Lotto

Most days I get caught up in the hope that I will run into as little calamity as possible, looking to eek out another busy day. Our schedules (though admittedly my wife creates a busier day for herself than I do), mostly out of guilt and poor planning gets packed to the gills. We sometimes get to a warm, cozy spot where all is in balance...

And then your doorbell rings. It is destiny calling. And destiny, it seems, is a really flustered carpenter.

At about noon on a regular old Thursday afternoon, the folks doing renovation upstairs from us hit a water pipe. Now, I don't mean they "hit" a "water pipe" in the way Cheech and Choong would, though it may have been the case.

I mean hit the way Captain Smith would in regards to an iceberg.

The super and the owner of the construction company flew into our apartment at a pace that said: Trouble. Or, a very silly grown up game of hide and seek. Oddly I hoped for the later.

At this point there were no visible signs of apocalypse. So a part of me was kind of like, “Hey. Dude. You mind not knocking my stuff all around. I sort of like some of it”.

His urgency would soon be clear when a single bead of water hit my shoulder.

This lonely bead of water reminds me of the time I was playing the greatest game of racquetball of my life. It was against my much smaller, more nimble Japanese roommate. He was awesome (and may in fact still be awesome). I always played him tough, but failed to come up a winner in any of our matches. This particular day I was playing him hard. I mean real hard. I was ahead late in the game. Something like 19 – 16. I saw victory. I went for the kill. I hit one of those tough slam-the-ball-hard-into-the-back-wall shots. I gave it my all. In giving it my all I somehow I managed to catch my face. In the moment I don’t remember much of the pain. But I remember this: I dropped for me knees and for one second (a second that, like all moments such as these, felt much longer) I watched one deep, dark drop of blood hit the floor. As I looked at that one drop I thought two things:

Oh.

And

Shit.

Just like my face during the racquetball “event” as it would come to be known, our ceiling, on that quite Thursday afternoon, opened up like a really good bible story.

The calamity was complete and total. Our personal items were salvaged. The walls and ceilings of over 75% of the apartment were not.

We had just begun to get settled in this new place. It was almost feeling like “home”. The place now looks like, well, if I came home and say a homeless man crapping in the corner, I would not be all that surprised. Let’s be clear. This was someone else’s fault entirely. We were sitting at home enjoying breakfast one morning and by the same night not able to eat a meal for the stench and dust that covered everything. It really would not be all that different if you were eating a really yummy cupcake and some dude punched you in the face. But then was like, “Oh. I’m sorry that’s not what I meant at all. My mistake.”

But since that day I have been feeling overly positive. The Red Sox and Patriots both blew late leads to lose over the weekend. I got a fever. I missed a long run. A bike ride with the wife was interrupted over a stupid argument.

All of these are annoyances, sure. But they are just that; annoyances, nothing more.

At this stage in the game I have realized something pretty important: When it comes to winning lottery tickets, I am sitting on a big one. I am a straight, white, male, born during the most prosperous time, on the most prosperous continent of all time. Ever. We white males, straight, born in Massachusetts control an obscene amount of that wealth.

When bad things happen to me, like, enough water in my house to put out two Great Chicago Fires, they are merely inconvenient. There was someone fixing my house just minutes after the water stopped. No less than five friends have asked: need a place to stay? This happens when ever I get into even a little bit of trouble.

For most people on this planet this is not even close to the case. I could point you to a million sites that will tell you how bad life is for a lot of people. 80% of the world’s population is living on $10 a day. While 1.6 billion have never had any access to electricity, much less known what it is to be without it in a few rooms. Matt Shepard lost his life just ten years ago, in a real gross way, for liking men.

We could go over all of this ad nausea. I don’t blame myself for these troubles, but I sure am thankful to not count them amongst mine.

I’ll probably get busy again and take things for granted. But every once in a while it is real nice to be reminded why I don’t play the lottery. It’s because I’ve already won in so many ways.

GO! GO! GO! GOWANUS!

The Gowanus is upon us.

It shall be good to drink and swill
By the site of the great oil spill
And Katie will surely get her fill
Of the pickles, kosher dill.

The beer is sold cheaply
The trendies, dressed neatly
We'll all get drunk, completely
And skip work on monday, discretely.

Sealed with a bow

There is this charming trait that I learned by growing up in New England: If someone wrongs you, it is your right, nay, it is your duty to make sure that these people pay for it for the rest of their natural lives. This aggression is most commonly played out in my interaction with neighborhood service providers.

This behavior is a source of some contention with my dear Katie McGlynn, whose official motto is, "Can't we pay someone else to do that?" She works from about 8 am to 2 am. Her time is more precious than a baby's tears, which believe you me fetch a pretty penny on the black market. So she relies, a lot, on other people to do things for her. Unfortunately for her, at least once a week there is a new service provider in our neighborhood that has wronged me in some way.

"We can't go in there." I recently declared, referring now to our once favorite running store.

"Oh no..." Katie replies with an appropriately furrowed brow, her voice trailing off towards the end.

"The mean guy is in there."

"What mean guy?"

"The mean guy. I think he's a manager. He's always in there."

"Well, what did he say to you?"

"Nothing. That's the point."

"What?" She is confused. "So let me get this straight. Because the guy wasn't overly nice, he was mean? And now we can't go there?"

"Well I just think that they're our neighborhood running store. It should be friendly."

This happens with a lot of places. Blacklisted for things they didn't even know they didn't do. The internet was invented so people could complain about things. (Well for that and selling baby tears.)

One fall morning, when returning from a run, Katie stopped by our laundry to pick up the wash and fold. The total came to 26 dollars. She had, in her limited-pocket running outfit, just twenty five dollars. The lady wouldn't just give it to her. I mean we are in there all the time. At least twice a week. We'd get the stinkin' dollar to her. Katie became incensed. Vengeance, you see, is contagious.

When Katie came back to inform me it that was time to find a new laundry service, I fell in love all over again. She had been wronged by a service provider and she wasn't going to take it anymore.

"We'll show them!" We cried in unison.

The search was on. I asked a friend and neighbor where he gets his laundry done. His text message reply:

"United Laundry on Seventh. Ask for Judy, speak little English. She call you nice boy give you good deal."

Sold.

For a place that people take their things to be cleaned, United Laundry is a real fuckin' mess. The front part that welcomes the customer looks like a 1977 trophy shop, only, like, all the trophies have been stolen or sold to pay for drugs.

There is also some sort of broken religious shrine.

The counter is too high and unnecessary, and there is an outdated cash register, but you can't see how much anything costs. In fact, there is no price list of any kind, anywhere.

To the right of the counter there is a scale that weighs the bags of laundry. If you place your laundry on this scale it will weigh at least five to seven pounds less than if one of the ladies behind the counter adjusts it. Each one of them has an advance degree in physics specializing in centers of gravity.

Above the scale is perhaps the laundry's most curious attribute. There are a series of notes saying things like:

"Thank so much for finding my watch and not washing it. Another laundry might have sold it for drugs."

"Thanks for finding my wallet. Other people might have stolen. But not you."

All these notes are in the same hand writing, same paper, same black sharpie pen and the same not quite native English prose. They are a real comfort.

Your clothes are then taken from you. Literally. They are just taken from you. You get an unofficial looking sheet of paper that has some scribble on it and you are left wondering, "Will I ever see my lucky underpants again?"

But you return a day later with the scribbled note and your clothes are given to you. Actually your clothes. The ones that belong to you. It shouldn't surprise me every time, but it does. The clincher? It is really cheap. It is so cheap that we wonder if our clothes are actually being washed.

So despite the sketchy appearance, everything turns out pretty good. Once, Katie went in to pick up some dry cleaning and Judy says, "You have tear in your skirt so I don't clean. But I fix for you and wash."

"Sure, how much?" Katie asks.

"No charge. You the customer. I just wanted to make sure its okay with you first."

How neighborly.

So I was feeling pretty good when I went in this weekend to pick up our freshly washed and folded clothing. I lugged the 25 pounds up our fourth floor walk up and plopped it down, doing what I always do; wait for Katie to get home so she can sort the laundry. But something caught my eye.

Tied in a knot, sealing the mouth of the laundry bag shut was a rose embroidered, pink pair of women's panties. It would have been a small consolation if they were Katie's panties, but they were not. These were in fact a stranger's panties. Tied like pretty ribbon around what is an otherwise ugly, military green laundry bag.

Everything about this is totally baffling. We can begin, if you like, with: Whose panties are these? And then continue right down the list of reasonable questions like: Should we say something? Should we return them? What kind of person would tie panties to a laundry bag? Why would you tie them to the laundry bag? Where are the rubber gloves so I can remove them?

But the most obvious question is asked by Katie, "So we can't go back there, right?"

"Well, let's not jump to any conclusions." I say. The only thing the Chappie loves more than vengeance is a really good deal. And we got a free pair of panties to boot!

America runs on ...

Until fairly recently I thought the word gregarious meant fat. Actually, I think I associated it with being jolly, but still, the word seemed to have its underpinnings in being large, with a side of affability.

In truth, for those who are not A.J. Jacobs and are not familiar with the etymology of gregarious, the word comes, almost directly, from the latin word gregarius - to flock. I enjoy the following definition from The American Heritage College Dictionary:

gre * gar * i * ous : seeking and enjoying the company of others; sociable

Why, that doesn't mean fat at all!

I suppose my confusion stems from being called this word for a large portion of my life. And, for another large portion, I was simply called: large portion.

Consider this tale of childhood trauma.

It is the end of the summer 1989. A young man, aged 9, and his well intentioned mother enter the temple of fashion J.C. Penny, or Penny's for those in-the-know. This fine stump of a man is confident, and why shouldn't he be? He is now able to consume a Big Mac on his own. He no longer needs the help of his father to tackle the five-scoop sundae, with peanut butter sauce, at Friendly's. This young man has important things on his mind, for this will be the year of long division.

But wait!

Who is that spindly looking fellow lurking in the shadows? Oozing with teenage rage and contempt for all things good, kind and honest. Why, it is a Penny's Associate and he wants to know if he can help. Clever rouse! He merely wishes to rid the world of childhood innocence.

Mother, "Might you have these pants in his size?"

Associate, "In his size? I will have to see if we have any Husky sizes in the back."

Like Adam hiding his nakedness from God in the Garden of Eden, this boy tries to conceal his his love handles, as well as the smushed snickers he probably has in his pocket, and cries, "Nooooooooooooooo ... " Until that cry turns into a faint sob.

Fad to black.

End Scene.

To this day I will not pet any dogs that look like they come from Siberia and refuse to support the University of Connecticut in any way.

I spent a number of years being the family butterball, miserably eating my way to my preteens. I lost most of that weight by swimming in high school, but quit this nasty, naughty habit during my first year of college.

I would like to blame genetics for this childhood obesity. My father sports a belly, my uncle has had a some heart problems, and my paternal grandfather, whom I have never known, died on heart attack number four. I may be genetically prone for portliness, but I should not be genetically prone to ignorance. That I blame on the government.

If you want to feel sorry for that 9 year old porker at Penny's consider this; all of the below are true:

• I can eat a McDonald's Cheeseburger in one bite.


• I hold a record, amongst our friends, for the most ribs eaten at an all you can eat rib house known, affectionately, as the Ribery. (11 meager racks).
  


• I invented a meal at my college called The Coronary - Two Over Easy Eggs, Topped with Cheese on a bed of french fries.


• I have smoked two packs of cigarettes in one day.


• I made a fort out of beer cans in the basement of my house in college.


• I have enjoyed eating at old country buffet.


• Every Wednesday (and I mean every) for a summer I drank, at least, two 40's of Old English, and ate a chicken fried steak, two eggs over easy and a plate of fries. THAT is how you eat fourth meal, my friends.


• I once offered to buy my friends late night snacks at Dunkin' Donuts then proceeded to order one dozen strawberry glazed donuts. When told that my friends may not particularly care for this variety said in my most serious tone, "What do you guys want?"

In the user and abuser culture anyone of these events could be considered "rock bottom". Taken collectively they should be considered crimes against humanity.

I think it is appropriate, then, that last Sunday (October 28th 2007) I set a personal best in the Dunkin' Donuts Marathon. I was two minutes from toppling the house record, which is still held by my nemesis, the champion of sweat (and sweet, coincidentally). I am only running a tortoise like 10 minute mile and in the Clydesdale category. To be considered a Clydesdale you must weight in excess of 190 lbs. But, at least now I have I have to stop and think, "Do I qualify? It's close".

I am no longer the family butterball, but the family workout freak. This is fine by me because I could crush most of those wimps and run away, safely, from the rest. (Oh, except for my Uncle Rick. He's been doing hard farmer's work since he was like, three. There's no way I could beat him in a fair fight or quick sprint. I'd definitely have to cheat.)

But most importantly, strawberry glazed donuts taste so much better 26.2 miles later.

I think.

I couldn't really tell, I sucked them down pretty fast.

We Win

These were my thoughts, from England, when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004.

What a scene it was. A girl from France, a friend from Italy, and a man from Libya standing in my room, watching me dowse myself with champagne, and cry. Cry like a little girl with a skinned knee. Only, like, a good skinned knee.

No, these aren't exactly the folks who were in all those dreams I have had about this moment. But God knows most of you were.

Here, on my tiny Dell laptop, I have remained connected to this Nation for the last two months, nay, the summer. But here [in England] there is No Riv, no NESN, no Niels or Ted. No drunk phone calls to my sister, or Jason or Villa. Only me, and the occasional inquisitive European.

At the Sports Cafe, Haymarket Square's Riviera Cafe, during the announcement of the starting line-ups in game one, (just one of many moments where I was seen holding a beer and weeping) a man actually walked up to me and said, "I am from Greece, and I have never seen a baseball game before, can you explain the game to me?" Like form start to finish? Explain baseball?

Looking back at that question I think of this - Tony LaRussa was just swept out of the World Series by THE RED SOX!!! Wait, Tony LaRussa the Manager of one the greatest Cardinals Regular Season Teams ever, which puts them in the running for one of the greatest teams ever, just got swept out of the World Series by the Red Sox.

Oh and to get to this point, all the Red Sox had to do was come from behind, with less than six outs, with Mariano Rivera on the mound, twice. Then win two more. In the Bronx.
I'm sorry brother, but no one can explain baseball.

Can anyone explain why I am weeping so heavily or why I have slept an aggregate 60 hours in the last two and half weeks?

Can anyone explain how Derek Lowe, who managed to pitch just above .500 ball this year, four hit the Cardinals?

Can anyone explain how Pedro Martinez three hit the same Cardinals the night before? This man, who, in 2004 gave up more homers than in 1999, 2000, and 2001, combined!

Certainly not. This was, as I have said many times, The Year. That's the only way to explain it.

This day, actually, marks the fourth year that Katie McGlynn and I have known each other. After four years, Kathleen has now seen me cry more in the last few weeks than she ever thought she'd see a 'grown' man cry. From now on, if we disagree on a restaurant, or a movie, or directions, she can kindly retort, "What are you gonna do, cry about it? Fucking Sissy".

Everyone wants to talk about the lunar eclipse, but really, we should be talking about how Katie McGlynn tried to pick me up after a friend of mine suddenly passed away. It was four years ago that she asked, "Are you sure you should be alone tonight?"

But thanks to our passion for the Red Sox, yours and mine, and the internet, I am not alone tonight.

I am not alone in these thoughts.

I am thinking of my grandfather, a passive Red Sox fan, who never got to see this day.

I am thinking of all the people who have sent me a note in the past week, letting me know that I am the biggest fan they know, and just how happy they are for me.

I am thinking about two life-long dreams, seeing the Sox win the World Series, and living abroad, colliding. (I am for the God of the Old Testament. A very spiteful, and vengeful god. Ask and Yee shall receive.)

I am thinking about the first time I went to Fenway with my dad. We saw the Brewers when they were still an American League team.

And I am thinking about the first, and only, time I marched through the green monster and on to the field to be greeted by Bobby Orr.

I am thinking about the first time I went to HHH Metrodome in Minneapolis, and realized just how lucky I was to be raised thinking Fenway was the norm.

I am thinking about that marathon game in July, where the Red Sox were swept at Yankee stadium. The two young boys sitting in front of us, crying, wearing Nomar jersey's, while their idol sulked in the dugout. I am thinking of two old friends, sitting in those stands that night, still proud to be fans. Taking it in.

But really, I am thinking about not thinking so much. Not thinking during the games, "what if we had", or "what if we hadn't", or "what if we did", or "what if we didn't". I am thinking about just letting it go.

The questions will, and have already come. "What will you do now? Your identity is crushed."
What will I do? Go on being a fan of the greatest team in the history of sports. Dish it out to some Yankee fans. And oh yeah, finally get some freaking sleep.

I just want to hear it once. You were right, Shaun. This was the year.

...Nuf Ced!

END.

I'll be in the stands for Game One. This A Year! Go Sox!

The Hunt

Listen Old Running Man from Staten Island. Don't try and resist the unstoppable running force that is, The Chappie. He will conquer you! The Chappie has been training for this moment his whole damn life.

While you are chowing down on Weetabix; I'm training.

Poppin' your FloMax; I'm training.

Watchin' the Matlock. I'm training.

Okay old man, joke is SO over. Don't f with me. Like the cold hands of death I am gaining on you every second.

You remember that day back in 1943, there was that french girl you never had the balls to kiss?

Yeah, buddy, I'm here to tell you the I kissed her! Oh yes, even though she is well over 80 now, I kissed her. Just to make to make you sweat.

Oh, yeah, nice head band. Real nice. Is that to make up for all the sweat that you got pouring down your head as I come closer to my goal: Your destruction, and humiliation?

Are those blue blockers? No? They look like blue blockers to me. I can't tell exactly from back here as I am, currently, behind you.

But not for long Old Man cause I am LOCKED in.

I see you have a little fight left in you Old Man. You been using the extra strength bengay?

How does it feel to be chased down by someone young enough to be younger than your oldest child, but proabably older than your grandchildren, if you have any. Hmmm? How does that feel?

And how does it feel to know that I SUCK at long division Old Man? That's right. Can't do it. Don't know how to change a $20 bill either.

Oh, and in my day we didn't walk ten miles through snow cause we had Snow Days motha fucka. That's right, snow days. You know what I did on my snow days? Train to whoop your ass.

Boy. I really thought I would have caught you by now.

You are not a man, you are like some bionic running zombie. You aren't close to death you are the undead.

You know what? Whatever! I was just, like, pacing myself for a more important race, you know? Don't want some old fart ruining my game.

Oh shit, is that a cramp? I think that's a cramp. Jesus that hurts.

Well, at least my girlfriend whooped your ass. How does it feel to be beat by a little girl pops? Huh?

How ... does ... that feel?

Getting on with it ...

You know what sounds really lame? Trying to describe this portion of my life. There is no good way for me to do it without out sounding like I am whining.

In the last two years and a half I have struggled to searched for jobs, found myself roughly $80,000 in debt, struggled to define a career, been to 16 weddings, moved back in with my parents, moved to New York City, endured a work related crisis, failed an exam, and questioned ever giving up on catholicism.

In the last two years I have also spent about two weeks in Italy, two weeks in France, lived smack in the middle of London, landed what is quite possible the best job I am likely ever to have, gotten health insurance, run two marathons/two triathlons, survived a work related crisis, NOT gotten married, and remembered why I am a retired catholic.

It is hard for people, those who have somewhat successfully made it to adulthood, to take my whining seriously given the latter.

David Brooks, the liberals' conservative, comments in the 10/09/07
New York Times about the section of life known as "The Odyssey", the transition from adolescence to adulthood (link is found here, but after a period of time a subscription will be required: David Brooks). Conveniently, 'tis exactly where I am right now.

We may be the most educated lot in the history of mankind. More people are attending college than ever before. And more places of employment are demanding it of us. In fact, when I was on the hunt for a job (er, career) the places that were the best fit (in my mind) were the ones that demanded education BEYOND undergraduate.

So what still leaves us/me so ridiculously unprepared?

Until now, there has been no way to practice the battle of boredom. Getting home and getting dinner on the table, can be boring. Feeling tired at 9:40pm is boring. Laundry? Boring. Making a budget, and sticking to it? Boring. Weddings, pretty boring, especially when just a year before you spent your extra cash on a trips to Prague, Barcelona and not on a punch bowl and a hotel room at a wedding factory in Jersey.

If you went to college with me, then you would know that getting housing OFF campus is made difficult until you are a senior. That means that laundry services, meals, social engagement, transportation all provided right on site.

My college was excellent at preparing me to think deeply about Descartes, Faulkner, the hidden truths of Economics, how to alter my ID.

But as I search for a new religion, a religion that teaches me to find meaning in the trials of everyday, I am fortunate to be guided by this movements spiritual leader.

Rumor is, when my girlfriend gets cleaning, shopping for wedding gifts, working with excel spread sheets, she communes with the Virgin Mary herself.

Making me reconsider my current position on catholicism.