Well, it just wouldn't be Monday if I didn't put together a good "here's-what-I-did-this-weekend" post, so in the interests of consistency; here you go.
Just as I sat down to write a little something other than what I'm about to write, I got the call from the 5 Dog. The first words out of his mouth were, "big money... can you believe that fucking 6?" The funny thing is I told this story once today to Janell, but again, in the interest of consistency, yada, yada, yada.
This past Saturday, I found myself in a limo with Noah and a few other friends. Now, I have to elaborate on the "few other friends" part of that. The limo was supposed to take me, Noah, and a few other guys up to Niagara Falls to the casino, and see the world renowned Canadian ballet. For those of you that aren't familiar with the ballet, ask someone. Actually, ask someone that was single when you met them, and then got married and hasn't left the house since. You'll soon see their eyes light up with the fond memories of glitter, neon, and eight dollar beers. You'll see them go back in time with their mind, and rewind that mental camcorder that we all store back in that place where our significant others dare not dwell. You'll see them cast their eyes skyward and think about their bachelor party with a limo full of drunken friends (at least one of whom vomited outside the amphitheatre of the aforementioned ballet), and being called upon to enter the stage themselves and revel in their last night of freedom. If you could crawl into that little space of cerebral consciousness and look over the valley that is, in fact, their life, you would be able to see where the wave finally broke, and then eased back into the dark reality of mowing the lawn, bringing your lunch to work instead of the afternoon matinee at Hooters, and Saturday trips to Bed, Bath & Beyond. They may even shed a little tear and say, "yeah (sniffle), I've been there... a long, long time ago." After that little interlude, you'll see them slowly turn, walk away, and wallow in a dark, shallow pond that is their life. But I digress.
Anyway, as we piled in the limo, I found myself surrounded by Noah, a couple other people I knew, and 5 other guys that were friends of a friend, to whom English was a second language. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous. For one, I don't know these guys. For two, I don't know what they're saying. And thirdly, because I don't know what they're saying, the suburban Park Avenue white boy is automatically thinking that they're talking about me and where no one will find my body. I must admit, and probably for the first time on this blog; I was dead wrong. There, I said it. Happy? Me too. Let's move on.
These guys were some of the nicest guys I have met in a while. Even though I was a total outsider, they completely accepted me, and embraced the Rychkid as one of their own. As a matter of fact, by the end of the night, they were jokingly calling me, "Papi Chulo." Which, as I understand it; Papi is daddy or big daddy, and chulo is the equivalent of if you were to call someone "big guy." Good stuff.
Anyway, after a couple hours at Niagara Falls's finest ballet, it was time to go. You're probably not going to believe what you read here, but I do not particularly enjoy the ballet. When I go out with my friends, it's for the camaraderie and the fact that I enjoy their company. The ballet is a little annoying in that you can't talk, you're constantly pestered by dancers that want to give you a dance to the tune of $20, and drink prices are outrageous. Anyway, as we were leaving, there was a minor altercation outside the club; not with me or any of my new amigos, but with a couple clowns outside that apparently were disgruntled with the doorman service. Wanna know how I found this out? Lemme tell ya. Let me preface this with the fact that I was wearing distressed DKNY jeans, HD biker boots, a white tab collar tuxedo shirt, and a black Hugo Boss blazer. The emphasis on that previous sentence should be "white tuxedo shirt." One, they're really white. Two, they're really expensive. Having said that; paragraph.
I walked out of the ballet and found myself face to face with some dude that just got popped square in the nose at a point-blank distance of about six inches. Now, bear in mind that I didn't go seek this dude out; I must have been looking elsewhere. Niagara Falls has beautiful scenery as I'm sure you know. Regardless, this poor guy's face looked like something that you would see in one of those post-mortem pictures on CSI. One of the bouncers had punched him in the face... hard. So here I stand, six inches from this guy, and my caring nature magically surfaces. I immediately find myself in my BA in Psychology mode. "Jesus, are you OK?" Now, here's where the really white and really expensive tuxedo shirt comes into play. "Yeah," he says. "One of these assholes just punched me in the face for no reason." He says this statement with emphasis on the word, "punched." Quick sidebar here; before you read on, take a big sip of that coffee or bottled water that you have sitting beside your monitor, leave a little on your lips, and say the word, "punched." Yeah, that's right. This clown's outstanding diction and my giving a shit about this random fine art fan resulted in a spewing of blood all over the front of my really white, really expensive tuxedo shirt. All I could do was look down, say, "ah shit," and slump my way back to the safe confines of the limo. I think I care too much. What a swell guy I am. My parents should be proud.
Well, after that little episode, off to the casino. Apparently we were in desperate need to hemorrhage additional money that night. Well, at least some of us. While Noah and I and a couple other guys headed in to play a little blackjack, the remainder of our party took a well-deserved nap in the aforementioned limo. In their state of mind, it was probably for the best. Besides the alcoholic influence that had overcome them, I don't think the pit boss would have let them sit at a table while they were as "aroused" as they were. Again, it's probably for the best that they stayed in the car. Sorry to paint that rather obscure mental image, but again, it's my blog, and I'll write what I want. So there.
Anyway, because neither Noah nor myself are independently wealthy (at least not until that rich, unknown billionaire relative dies and leaves me with a cattle ranch or oil rig somewhere), we went in search of a $15 blackjack table. We wound up finding one after we sat down at a $25 table, each lost the first hand, then asked the pit boss if they had any lower stakes tables open. Luckily, he pointed us toward a few, and we found one and sat down. Concentrate now, here's where the phone call comes in.
We played a few hands, and because there was an empty seat next to Noah, he was playing two hands at once. He wasn't doing badly at all. He and I pretty much know what we're doing on the felt, and we usually come out ahead... at least a little. Well, as we keep playing, the 5 Dog gets dealt the dream hand. The dealer has a 6 showing, and Noah has a 10 on one hand, and a pair of eights on the other. He doubles the 10 and gets a 6 (I think). Good there. He splits the eights. Good move. He gets 18 on one hand, and I can't remember what he got on the other... I think it was 17, but at that point the cards were getting a little blurry. So now, he's in good shape. One hand doubled with a 16, one hand with an 18, and one hand with a 17. The dealer has a 5 showing. He couldn't have played the hand more perfectly.
Let's remember here that blackjack is a game of odds and a game of chance. It is, however, the only game in the casino where a smart player has a mathematical advantage over the house of about 2%. The odds are definitely in his favor. The dealer complimented him on his play as she turned over her down card. Queen of diamonds. That I remember clearly, because at the moment of truth on that table, you become extremely focused... regardless of the 17 Budweisers you may have consumed at a ballet recital an hour prior. Back to the story. All we need is a 7 or higher and everyone at the table wins. My hero, the 5 Dog, at this point has $90 stacked up in $5 chips just drooling because he knows that he played it right and he's about to clean up on this one hand. I don't think that I even need to write another word to tell you what card came up and fucked us all. That's right... a 9, and we all won. I'm joking, you knuckleheads. If you didn't know that dealer pulled a 6 after the amount of buildup for that story, go find someone, anyone, and ask them to give you a good smack in the chops. A freaking 6. What are the odds. Well, I'll tell you. The odds of that are 13:1. Doesn't that just suck? Don't answer that. Yes, it does suck. That was rhetorical. I know I speak for all of us when I say that we hate to see our heroes fall. It was like watching Superman find a hotter Lois Lane than Margot Kidder and finding out that she has kryptonite fillings in her teeth... or something like that. Needless to say, we were personally offended and left the table. Well, actually, I played the next hand and won, and then left the table, but it was a bummer nonetheless. Another sidebar here... I wound up +$100 for the night... but I didn't feel good about it. Sorry, that was a lie. Thank God, I won some money.
Anyway, we piled back into the limo, and headed for sunny Rochester. We got back around 4:30 A.M., and after a quick stop to pick up a garbage plate at Gitsi's, I hopped in my minivan and headed for my beloved Park Avenue. As much fun as it was, it's always nice to come home to a couch that has my name written all over it. Thank God that there's a dry cleaner right up the street. My blazer smelled like stripper. "Yeah, uh, can you guys get this stripper smell out?" They assured me that they could. Again, it's not that I did, in fact, get a private dance from one of these entertainers... it's the fact that every freaking one of them had to come over and put their arm around me or sit on my lap and tell me how cute I am and that it's only $20 for a dance. Uh, yeah... I'm going to pass... and I'm sure you never, ever tell anyone else how cute they are. Next time I go to one of those joints, I'm going to not shower, dress and smell like a hippie, and chew garlic for the entire ride up there. Still think I'm cute, Destiny? I love stripper names. By the way, if you're with child, and you're kicking around names for your newborn (providing it's female, of course), I'd encourage you to stay away from Destiny, Diamond, Jade, Fantasy or Sweetness. Odds are that they're going to wind up wearing a g-sting with a few dollars crammed up the business side of that thing. But again, I digress.
I think that it goes without saying that I spent the majority of Sunday on the couch. After waking up around the crack of 2 P.M. and pretty much resigning myself to a prone position for the rest of the day, I finally roused myself just in time to check and respond to some emails and catch The Simpsons and Family Guy... two of the best shows on television. If you don't watch either, you're missing out. Just make sure that you change the channel after The Simpsons. Fox's new show, The War at Home, is about the worst thing on network television.
On that note, I hope you heed my advice and I'm going to log off. To be honest, there's a couple other things that I wanted to write about tonight... like how I've been blown off by someone, and at what point is the juice worth the squeeze, but those will both have to wait for another night. For now I'm going to log off. I've got some brushing up on my Spanish that I have to do. Anyone know what cerveza means?
Until next time...
R
Monday, January 30, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Martinis, KISS, and the art of leverage.
Well, friends and neighbors, this weekend I was in the city that never sleeps. The city so nice they named it twice. The big apple. I'm talking, of course, about Omaha, Nebraska. Kidding, folks... I was actually in NYC. I don't know if you know this, but when it rains, New York makes it's own gravy. It's true. Very, very cool. Got some shopping done, went to the legendary CBGB, (for those of you that are unaware, it's the home of underground rock... The Ramones started there, Madonna, Talking heads, etc...), saw a fight that was over with in about four seconds, went to a bar that you need to have an appointment to get into, and had just about the best martini I've ever had in my life... although the martini wasn't at the bar.
I went down to see a couple friends of mine; Darren and Amy. These two are two of my favorite people in the world. Now that we're done with that, let me tell you about Saturday night.
We started out at CBGB... those two were nice enough to bring me down there just so that I could get a picture of the legendary awning. Very f'ing cool. Just think... Joey Ramone probably stood outside and smoked a cigarette (or something) here. Actually, don't bother thinking about that. When The Ramones played there, you could still smoke inside in New York State. Thanks, Pataki.
Regardless, after a four drink and $27 round, we headed off down the street looking for the next place to refresh ourselves with a delicious libation (that's "get a drink" for you non-literary types out there). We grabbed a cab, went a few blocks, and headed out. Wait a minute... I almost forgot. One of the bartenders at CBGB had a very interesting tattoo (among others), and I just had to ask her about it, and, yes, I did get a picture of it. Long story short, after a quick conversation... the nuts and bolts of it were that she said, "Kiss changed my life in 1982," after I asked her about one, well, two of her many body art indulgences, I asked her if she would mind if I snapped a quick picture. She approved. You have to appreciate the commitment and the fact that she's still really enthusiastic about the whole thing. I've got a Jimmy Buffett tattoo that I wish I could get rid of, to be honest. I still love Jimmy and he'll always be my fav, but I just wish that I didn't have the ink that I do. Regardless, you have to see this. Wait no longer... here you go.
Yes, the tattoos on her triceps are "Kiss," and "this." Again, you gotta respect the commitment. If you're ever at CBGB in NYC, check her out. She's very cool. Moving on... once again.
We got out on 3rd Avenue. Wanna know how I know that it was 3rd Avenue? Lemme tell ya. Read on.
After walking a couple blocks from where the cab let us off, we went into some bar that served liters of beer. Well, it was pretty packed and there was no place to sit, so we walked right back out and headed up the street. After walking about 20 yards, I heard the voice. What voice, you ask? The voice of drunk-black blazer-and-backward-baseball-hat-wearing-over-zealous-beer-muscle-boy... henceforth to be known, in the interest of brevity, drunk boy.
Drunk boy yelled, "sir... sir," so we all turned around to realize that he was, in fact, addressing us. He then yelled, "don't ever bump into me again!" We all pretty much said, "whatever," and turned around to continue our quest for a cocktail. Now, I can't remember exactly what was said by drunk boy next, but I distinctly remember Amy yelling something to the tune of "fuck you." Again, I don't recall the exact verbiage. Amy's not really one to keep her mouth shut in cases such as this.
Regardless, drunk boy took particular offense to this. After a little more verbal volleyball, drunk boy began aggressively walking towards us, shouting that he was going to, quote, "break you in half on 3rd Avenue," this statement being directed at Amy. Yeah, I know, real tough guy... gonna start a fight with a girl. Never mind the fact that Amy's about 100 lbs. soaking wet. Well, when this event starts to unfold, I'm not really sure that drunk boy weighed his options. It's him against a girl, but Darren and I are standing right there, and we're both sober. If the name didn't give it away, drunk boy had a couple cocktails in him. Now, granted, you know that I'm not the most physically imposing specimen in the world, but there's still two of me when you count the other guy that I was with, and I'm pretty sure he had my back. As luck would have it, the situation didn't really get that far. Read on.
Again, as you know, and as I've said many a time on this blog including the last paragraph, I'm not the most physically imposing individual on the planet. Darren isn't either, but he's bigger than me. I'm a little taller, but he's got about 25 lbs. on me. Together, we're a fighting machine. Well, I guess if you could somehow glue us together we'd be a fighting machine or something like that. Anyway, it didn't matter just then.
As I was saying, drunk boy was aggressively walking toward us, and Darren stepped in front of him and locked arms. I'll try my best to paint this mental picture for you. The two of them, Darren and drunk boy, were facing each other, and each had his hands under the other's arms. At this point, I was thinking that all Darren had to do was head-butt this clown, but I found out later why he did not, in fact, take this course of action. By the way, I'm to Darren's right at this point, and I'm hoping that I don't have to dot this guy's eye for him. I'd hate like hell to mess up my ring with some dude's incisor. Regardless, Darren put his foot on the outside of drunk boy's foot, and there's no other way to say this, tossed drunk boy sideways about 984 feet. To be honest, it was literally about 5 or 6 feet, but drunk boy caught a bunch of air and it looked like 984 feet. I will admit that 984 is just an estimate. I had unfortunately left my tape measure at CBGB for reasons that I cannot discuss on this blog. Suffice it to say that it's in the bathroom. Moving on.
Short story long, drunk boy landed on the pavement and stayed there... for about 15 seconds or so. We started walking, again in search of libations (see above). Drunk boy mustered the gumption to make it to his feet and commence to yelling, "come back here," and "we're gonna go!!!" We turned around again, saw drunk boy start to run toward us, and (lucky for him) a couple random people grabbed him and ceased the inevitable melee that would undoubtedly have ended in our favor. I'm pretty sure that a drunken four-year old with a lazy eye and bad case of narcolepsy could have KO'd this clown in a matter of seconds. Anyway, we continued our walk, and that was the end of the NYC drunk boy encounter. I think that the next morning when he woke up with pavement scars and bruises that Darren so eloquently administered with a simple knowledge of leverage was enough to curb his liquor-fueled-start-a-fight-with-a-bigger-guy's-wife-penchant for a while. If not, see you next time I'm in the city, loser.
Anyway, after we got liquored up at this place that you need to have an appointment for (I'm not sure if I'm supposed to talk about this or not, so I won't), we headed back to their apartment, at which point began the martini... the best one I've ever had. It was a martini with Tangueray 10, vermouth (obviously), and olives stuffed with blue cheese. Yeah, I know... it doesn't sound too appetizing, but it was awesome. I don't know if it was the perfect blend of top shelf gin and just the right amount of vermouth, but it was awesome. You ever get a drink where you think, "Jesus, if I could make this at home I'd never go out... all I need is to know how to make it"? Yeah? Me too. It was one of those drinks. You and I both know... we'd both still go out. Trust me. As a single guy in upstate NY, I don't really have a choice. Women don't arbitrarily just come to my apartment to see what I've done with two year's worth of wine corks. If they did, I'd either be married or single and really happy. As neither of those is the case, I'll continue to frequent the bar scene.
So that's my story for the weekend. I guess for now I'll log off. It feels like I've written a whole bunch. Whether or not I have done that... I guess I'll find out in the comments section or my email tomorrow. I must get to bed, though. I'm thinking about wandering Park Avenue and trying to bump into someone. I could use some work on my leverage and punching bag skills.
Until next time...
R
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Welcome to NY, Johnny. Here's your T-shirt.
I gotta be honest here. When I first heard that the Yanks got Johnny Damon, I was a little skeptical. I mean, I've hated the guy for the last 3 or 4 years... how can I just turn my feelings on and off like that... especially about my beloved Yankees? Well, I guess the only thing to do is welcome Johnny with open arms. After all, he cut that mop of a haircut, shaved off that beard, and actually looks like a professional ball player. He's making the effort, so I guess I can too. As a matter of fact, I found a t-shirt that I just purchased in Johnny's honor. You can get yours here.
Ahhh... feel that? Just another way to stick it in and break it off, Red Sox fans. Good luck with that whole filling in the gaps in your lineup thing. As it stands now, the schlep roaming center field for the Red Sox is Adam Stern. Here's some quick stats on Mr. Stern. He was a standout player at the University of Nebraska, was 2nd team All-Big 12 in 2000, and Academic All-Big 12 in 2001. He hit .321 in 20 games on rehab assignment for Triple A Pawtucket. Sounds like some good stuff, right? By the way, he hit .133 for the Red Sox last year. Best wishes, kid.
Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I like Johnny Damon in the Yanks lineup. He seems like a good clubhouse guy. He's the one that came out and said, "hey, we're just a bunch of idiots." He's one of the best leadoff hitters in the game, and his addition certainly makes the Yanks the team to beat in the AL East.
Again, welcome to New York, Johnny. The new hairdo looks great.
Until next time...
R
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Oh My God... It's Chocolatey!
Well, my loyal readers, tonight is going to be a very short post. One, I'm tired. Two, it's late. Three, I have to get up and re-write a bunch of freaking contracts tomorrow, so Daddy needs his sleep.
The thing that I'm really annoyed about today is the jerkoff mayor of New Orleans, The Honorable (I use that term loosely) Mayor Ray Nagin. Mayor Ray (as I like to call him... we're close) addressed New Orleans yesterday, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. He had a stunning address laced with racial epithets and prophesized as if he were the second coming. This jackass had the audacity to say that New Orleans will be a "chocolate" city again, and that the city will remain predominantly African-American because (get this) that's what God wants.
The beauty of this statement is that when he was done with his moronic rant, a CNN reporter got a chance to question him regarding his comments. You could tell that this reporter was absolutely drooling to get this jackass's response. Regardless, when he asked what the mayor meant by "chocolate" city, his honor responded with, "if you mix dark chocolate with white milk, you get a delicious drink." Yeah, O.K.... I'm sure that's exactly what you meant when you said that it would be a "chocolate" city and predominantly African-American. I know that every time I walk into a convenience store and buy a chocolate bar, I'm thinking that it's a wonderful blend of dark chocolate and white milk, that used to be a delicious drink, but has now been pasteurized and chemically enhanced to make chocolate. Yeah, and by the way, I have a bridge right on scenic 490 that I'd love to sell you. What an ass. It's funny that this jackass had to come up with something to say on national television, when he knew the minute that he stepped off the podium that he was coming off as a world class ass. Congratulations... mission accomplished.
Here's my big problem with this whole thing; Pat Robertson (another jackass that's now selling age-defying pancakes... honestly... look it up if you don't believe me) said that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres, an openly gay person, danced there. Now, bear in mind, this is the same jackass that recently said that God is punishing Prime Minister Sharon with a brain hemorrhage. I'm just waiting for the day when good 'ol Pat's colostomy bag explodes on live television, and some other lunchbox says that God is punishing him for saying that God is punishing everyone else. I'll tell you this much... God is laughing his ass off at both of these elitist assholes.
Now, my question is this; which one of these jackasses has God on speed dial? You see, you can't have it both ways. Either God wants New Orleans to be predominantly African-American, or God is punishing New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres danced there. The thing here, jackasses, is that you can't have it both ways. The funny thing is this; which one is right? Who's to say that the jackass bigot of a mayor doesn't have God's personal cell phone number, and who's to say that Pat Robertson doesn't grab a quick 18 holes with The Almighty on Sundays before football? The answer is this; neither. Neither one of you assholes knows what God wants, and that's the beauty of religion and belief. It's called blind faith. The catch here is that if you believe that God is a vengeful God, then how long is it before he lays his vengeance upon thee, you jackasses. I'm sure that there's something that you've done that would piss God off. The whole "love thy neighbor" thing is pretty apparent to me right about now.
The trick here is that you have to be a little careful when you start throwing around accusations like, "God is punishing you for, insert whatever you'd like here." The reason that you have to be careful about that shit is that you simply do not know. Unless you've sat down and had a face to face with your maker, the rest is simply speculation. You may have your beliefs, and that's fine. As a matter of fact, that's wonderful... you should. But to go around saying shit like that is just blasphemous. Shame on both of you jackasses.
On that note, I have to get to bed. Like I said, there's way too much to do tomorrow, I need way too much sleep, and it's way too late. Therefore, I think I'd better get to bed. Maybe a nice cup of warm milk will do the trick... I hear it's good with dark chocolate.
Until next time...
R
The thing that I'm really annoyed about today is the jerkoff mayor of New Orleans, The Honorable (I use that term loosely) Mayor Ray Nagin. Mayor Ray (as I like to call him... we're close) addressed New Orleans yesterday, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. He had a stunning address laced with racial epithets and prophesized as if he were the second coming. This jackass had the audacity to say that New Orleans will be a "chocolate" city again, and that the city will remain predominantly African-American because (get this) that's what God wants.
The beauty of this statement is that when he was done with his moronic rant, a CNN reporter got a chance to question him regarding his comments. You could tell that this reporter was absolutely drooling to get this jackass's response. Regardless, when he asked what the mayor meant by "chocolate" city, his honor responded with, "if you mix dark chocolate with white milk, you get a delicious drink." Yeah, O.K.... I'm sure that's exactly what you meant when you said that it would be a "chocolate" city and predominantly African-American. I know that every time I walk into a convenience store and buy a chocolate bar, I'm thinking that it's a wonderful blend of dark chocolate and white milk, that used to be a delicious drink, but has now been pasteurized and chemically enhanced to make chocolate. Yeah, and by the way, I have a bridge right on scenic 490 that I'd love to sell you. What an ass. It's funny that this jackass had to come up with something to say on national television, when he knew the minute that he stepped off the podium that he was coming off as a world class ass. Congratulations... mission accomplished.
Here's my big problem with this whole thing; Pat Robertson (another jackass that's now selling age-defying pancakes... honestly... look it up if you don't believe me) said that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres, an openly gay person, danced there. Now, bear in mind, this is the same jackass that recently said that God is punishing Prime Minister Sharon with a brain hemorrhage. I'm just waiting for the day when good 'ol Pat's colostomy bag explodes on live television, and some other lunchbox says that God is punishing him for saying that God is punishing everyone else. I'll tell you this much... God is laughing his ass off at both of these elitist assholes.
Now, my question is this; which one of these jackasses has God on speed dial? You see, you can't have it both ways. Either God wants New Orleans to be predominantly African-American, or God is punishing New Orleans because Ellen Degeneres danced there. The thing here, jackasses, is that you can't have it both ways. The funny thing is this; which one is right? Who's to say that the jackass bigot of a mayor doesn't have God's personal cell phone number, and who's to say that Pat Robertson doesn't grab a quick 18 holes with The Almighty on Sundays before football? The answer is this; neither. Neither one of you assholes knows what God wants, and that's the beauty of religion and belief. It's called blind faith. The catch here is that if you believe that God is a vengeful God, then how long is it before he lays his vengeance upon thee, you jackasses. I'm sure that there's something that you've done that would piss God off. The whole "love thy neighbor" thing is pretty apparent to me right about now.
The trick here is that you have to be a little careful when you start throwing around accusations like, "God is punishing you for, insert whatever you'd like here." The reason that you have to be careful about that shit is that you simply do not know. Unless you've sat down and had a face to face with your maker, the rest is simply speculation. You may have your beliefs, and that's fine. As a matter of fact, that's wonderful... you should. But to go around saying shit like that is just blasphemous. Shame on both of you jackasses.
On that note, I have to get to bed. Like I said, there's way too much to do tomorrow, I need way too much sleep, and it's way too late. Therefore, I think I'd better get to bed. Maybe a nice cup of warm milk will do the trick... I hear it's good with dark chocolate.
Until next time...
R
Monday, January 09, 2006
The Goose, The Rose, and The Hall
Well, my loyal readers, tonight I must pose a question. Now that the holidays are finally behind us, who gave every retail store and shopping mall on the planet the green light to go ahead and start putting up Valentine's Day crap? For crying out loud, every store I've walked into since January 2nd is packed to the gills with red hearts, pounds of chocolate and cutesy little stuffed animals that make me want to start a shooting spree. Good God, people... give us a chance to unwind from the gala pageantry and festive lights that plagued us for the last two months of shopping in retail hell. Did Valentine's Day become part of the "holiday season?" If so, I must have missed a meeting somewhere. What a shame.
It's a shame because if there's any holiday that should be included in the "holiday season," it's St. Patrick's Day. The day in history when Saint Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. My God, what a Freudian dream that was. Regardless, whenever there's a holiday that makes it the norm, rather the expected, to get hammered, I can get on board with that.
Anyway, the reason for the post today is that they announced the men that are going to be inducted into the baseball hall of fame today, and the lone inductee is Bruce Sutter. Rich "Goose" Gossage just missed, and I'm bummed about that. The Goose was pretty much the first closer in the history of baseball. He was the man. Back when closers had to get 3, 6, or 9 outs, the Goose was unhittable. Not to take anything away from the closers of today, like Mariano Rivera, but when the Goose got picked up in that Yankee golf cart and driven to the mound, just his sheer presence was enough to make the toughest hitters in the game piss their pants. Granted, he (and Mariano) was a Yankee, and I'm a little biased, but his becoming enshrined into the hall should be a no-brainer, and he's been eligible for 12 years now. But I digress.
The one thing that I found interesting is that Pete Rose, the all time hit leader, got 10 write-in votes. I have mixed feelings about this, and here's why.
One of my fondest childhood memories is sitting in the living room of our first house in Jamestown, NY, on an ottoman, next to my father, sitting in his recliner, drinking a Budweiser, and smoking Terryton cigarettes. It was the middle of summer on a Saturday, and the Yanks had a matinee game against the hated Boston Red Sox. I'm guessing it was 1978, because Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry was on the hill, and in 1978 he was 25-3. Pretty ridiculous. Regardless, I remember my mother coming into the room and asking who was winning. My answer was "we are, 6-2." I can tell you pretty much the entire lineup from that year. Not so much that I watched the Yankees every possible minute, but when I was a kid, I never really had a lot of time with the old man. Hence, when the Yanks had a Saturday game, there I was, and I paid such close attention to the game that I can tell you every player at every position. Just for laughs, let's give it a shot. Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry were starting pitchers. Goose Gossage was the closer. I won't go through the whole lineup, but with names like Mickey Rivers, Chris Chambliss, Thurman Munson, Roy White, Lou Pinella, and the hero of 1978 that virtually ended the Red Sox season that year, Bucky Dent... or as he's known in Boston, Bucky F'ing Dent, you'd be hard pressed to find a lineup to compare. Suck on that one, Boston.
No matter what was going on in our lives at the time, there was always baseball. It was a perfect game with perfect players on a perfect Saturday afternoon.
Anyway, back to the Pete Rose thing. A couple of years later, we had moved, and one summer my whole family took a trip to Cincinnati to see the relatives on my mom's side. By that time I was playing Little League, and was simply enamored of the game. My uncle had scored us tickets to the Reds/Astros game, so I wouldn't have to sit around with my two female cousins... one of whom used to beat the shit out of me, so I was glad to avoid the beatings for a few hours. Although our seats were in the nose bleeds, this was the era of Rose, Johnny Bench, and Tom Seaver. Seaver actually pitched the first inning and a half, but didn't have his stuff that day and got yanked. By the way, Seaver holds the record for most votes to be inducted into the hall of fame with 90%... just thought you'd like to know. The Reds went on to lose the game (I want to say 7-3, but I'm really not sure), but I remember that Johnny Bench was up in the bottom of the 9th, bases jammed, down 4, and struck out. Sorry Cinci.
For those of you that have been living under a rock for the last 15 or so years, the reason that Pete Rose isn't, and most likely won't be, in the hall is this; he bet on the game. He did the one thing that you can't do in professional baseball. It was a time when steroids weren't illegal, and Barry Bonds's head wasn't the size of a beach ball. As long as you went to practice, played your position, didn't kill anybody or bet on the game, you were going to stay in the show. Pete gambled, and lost in more than one way. Although you can go to the hall and see some of his memorabilia and the big poster of him getting his 3,000th hit, you can't go see his plaque; and that's the one that matters.
On the one hand, I get it. He bet. You're not allowed to bet. You don't get in the hall. I get it. I'm not stupid. On the other hand, it's always been my belief that what gets you into the hall is what you do between the lines. It's playing your hardest and using the gift that God gave you to be the best you can be. It's sacrificing your body. It's hours of BP and shagging fly balls. It's fielding hot ground balls that can take an unexpected hop and break your thumb. And lastly, but not least, it's going in head first to home plate for that much needed run, and it's earning the nickname, "Charlie Hustle."
Now, the fact that he bet is crucial here. The people that vote on who gets in are sports writers. They're pencil pushing geeks like me that love the game, but never had the gift to get in the show. They just don't get the game. They don't understand how anyone can just live and breathe the very essence of the game, and that's what's sad. If you've never played, there's no way I can explain it to you. It's something that gets in you, and you just can't shake it. Ask someone who played, and they'll tell you the same thing. However, some hack that was a guest on a local sports talk show said that it's not just based on what you do on the field. He said that it's now based on character, integrity, and essentially how you're viewed as a person. I think that's about the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. If that were the case, Ty Cobb would never set foot in Cooperstown, and Barry Bonds will be bagging groceries in 3 years. Those two are about the biggest assholes that have ever picked up a bat, but Cobb is in, and that jerk Bonds will most likely be in on the first ballot. Can Bonds play the game? Absolutely. He's unbelievably talented. Is Cobb one of the best hitters ever? You bet. Are they assholes? Certainly.
Having said that, I have to believe that Pete Rose should be in the hall. It's called the Baseball Hall of Fame. It's not called the Baseball and Non-Betting Great Guys With Outstanding Character Hall of Super Nice Guys. If it was, I'd be in, and you could go pay $13 to see a plaque of my ugly mug in Cooperstown. On second thought, maybe not. I have been known to go to Vegas and place the occasional wager and drink the occasional beer and get thrown over the occasional table and occasionally dance with a beautiful blonde from California... so maybe I'm not the ideal candidate for the hall.
In short, if Pete Rose doesn't ever get into the hall, I'll just choose to remember his play as if I was still sitting on that ottoman, inhaling second-hand smoke and asking the old man if I can try a sip of his beer... with a perfect game and perfect players.
Anyway, I must be off. Gotta head out shopping and avoid the ultra-red glare of whatever the hell holiday is coming up in a couple of months. Maybe I'll buy a rose.
Until next time...
R
It's a shame because if there's any holiday that should be included in the "holiday season," it's St. Patrick's Day. The day in history when Saint Patrick drove the snakes from Ireland. My God, what a Freudian dream that was. Regardless, whenever there's a holiday that makes it the norm, rather the expected, to get hammered, I can get on board with that.
Anyway, the reason for the post today is that they announced the men that are going to be inducted into the baseball hall of fame today, and the lone inductee is Bruce Sutter. Rich "Goose" Gossage just missed, and I'm bummed about that. The Goose was pretty much the first closer in the history of baseball. He was the man. Back when closers had to get 3, 6, or 9 outs, the Goose was unhittable. Not to take anything away from the closers of today, like Mariano Rivera, but when the Goose got picked up in that Yankee golf cart and driven to the mound, just his sheer presence was enough to make the toughest hitters in the game piss their pants. Granted, he (and Mariano) was a Yankee, and I'm a little biased, but his becoming enshrined into the hall should be a no-brainer, and he's been eligible for 12 years now. But I digress.
The one thing that I found interesting is that Pete Rose, the all time hit leader, got 10 write-in votes. I have mixed feelings about this, and here's why.
One of my fondest childhood memories is sitting in the living room of our first house in Jamestown, NY, on an ottoman, next to my father, sitting in his recliner, drinking a Budweiser, and smoking Terryton cigarettes. It was the middle of summer on a Saturday, and the Yanks had a matinee game against the hated Boston Red Sox. I'm guessing it was 1978, because Ron "Louisiana Lightning" Guidry was on the hill, and in 1978 he was 25-3. Pretty ridiculous. Regardless, I remember my mother coming into the room and asking who was winning. My answer was "we are, 6-2." I can tell you pretty much the entire lineup from that year. Not so much that I watched the Yankees every possible minute, but when I was a kid, I never really had a lot of time with the old man. Hence, when the Yanks had a Saturday game, there I was, and I paid such close attention to the game that I can tell you every player at every position. Just for laughs, let's give it a shot. Catfish Hunter and Ron Guidry were starting pitchers. Goose Gossage was the closer. I won't go through the whole lineup, but with names like Mickey Rivers, Chris Chambliss, Thurman Munson, Roy White, Lou Pinella, and the hero of 1978 that virtually ended the Red Sox season that year, Bucky Dent... or as he's known in Boston, Bucky F'ing Dent, you'd be hard pressed to find a lineup to compare. Suck on that one, Boston.
No matter what was going on in our lives at the time, there was always baseball. It was a perfect game with perfect players on a perfect Saturday afternoon.
Anyway, back to the Pete Rose thing. A couple of years later, we had moved, and one summer my whole family took a trip to Cincinnati to see the relatives on my mom's side. By that time I was playing Little League, and was simply enamored of the game. My uncle had scored us tickets to the Reds/Astros game, so I wouldn't have to sit around with my two female cousins... one of whom used to beat the shit out of me, so I was glad to avoid the beatings for a few hours. Although our seats were in the nose bleeds, this was the era of Rose, Johnny Bench, and Tom Seaver. Seaver actually pitched the first inning and a half, but didn't have his stuff that day and got yanked. By the way, Seaver holds the record for most votes to be inducted into the hall of fame with 90%... just thought you'd like to know. The Reds went on to lose the game (I want to say 7-3, but I'm really not sure), but I remember that Johnny Bench was up in the bottom of the 9th, bases jammed, down 4, and struck out. Sorry Cinci.
For those of you that have been living under a rock for the last 15 or so years, the reason that Pete Rose isn't, and most likely won't be, in the hall is this; he bet on the game. He did the one thing that you can't do in professional baseball. It was a time when steroids weren't illegal, and Barry Bonds's head wasn't the size of a beach ball. As long as you went to practice, played your position, didn't kill anybody or bet on the game, you were going to stay in the show. Pete gambled, and lost in more than one way. Although you can go to the hall and see some of his memorabilia and the big poster of him getting his 3,000th hit, you can't go see his plaque; and that's the one that matters.
On the one hand, I get it. He bet. You're not allowed to bet. You don't get in the hall. I get it. I'm not stupid. On the other hand, it's always been my belief that what gets you into the hall is what you do between the lines. It's playing your hardest and using the gift that God gave you to be the best you can be. It's sacrificing your body. It's hours of BP and shagging fly balls. It's fielding hot ground balls that can take an unexpected hop and break your thumb. And lastly, but not least, it's going in head first to home plate for that much needed run, and it's earning the nickname, "Charlie Hustle."
Now, the fact that he bet is crucial here. The people that vote on who gets in are sports writers. They're pencil pushing geeks like me that love the game, but never had the gift to get in the show. They just don't get the game. They don't understand how anyone can just live and breathe the very essence of the game, and that's what's sad. If you've never played, there's no way I can explain it to you. It's something that gets in you, and you just can't shake it. Ask someone who played, and they'll tell you the same thing. However, some hack that was a guest on a local sports talk show said that it's not just based on what you do on the field. He said that it's now based on character, integrity, and essentially how you're viewed as a person. I think that's about the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard. If that were the case, Ty Cobb would never set foot in Cooperstown, and Barry Bonds will be bagging groceries in 3 years. Those two are about the biggest assholes that have ever picked up a bat, but Cobb is in, and that jerk Bonds will most likely be in on the first ballot. Can Bonds play the game? Absolutely. He's unbelievably talented. Is Cobb one of the best hitters ever? You bet. Are they assholes? Certainly.
Having said that, I have to believe that Pete Rose should be in the hall. It's called the Baseball Hall of Fame. It's not called the Baseball and Non-Betting Great Guys With Outstanding Character Hall of Super Nice Guys. If it was, I'd be in, and you could go pay $13 to see a plaque of my ugly mug in Cooperstown. On second thought, maybe not. I have been known to go to Vegas and place the occasional wager and drink the occasional beer and get thrown over the occasional table and occasionally dance with a beautiful blonde from California... so maybe I'm not the ideal candidate for the hall.
In short, if Pete Rose doesn't ever get into the hall, I'll just choose to remember his play as if I was still sitting on that ottoman, inhaling second-hand smoke and asking the old man if I can try a sip of his beer... with a perfect game and perfect players.
Anyway, I must be off. Gotta head out shopping and avoid the ultra-red glare of whatever the hell holiday is coming up in a couple of months. Maybe I'll buy a rose.
Until next time...
R
Friday, January 06, 2006
Just because you are a character, doesn't mean you have character.
Well, my loyal readers, it's come to my attention that there have been several requests for photos of the "new" corner apartment, so because I'm such a nice guy, I'm going to actually post a few. However, before I get into that, I just have to proclaim my love for Sirius Satellite Radio. It's just about the coolest thing I own (except for the cork things that I made). It's not only got Howard Stern starting on 1/9, but it also has about the best station on the planet; Radio Margaritaville. It makes my day SO much easier. If you don't have it, get it. You're missing out. I've heard people say, "you've got to be retarded to pay for radio." Just wondering, do you have cable TV? Yeah, thought so. Shut it.
Also, before I get into the pictures, I have to write a little something that I'm extremely happy about. Yesterday, Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson announced that Marv Levy will be returning to the Bills organization in a GM capacity. Those of you that are Bills fans have to love this. In case you can't recall, Marv is the guy that coached us to four consecutive Super Bowls. Now, granted, we didn't win a one of them, but a tremendous feat nonetheless. The thing about Marv's appointment that I was really impressed with wasn't so much his sharpness and overall knowledge (the guy ran track at Harvard for crying out loud), but really what his vision was for the team. He said, "this team will be built on players with character. You can be extroverted, but still not have character. If you have ability but not character, you're going to lose." Guess we're not going to see the likes of Terrell Owens or Ray Carruth donning a Bills uniform any time soon. Not that the Bills have had problems with that in the past... well, I can think of one guy; he wore #32, graduated from USC, was the first NFL running back to gain 2000 yards in a season, and allegedly killed his ex-wife and a waiter that had a penchant for wearing a do-rag. Don't get me wrong, whenever I saw that picture of the waiter with the do-rag, I got a little annoyed at this pretty boy, but I don't think I could go O.J. on him. I'd like to smack that thing right off his head... Orenthal took another tact. Anyway, he played for the Niners after the Bills, so I'm going with that California air getting to him, and not the snow covered tundra of Western New York.
Regardless (I think I use that word too much on this thing), you gotta love a GM that puts character at the top of his list for players that will don his organization's colors. I think that's the kind of thing that gets overlooked way too much in sports, and really in anything today. I may not be the most beautiful thing in the world, but I am proud of my character. I don't cheat, I don't steal, I don't lie, and I don't screw people over. I have been known to bluff occasionally in poker, but of course there's usually a good chunk of money on the table. Character kind of goes by the wayside when I've got a boat with Aces over Kings.
Anyway, I'm sure you've heard/read enough about the importance of character, so without further adieu, here's the pics. See if you can see a color scheme here. It shouldn't be too hard.
Also, before I get into the pictures, I have to write a little something that I'm extremely happy about. Yesterday, Buffalo Bills owner Ralph Wilson announced that Marv Levy will be returning to the Bills organization in a GM capacity. Those of you that are Bills fans have to love this. In case you can't recall, Marv is the guy that coached us to four consecutive Super Bowls. Now, granted, we didn't win a one of them, but a tremendous feat nonetheless. The thing about Marv's appointment that I was really impressed with wasn't so much his sharpness and overall knowledge (the guy ran track at Harvard for crying out loud), but really what his vision was for the team. He said, "this team will be built on players with character. You can be extroverted, but still not have character. If you have ability but not character, you're going to lose." Guess we're not going to see the likes of Terrell Owens or Ray Carruth donning a Bills uniform any time soon. Not that the Bills have had problems with that in the past... well, I can think of one guy; he wore #32, graduated from USC, was the first NFL running back to gain 2000 yards in a season, and allegedly killed his ex-wife and a waiter that had a penchant for wearing a do-rag. Don't get me wrong, whenever I saw that picture of the waiter with the do-rag, I got a little annoyed at this pretty boy, but I don't think I could go O.J. on him. I'd like to smack that thing right off his head... Orenthal took another tact. Anyway, he played for the Niners after the Bills, so I'm going with that California air getting to him, and not the snow covered tundra of Western New York.
Regardless (I think I use that word too much on this thing), you gotta love a GM that puts character at the top of his list for players that will don his organization's colors. I think that's the kind of thing that gets overlooked way too much in sports, and really in anything today. I may not be the most beautiful thing in the world, but I am proud of my character. I don't cheat, I don't steal, I don't lie, and I don't screw people over. I have been known to bluff occasionally in poker, but of course there's usually a good chunk of money on the table. Character kind of goes by the wayside when I've got a boat with Aces over Kings.
Anyway, I'm sure you've heard/read enough about the importance of character, so without further adieu, here's the pics. See if you can see a color scheme here. It shouldn't be too hard.
So there you have it, and yes, I know it's 9:30 on a Friday night, and I'm home, and I'm typing, and I'm not out... but there is a reason. One, I have a bunch of work to do, and two, I think I have a tapeworm. Seriously.
The reason that I think that I have a tapeworm is because yesterday I couldn't stop eating and I was hungry all freaking day. Today, before I got to work, I stopped and got my standard coffee and doughnut, and thought I was going to puke all day. Maybe I have malaria.
Moving on, I think I'm going to sign off and see if there's something I can do tonight. My buddy J (who has a great blog, by the way... check it out here) is having a couple people over for cocktails, and I think they might make the trip downtown to my neck of the woods. I said I'd try to come over or meet them out, so I think I just might do it. It'd be a good reflection of my character. Think I'll leave the do-rag at home, though.
Until next time...
R
Monday, January 02, 2006
I got some time... you?
I'm going to go ahead and warn you in advance that this is going to be a boring post, but if you have 5 or 10 minutes to kill, this should do the job.
Alas, my vacation has finally come to a close. As of 8:00 AM tomorrow morning, I'll be back at it... work, that is. It's strange because the last day that I worked before Christmas, I remember thinking that I had a bunch of time before Christmas, and here I sit, pondering the busy day that I have tomorrow, and dreading getting back into the swing of my normal (well, kind of) life. For as much time as I had off, I feel like I didn't really accomplish much. I finished my shopping, drove to sunny Jamestown, did the family Christmas thing, drove back on Christmas day (that sucked), did the rest of the family thing, and the rest is pretty much an alcohol-fueled blur. Funny how that works. What I mean by that is that a few days ago, I went out with the 5 Dog, and we pretty much drank everything in Rochester. I couldn't find my apartment the next day because I drank it.
By the way, I got a sweater for Christmas. What I really wanted was a moaner or a screamer. Bummer. Moving on.
I shouldn't say I didn't accomplish anything. I did complete one task that I've been meaning to do for a while. For the last couple years or so, I've been keeping all the wine corks from the bottles that I have enjoyed. I just threw them in a box when I finished, so it amounted to about 600 or so used wine bottle corks that have been sitting around collecting dust. So anyway, for however long it's been, I've been trying to think of something cool to do with them. After all, it'd seem like a shame to let all that hard drinking go to waste and have nothing to show for it. Today, I found something that I think is pretty cool.
Yes, my loyal readers, for the first time in the corner apartment, it's arts and crafts time with your host, the Rychkid. Try to stay with me. I went to a craft store and got 4 pre-fab shadow boxes (like I said, I have about 600 corks), a hot glue gun, and headed back to the new corner apartment. I opened up the shadow boxes, and went to work. I glued the corks in alternating directions until I had completely filled each one. Then, I put the glass back over the top, and here's what I got.
I had enough corks for 3 of these thing, so I have a pre-fab shadow box left over, but regardless, they look pretty cool on my wall.
So, in a nutshell, that's what I accomplished on my week off. I warned you in advance that this would be boring post, but Happy New Year anyway.
Back to what I was saying about the time thing. Isn't it strange how you think that you have all the time in the world, but then when it's over, it seemed like just a second. It's kind of how we look at the clock, and the perpetual rotation of the hands makes us feel like time goes on forever, but we curse the hourglass because it reminds us of how time is, in fact, running out. Oh time, why do you punish me so? I think of 10 or 12 or whatever years ago when I moved to, what seemed at the time, this big city of Rochester. I remember that moving here from Jamestown was so intimidating. I'd never in my life had to get on an expressway to get from one part of the city to another. In Jamestown, you can pretty much get to any place in the city in under 10 minutes. It seems like yesterday that I was drinking beers in the Stardust on 3rd Street in Jamestown, wondering if I'd ever get out of there. Rather, find the courage to leave. Well, in short, I did, and it was the best move I ever made.
When I sat down in front of my computer tonight, I was thinking about writing about the past year, and all that's happened, but if you want a synopsis of that, you can simply check out the archives on the right. There should be enough photos to sum it up if you're pressed for time. Instead, I think I'll look forward to what 2006 has in store for me. In the upcoming months, you can look forward to yet another post about the annual Vegas trip with the boys, probably a rant about Rochester's finest and how I don't care for them so much, and maybe, just maybe, if you're awful good and a little lucky, there may just be a post about a girl. I know she's out there, I just don't know the hell where.
In short, I don't know. I don't know what the upcoming year has in store for me. I wrote a long time ago that I didn't have all the answers, and how I wished that I had an "answer guy" that I could periodically consult. As of yet, I haven't found him, so I still have to rely on myself as the answer guy. I guess I can live with that for now... I have been known to be right once in a while. I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken.
Who knows? Maybe this year is the year that some publisher decides to pick me up and put the corner apartment into hard cover. Maybe this is the year that some saint of a dermatologist finds the cure to stop hair loss and I won't ever have to go down that road. Maybe this is the year that the Boston Red Sox decide to disenfranchise and are never heard from again. Maybe this is the year that I finally figure it all out. And finally, maybe this is the year that some nationally recognized band decides that they need a new lead singer and finally gives me a call. Hey Matchbox 20... I'm available.
There's one thing that I did forget to mention, while I'm on the subject of "maybe this is the year that blank." A couple of weeks ago, I achieved bowling immortality. Yes, I'm in a bowling league. Leave me alone. Anyway, I bowled a perfect 300 game. It's actually pretty impressive, especially considering that I have a 174 average. Yeah, I'm not a particularly strong bowler. I'm in like the 0.00001% of people that have done that. Go ahead, say it... you're impressed. I'll wait. Did you say it? Good. Thanks. Let's move on.
Having said that, I think I'm going to log off for the night, and try to get to bed at a decent hour. Seeing as I've been sleeping until noon for the past week (at the earliest), 7AM is going to come very, very early. Besides, my watch stopped. Better head to the mall for a new battery. Looks like time's running out.
Until next time...
R
Alas, my vacation has finally come to a close. As of 8:00 AM tomorrow morning, I'll be back at it... work, that is. It's strange because the last day that I worked before Christmas, I remember thinking that I had a bunch of time before Christmas, and here I sit, pondering the busy day that I have tomorrow, and dreading getting back into the swing of my normal (well, kind of) life. For as much time as I had off, I feel like I didn't really accomplish much. I finished my shopping, drove to sunny Jamestown, did the family Christmas thing, drove back on Christmas day (that sucked), did the rest of the family thing, and the rest is pretty much an alcohol-fueled blur. Funny how that works. What I mean by that is that a few days ago, I went out with the 5 Dog, and we pretty much drank everything in Rochester. I couldn't find my apartment the next day because I drank it.
By the way, I got a sweater for Christmas. What I really wanted was a moaner or a screamer. Bummer. Moving on.
I shouldn't say I didn't accomplish anything. I did complete one task that I've been meaning to do for a while. For the last couple years or so, I've been keeping all the wine corks from the bottles that I have enjoyed. I just threw them in a box when I finished, so it amounted to about 600 or so used wine bottle corks that have been sitting around collecting dust. So anyway, for however long it's been, I've been trying to think of something cool to do with them. After all, it'd seem like a shame to let all that hard drinking go to waste and have nothing to show for it. Today, I found something that I think is pretty cool.
Yes, my loyal readers, for the first time in the corner apartment, it's arts and crafts time with your host, the Rychkid. Try to stay with me. I went to a craft store and got 4 pre-fab shadow boxes (like I said, I have about 600 corks), a hot glue gun, and headed back to the new corner apartment. I opened up the shadow boxes, and went to work. I glued the corks in alternating directions until I had completely filled each one. Then, I put the glass back over the top, and here's what I got.
I had enough corks for 3 of these thing, so I have a pre-fab shadow box left over, but regardless, they look pretty cool on my wall.
So, in a nutshell, that's what I accomplished on my week off. I warned you in advance that this would be boring post, but Happy New Year anyway.
Back to what I was saying about the time thing. Isn't it strange how you think that you have all the time in the world, but then when it's over, it seemed like just a second. It's kind of how we look at the clock, and the perpetual rotation of the hands makes us feel like time goes on forever, but we curse the hourglass because it reminds us of how time is, in fact, running out. Oh time, why do you punish me so? I think of 10 or 12 or whatever years ago when I moved to, what seemed at the time, this big city of Rochester. I remember that moving here from Jamestown was so intimidating. I'd never in my life had to get on an expressway to get from one part of the city to another. In Jamestown, you can pretty much get to any place in the city in under 10 minutes. It seems like yesterday that I was drinking beers in the Stardust on 3rd Street in Jamestown, wondering if I'd ever get out of there. Rather, find the courage to leave. Well, in short, I did, and it was the best move I ever made.
When I sat down in front of my computer tonight, I was thinking about writing about the past year, and all that's happened, but if you want a synopsis of that, you can simply check out the archives on the right. There should be enough photos to sum it up if you're pressed for time. Instead, I think I'll look forward to what 2006 has in store for me. In the upcoming months, you can look forward to yet another post about the annual Vegas trip with the boys, probably a rant about Rochester's finest and how I don't care for them so much, and maybe, just maybe, if you're awful good and a little lucky, there may just be a post about a girl. I know she's out there, I just don't know the hell where.
In short, I don't know. I don't know what the upcoming year has in store for me. I wrote a long time ago that I didn't have all the answers, and how I wished that I had an "answer guy" that I could periodically consult. As of yet, I haven't found him, so I still have to rely on myself as the answer guy. I guess I can live with that for now... I have been known to be right once in a while. I thought I was wrong once, but I was mistaken.
Who knows? Maybe this year is the year that some publisher decides to pick me up and put the corner apartment into hard cover. Maybe this is the year that some saint of a dermatologist finds the cure to stop hair loss and I won't ever have to go down that road. Maybe this is the year that the Boston Red Sox decide to disenfranchise and are never heard from again. Maybe this is the year that I finally figure it all out. And finally, maybe this is the year that some nationally recognized band decides that they need a new lead singer and finally gives me a call. Hey Matchbox 20... I'm available.
There's one thing that I did forget to mention, while I'm on the subject of "maybe this is the year that blank." A couple of weeks ago, I achieved bowling immortality. Yes, I'm in a bowling league. Leave me alone. Anyway, I bowled a perfect 300 game. It's actually pretty impressive, especially considering that I have a 174 average. Yeah, I'm not a particularly strong bowler. I'm in like the 0.00001% of people that have done that. Go ahead, say it... you're impressed. I'll wait. Did you say it? Good. Thanks. Let's move on.
Having said that, I think I'm going to log off for the night, and try to get to bed at a decent hour. Seeing as I've been sleeping until noon for the past week (at the earliest), 7AM is going to come very, very early. Besides, my watch stopped. Better head to the mall for a new battery. Looks like time's running out.
Until next time...
R
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