up for discussion.
Well, it's late, and I'm going to wrap this up... not because I'm tired of writing about this, but because I've rambled on for a while and I hope I haven't bored you. Before I go, a couple more administrative things that I would ask you to do. One, pray that my sister gets a job, and that she's paid what she's worth... she's really very talented and a hard worker... a little bitchy at times, but you'll grow to enjoy that as I have. Two, pray that Travelocity sends me a farewatcher that is really, really low, so that I can book a few of them.
One more quick thing; one of my heroes, Hunter S. Thompson, the incredible author, upon whose writings I have taken so much pleasure, decided to put a bullet through his head tonight. There will never be another author that will ride the highs of Gonzo journalism such that Dr. Thompson did. I do not know why, and to be perfectly honest, I don't want to know why he did it. I'd rather just read his books with the passion that I have for them, and remember him as the individual that made me rediscover my love for the literary art. He was truly a genius, and I will miss him dearly. There's not another author on the planet that could string together such verse and such demonstrative verbage to make you think that you were right there with him, and to truly capture the feeling and sensation of the moment.
God rest your soul, Hunter S. Thompson, and I hope you find the peace in death that you could not find in life. To a true hero, at least mine... God speed, my friend.
Until next time... as always...
R
Monday, February 21, 2005
Monday, February 07, 2005
The Super Bowl Rant
OK... so now the 2004-2005 NFL season is over, and the New England Patriots are the world champions again. Let me preface this rant with saying that I take nothing away from the Pats. They're a good team, they're well coached, and they play extremely well AS A TEAM. Now... on with the rant.
With a little over 4:00 to go in the 4th quarter, the Eagles are down by 10. Now, with a decent amount of time left on the clock, the game is not out of reach. 10 points is a realistic defecit to overcome... it's not unheard of, and with the talent that Philly has on the field, they've got a fairly decent shot. Here's what's KILLING me. With the clock still running, the overpaid, arrogant, pampered Philly players are all WALKING back to the huddle like they have all the time in the world. People, this is the Super Bowl, and the clock is ticking. I don't know if it's that these a-holes have too much bling-bling wrapped around their necks and that's what's got them too tuckered out to run back to the huddle, or the keys to their Escalades are jabbing them in their pockets and they can't run, but for the love of God, this is the Super Bowl. This is what the whole season, and for some players, their whole lives has come down to.
Ladies and gentlemen, I will never play in a Super Bowl. I accepted that fact a long time ago, right about the time my father made me play saxophone for the 8th year in a row. But that's OK... I'm OK with it. I will, however, drop a little knowledge on you. I make a pretty good living doing what I do. Any one of these punks makes about 10 times what I do in any given year. Now, if all we did was change positions, and I was a wide out for the Philadelphia Eagles, and I was playing in the first Super Bowl that my franchise had been in through the last 24 years, and I was making what I am now, and some jackass from the Eagles was out doing my job every day, making what he's making now, I would be running back to that huddle. Would you consider that a run-on sentence? I don't know and I don't care. The point here is that I would have been running. So there.
Anyway, a couple more minutes go by, and Donovan McNabb finds Freddie Mitchell in the endzone. Mitchell makes a phenomenal catch, and now Philly is down by 3. The problem here, friends and neighbors, is that because these lazy ass punks walked around and wasted so much time hiding sharpies in their socks and cell phones in goalposts, that there's now 1:37 left on the clock in Super Bowl XXXIX. Get it? If you don't, that's one minute and thirty-seven seconds to get the ball back, march down the field, and get a minimum of three points against a New England team that's won this thing 2 of the last 3 years. I'm not sure if these retards couldn't do the math of the score defecit or couldn't tell time (I think that's why they have digital scoreboards in the NFL now), but for the life of me, I don't get the whole walking thing.
Regardless, because they wasted so much f'ing time, now they have to onside kick, hope to get the ball back, and go down and score. They don't wind up recovering the onside kick, but the Pats go 3 & out, and Philly gets the ball back with just under a minute to go. They do pretty much nothing, and McNabb winds up throwing a pic to end this debacle. I hate to say this because I was pulling for the Eagles to pull it out and dethrone New England, but it serves them right. I have to believe that I'm not the only person that noticed this. Joe Buck was saying pretty much the same thing during the broadcast, and I still can't figure out why the coaching staff wasn't jumping all over these a-holes. If these lazy shits would have moved their lazy asses, they wouldn't have had to onside kick, and would have had a bunch more time to actually put together a drive. I'm just beside myself over this.
Here's the thing... it's not really so much the money thing, but more a matter of pride. For crying out loud, you get to wake up every day and play football for a living. If I could somehow piece together a deal like that, you would never, ever, ever, ever hear me bitch about anything again. It's not at all that I don't like my job, because I do. I love it. It's great. But, come on now, people, if you could go out every day and play a game for a living, you would take it. All I'm asking is that these ball players take a little pride, and I don't mean the kind of obnoxious pride that you see in Randy Moss's endzone celebration when he pretended to moon the crowd, but the kind of pride that makes you feel good about what you do. The kind of pride that lets you put your head on your pillow at night, knowing that you did a good job, and knowing that you did what was expected of you and more. Yes, I know it's football, but come on. A wise man once said that anything worth doing is worth doing well. Wandering around while the play clock is ticking away precious seconds and lazily ambling back to the huddle doesn't exactly exemplify pride in my book.
As I'm writing this, Andy Reid is on the post-game show talking about how he's proud of the effort. For those of you that aren't football fans, Andy Reid is the head coach of Philly. Andy, tell me, when your now loser team was walking around while time was ticking away, how proud were you of that effort? I'm guessing that when you watch the tape of the last five minutes of that loss, you're going to be about as proud of that effort as my father was when I became a bartender after he spent over $100,000 on my education. OK, Andy... whatever lets you sleep at night.
Quick sidebar here... hats off to Terrell Owens. For the longest time, I thought he was about the biggest showboating punk in the NFL (I think that honor now belongs to Randy Moss), but tonight he came out, had a great game, and played on an ankle that he broke just six weeks ago. He didn't run his mouth, didn't come out and talk smack like a punk, and just did what he does best. Props, T.O..
Honestly, I could go on for hours on this. It pisses me off so f'ing bad that the bile in my stomach climbs up the back of my throat and I choke on it and have to drink eleven cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi to make it subside. Well, maybe not eleven.
To wrap this up, again, I take nothing away from New England. I do, however, hope that they all contract the ebola virus, get food poisoning so bad that they can't leave the bathroom and all get horrific cases of crabs. Either that or their plane goes down somewhere in West Virginia, everyone survives, and the entire team is relentlessly ass raped by some backwoods family of rednecks until they all turn gay and decide that they'd rather play soccer. Again, back to my preface that they're a good team, and they simply out-classed the Eagles, so don't take my wishes the wrong way.
On that note, I'm going to sign off. Gotta get some sleep so that I can get up and do my job tomorrow... without mooning the crowd.
Until next time...
R
With a little over 4:00 to go in the 4th quarter, the Eagles are down by 10. Now, with a decent amount of time left on the clock, the game is not out of reach. 10 points is a realistic defecit to overcome... it's not unheard of, and with the talent that Philly has on the field, they've got a fairly decent shot. Here's what's KILLING me. With the clock still running, the overpaid, arrogant, pampered Philly players are all WALKING back to the huddle like they have all the time in the world. People, this is the Super Bowl, and the clock is ticking. I don't know if it's that these a-holes have too much bling-bling wrapped around their necks and that's what's got them too tuckered out to run back to the huddle, or the keys to their Escalades are jabbing them in their pockets and they can't run, but for the love of God, this is the Super Bowl. This is what the whole season, and for some players, their whole lives has come down to.
Ladies and gentlemen, I will never play in a Super Bowl. I accepted that fact a long time ago, right about the time my father made me play saxophone for the 8th year in a row. But that's OK... I'm OK with it. I will, however, drop a little knowledge on you. I make a pretty good living doing what I do. Any one of these punks makes about 10 times what I do in any given year. Now, if all we did was change positions, and I was a wide out for the Philadelphia Eagles, and I was playing in the first Super Bowl that my franchise had been in through the last 24 years, and I was making what I am now, and some jackass from the Eagles was out doing my job every day, making what he's making now, I would be running back to that huddle. Would you consider that a run-on sentence? I don't know and I don't care. The point here is that I would have been running. So there.
Anyway, a couple more minutes go by, and Donovan McNabb finds Freddie Mitchell in the endzone. Mitchell makes a phenomenal catch, and now Philly is down by 3. The problem here, friends and neighbors, is that because these lazy ass punks walked around and wasted so much time hiding sharpies in their socks and cell phones in goalposts, that there's now 1:37 left on the clock in Super Bowl XXXIX. Get it? If you don't, that's one minute and thirty-seven seconds to get the ball back, march down the field, and get a minimum of three points against a New England team that's won this thing 2 of the last 3 years. I'm not sure if these retards couldn't do the math of the score defecit or couldn't tell time (I think that's why they have digital scoreboards in the NFL now), but for the life of me, I don't get the whole walking thing.
Regardless, because they wasted so much f'ing time, now they have to onside kick, hope to get the ball back, and go down and score. They don't wind up recovering the onside kick, but the Pats go 3 & out, and Philly gets the ball back with just under a minute to go. They do pretty much nothing, and McNabb winds up throwing a pic to end this debacle. I hate to say this because I was pulling for the Eagles to pull it out and dethrone New England, but it serves them right. I have to believe that I'm not the only person that noticed this. Joe Buck was saying pretty much the same thing during the broadcast, and I still can't figure out why the coaching staff wasn't jumping all over these a-holes. If these lazy shits would have moved their lazy asses, they wouldn't have had to onside kick, and would have had a bunch more time to actually put together a drive. I'm just beside myself over this.
Here's the thing... it's not really so much the money thing, but more a matter of pride. For crying out loud, you get to wake up every day and play football for a living. If I could somehow piece together a deal like that, you would never, ever, ever, ever hear me bitch about anything again. It's not at all that I don't like my job, because I do. I love it. It's great. But, come on now, people, if you could go out every day and play a game for a living, you would take it. All I'm asking is that these ball players take a little pride, and I don't mean the kind of obnoxious pride that you see in Randy Moss's endzone celebration when he pretended to moon the crowd, but the kind of pride that makes you feel good about what you do. The kind of pride that lets you put your head on your pillow at night, knowing that you did a good job, and knowing that you did what was expected of you and more. Yes, I know it's football, but come on. A wise man once said that anything worth doing is worth doing well. Wandering around while the play clock is ticking away precious seconds and lazily ambling back to the huddle doesn't exactly exemplify pride in my book.
As I'm writing this, Andy Reid is on the post-game show talking about how he's proud of the effort. For those of you that aren't football fans, Andy Reid is the head coach of Philly. Andy, tell me, when your now loser team was walking around while time was ticking away, how proud were you of that effort? I'm guessing that when you watch the tape of the last five minutes of that loss, you're going to be about as proud of that effort as my father was when I became a bartender after he spent over $100,000 on my education. OK, Andy... whatever lets you sleep at night.
Quick sidebar here... hats off to Terrell Owens. For the longest time, I thought he was about the biggest showboating punk in the NFL (I think that honor now belongs to Randy Moss), but tonight he came out, had a great game, and played on an ankle that he broke just six weeks ago. He didn't run his mouth, didn't come out and talk smack like a punk, and just did what he does best. Props, T.O..
Honestly, I could go on for hours on this. It pisses me off so f'ing bad that the bile in my stomach climbs up the back of my throat and I choke on it and have to drink eleven cans of Diet Vanilla Pepsi to make it subside. Well, maybe not eleven.
To wrap this up, again, I take nothing away from New England. I do, however, hope that they all contract the ebola virus, get food poisoning so bad that they can't leave the bathroom and all get horrific cases of crabs. Either that or their plane goes down somewhere in West Virginia, everyone survives, and the entire team is relentlessly ass raped by some backwoods family of rednecks until they all turn gay and decide that they'd rather play soccer. Again, back to my preface that they're a good team, and they simply out-classed the Eagles, so don't take my wishes the wrong way.
On that note, I'm going to sign off. Gotta get some sleep so that I can get up and do my job tomorrow... without mooning the crowd.
Until next time...
R
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