An Open Letter to Theo Epstein

The back-story: Epstein Quits as Red Sox GM


Theo,

Buddy. Pal.

Wow.

What can I say? Where do I begin? All these strange emotions, all directed at a man who was responsible for maintaining the glory of my arch enemy. A guy who shamed the Yankees-- my Yankees -- with one of the top comebacks in sports history. A now-former General Manager who will never have to buy his own meal in the city of Boston ever again. A demi-god who can probably summon oral sex at the snap of his fingers. I mean, let's face it: that city loved you.

You grew up just blocks from the Green Monster itself. You idolized a frustrating band of losers as they plodded their way through years of futility. You went to games, bought the cards, listened to radio broadcasts that never would have guessed that you, a native son, would be the one to build the team that repaired 86 years of heartbreak.

And yet, here you are, currently unemployed. You walked away from a multi-million dollar contract for reasons that might never be known. The thing is, everybody knows that you probably took the high road in this deal, but still. You walked away.

There's a whole generation of people your age-- in fact, I'd make a fair wager that you're one of them-- who are out there right now, looking for work, looking for happiness, looking for somebody to notice their one talent. In other words, they're looking for a chance. You were given that chance, and you won a World Series. A World Series. That deserves an F word. Fuckin' A, man.

You might not realize it yet, or maybe you do, but you were an inspiration to young people all over the country. Young people who know they're smart, know they're talented, but don't feel like putting in their 'due time' in a system that's clearly not looking to give back their 'due rewards.' You're a walking symbol, an icon.

And this is coming from a Yankee fan.

True, the success of one does not necessarily equal the automatic success of others. It was you, after all, who inspired the dreadful tenure of Paul DePodesta in Los Angeles. But that wasn't really your fault. You learned from the best, and you carried yourself as one of them.

Whether it be from the fans of Boston or simply the slowly aging youth of a confused generation, you'll be missed. And I can honestly say congratulations on a job well done.



PS: Red Sox still suck.

Saturday Strikes Again

"I just want to disappear,
And feel like I'm free at last,
The time is right, my day has come,
It's going to start today,
My life of Saturdays."
-Dexter Frebish, "Life of Saturdays"

There's something about a lazy Saturday that tends to bring out the best in people. And when I say 'bring out the best in,' I mean 'give the uncontrollable urge to wake me up out of a peaceful alcohol-induced slumber to.'

It all started, for me at least, around 9:30 this morning. Or, to put it another way, about 5 hours after my night had ended. The apartment building next to mine-- the one that caught on fire in June-- is beginning reconstruction this week. Why they took nearly 5 months to start this, in the nick of time to catch a harsh upstate NY winter, I'll never know. But they did, and they start early. Drilling, hammering, pounding, you name it. All derogatory synonyms for intercourse, but also all part of the aural debris outside my bedroom window this morning. Great.

A few hours later, I got a call from the girlfriend. I responded to her in what could only be called a slight approximation to speaking Wookie.
Her: Hey there, you awake?
Me: (painfully groaning in English, fluently speaking in Wookie) must... fix... hyperdrive
Her: I'm going out, so I'll just talk to you later
Me: No, you'll be frozen in carbonite
Her: I can't understand a word you're saying
Me: Lando, how could you?
Click.

Before I could get fully back to sleep, my phone rang again. My buddy Mike, a former roomate and now chained denizen of the married community, wanted to know if I was up for golfing today.
Me: You know it's 40 degrees and windy, right?
Him: Just like St Andrews. Come on, man, it's the last Saturday of the season.
Me: Brother, the last Saturday for me was in September. I ain't goin out like that.
Him: Well, can I at least borrow your bag? I'm taking <wife's name> with me. I don't need the clubs, we're sharing mine, I just need an extra bag.
Me: ... sure. Whatever. I'll be here.
Him: OK, see you in 20 minutes. Take some Advil.

Damn, now I've got two options. Pull a pillow over my head and nap snooze-alarm-style, or I can just bite the bullet and get dressed. I choose option C, none of the above. I just lie there, thinking about the recovery operation ahead of me. Mike was right, I needed Advil.

Not two minutes passed before my phone rang again. Why am I only popular on days I don't want to be bothered, I ask myself. Myself doesn't reply. On the other end of the phone is another friend from Boston, she's having "boy trouble." Again.

"Look," I say, "I've had a solution to this issue since my dating career began. Only date girls." It gets a laugh, but unfortunately I'm now stuck figuring out the social implications of any conceivable muscle twitch for the next 48 hours. I think she took notes on a whiteboard. I'm fairly certain there was a flow-chart involved.

I leave her in better spirits than I found her, inhale deeply, and brace myself for the harsh reality outside the 100 thread count fortress. It wasn't as bad as I expected. In fact, it was much worse. I think my kidney hurts. I think my lungs hurt. I've got two of each of those, right?

Mike shows up on time, as usual, and I have an empty golf bag waiting for him. "<wife's name> will probably start complaining by the fifth hole that it's too cold," he says, rolling his eyes as <wife's name> waits impatiently in the running car, "It's going to make for a long back nine."

"Dude," I begin, intelligently, "the whole reason Scots invented this game was to get away from their wives. Don't you know anything? You're breaking all the rules. I think they even post that in the clubhouse, engraved in gold."

"I know," he replies, defeated, "but what are you gonna do?"

"Me? Now? Find my car," I say, "it's not exactly 'here,'" somehow articulating the quotation marks.

He knows from experience. "I see," he says knowingly, "you need a ride?"

I look up at the crisp autumn day, the sawdust still hanging in a cloud over the neighboring building. It's sunny, if nothing else. "No thanks," I start, "I think I need the walk."

NFL Split Picks, Week 8

Author's Note: First of all, big shoutout to a new entry on my "Coolest US Cities to Visit" list: Denver, Colorado. Congrats on this one, guys.
Now on with the post, my weekly split-personality disorder football picks. Which seems to be contagious.

Jekyll: So what did we learn last week?
Hyde: Never underestimate an unpredictable team at home.
Jekyll: Right. St. Louis was missing its starting QB, two starting receivers and their head coach, all on the injured list. And they still won!
Hyde: Oh like that's better than what happened in Minnesota. You take a bunch of slackers who haven't yet got over the perma-grin from their pleasure cruise, put them against a team who put up 52 earlier this year AND has one of the best comeback quarterbacks of all time, and what do you get? A 56 yard field goal to win it. Unfuckingbelievable.

Philadelphia at DENVER (-3)
Jekyll: I'm taking Philly again this week, I don't think Denver's got the grapes after last week's loss at Giants Stadium.
Hyde: Please, Denver's been ripping teams up all season, you can't look at them from one stupid loss.
Jekyll: It's not that I'm saying they aren't good, it's just that I think Philly's better.
Hyde: The same Philly that went to Dallas and lost by 23 points?
Jekyll: Whatever, they held Ladanian Tomlinson to 7 yards last week, and that's pretty damn good, even against a strong Broncos rushing attack.
Hyde: ...and they have three years experience against Ron Dayne, yeah yeah yeah, I still pick the Broncos at home this week. It's a no brainer for you.
Jekyll: So are most things, you pothead.
Hyde: So I'm biased, so sue me.
Final: PHI 21 DEN 49, Hyde wins straight up, Hyde wins spread

Miami "at" NEW ORLEANS (-2)
Hyde: New Orleans has been good this year at home, I think they can pull one off against a leaky Miami team.
Jekyll: No way, after falling apart at St Louis last week, there's no telling how bad of a team they can lose to. I don't pick them to win a game for the rest of the season.
Hyde: Well, they're back in Louisiana this week, Baton Rouge to be exact, so they will be in front of some "home" fans, at least as much as they can muster in San Antonio.
Jekyll: Oh, is that why "at" is in double quotes up there?
Hyde: Yup, that author's a pretty clever guy.
Jekyll: I agree. Clever. Indeed.
Final: MIA 21 NO 6, Jekyll wins straight up, Jekyll wins spread

Cleveland at HOUSTON (-2)
Jekyll: I was surprised at first that Houston got favored in this game...
Hyde: ...until you saw Cleveland score zero offensive touchdowns last week.
Jekyll: Exactly.
Hyde: Well Houston's playing well when they're running the ball, even though they're the most beatable team in the league.
Jekyll: Which is why I'm picking the Browns.
Hyde: But they put up some points on Indy, so I think they may have some scrap in them after all. Plus, they're at home.
Jekyll: OK retard.
Hyde: Well they've got to be due by now for a win! Right? Right?
Final: CLE 16 HOU 19, Hyde wins straight up, Hyde wins spread

Washington at NEW YORK (-2)
Hyde: I think it's safe to say that this is our 'agree' game of the week.
Jekyll: Absolutely not, the Skins are coming off a huge win against San Francisco last we--
Hyde: You mean they still have a team?
Jekyll: Oh ha ha. Very funny. The Giants got lucky last week, and the Skins haven't been getting due credit this year.
Hyde: Because they haven't earned it.
Jekyll: They will this week.
Final: WAS 0 NYG 36, Hyde wins straight up, Hyde wins spread

Monday Night Madness
Baltimore at PITTSBURGH (-8)
Jekyll: This one's too big of a spread, we're going spread-only on this game.
Hyde: Fine, I'm still taking Pittsburgh though.
Jekyll: No fair, I wanted the Steelers this week.
Hyde: Really? Against a tough Baltimore defense.... you know you like tough defenses....
Jekyll: Oh OK, you know my weak spot.
Hyde: You want the 'under' on this game too? It's 33.5.
Jekyll: Yeah, I'll take the under.
Hyde: Good. Prepare to go down this week, bitch.
Final: BAL 19 PIT 20, Jekyll wins spread, Hyde wins over/under.

Match Made in Heaven

You know those things that come around every 400 years or so, a combination so epic that it immediately proceeds to the annals of humankind's greatest achievements from the nanosecond it's discovered?

I'm talking like hydrogen and oxygen here, paper and ink, peanut butter and jelly. One of the most perfect and essential duos ever to exist.

Brace yourselves, now.

Pot and Satellite radio. Wow. And I just mean, wow.

I mean, the two things together is practically an orgasm in and of itself. I know the two of them are great on their own, but put them in the same room together and you have BOOM Instant Heaven.

I think I need a cigarette now.

And I don't even smoke.


Other thoughts on a Monday:

You think the guy who invented the Spork was actually named, "Spork?" Think about it, it's not all that ridiculous. An unfortunate surname, passed down through the generations. The guy gets hungry one day, or cheap, or whatever, and conceives of this concave/teeth hybrid utensil, makes a prototype, takes it to the execs...

I can picture it now (screen wiggles):
Spork: So gentlemen, that's my idea.
Exec: Spork, we freakin love it. You'll be a millionaire! Everybody's gonna know your name!
Spork: So you'll buy my Foon idea then?
Exec: Foon?
Spork: Yeah, the fork spoon. The Foon.
Exec: Oh... well we were going to call it, Spork.
Spork: Oh...
Exec: Yeah.
Spork: ...well that works too then.

Partial Pigskin Picks, Week 7

Author's note: This post is in an ongoing series of split-personality disorder sports talks, coming from both halves of my brain. Front and back.

Last week:
Jekyll: 1-4
Hyde: 4-1

Season:
Jekyll: 1-4
Hyde: 4-1

Plus, both of them picked the Denver game correctly last week.

GREEN BAY at Minnesota (+1.5)
Jekyll: I learned a valuable lesson last week.
Hyde: Yeah? What was that?
Jekyll: Last week was a season-defining game for the Vikes. They had to prove what they were made of after the boating incident.
Hyde: You mean the one where the left "what they were made of" in small puddles on the deck?
Jekyll: Yes. That one. And they looked completely lifeless, defeated. And I will never pick them for the rest of the season.
Hyde: Even against the Pack? They're not the same Packers this year. I mean, Favre Shmavre, they kinda suck.
Jekyll: Again, I'll repeat it: I will never pick the Vikings this entire year. I'm taking Green Bay.
Hyde: Well this is one we agree on. For once.

Detroit at CLEVELAND (-2.5)
Jekyll: I picked Detroit last week and they almost picked me up. Only lost by a point.
Hyde: Yeah, at home. They're not at Ford Field this week.
Jekyll: Doesn't matter, I'm holding steady to the belief that the Lions are underrated this year.
Hyde: And I'm holding steady to the belief that you're always wrong.
Jekyll: Except with the Vikings.
Hyde: Lucky guess. I'm picking the Browns in this game.

Kansas City at MIAMI (-1.5)
Hyde: I'm never betting against a team that has two quality starting running backs. I like Miami at home in this game.
Jekyll: Hmm... two starting RBs... who does that remind me of... hmm...
Hyde: Don't be an ass.
Jekyll: Oh yeah, I remember now, KANSAS CITY! You dipshit, they have Priest Holmes and Larry Johnson. Did one of them change to nickelback? Linebacker?
Hyde: Shut up. You're the one who picked them to lose to the Redskins of all teams last week.
Jekyll: And I'm atoning for it now. Go Chiefs.

San Diego at PHILADELPHIA (-4)
Hyde: Well, after that pick, I'll LET you take the Eagles in this game.
Jekyll: Whatever, bitch. I'll take them any week. They lose to some easy teams, win against some easy teams, lose to some good teams. I like them at home though.
Hyde: I'm going to go with the San Diego team that won AT New England a few weeks ago. I don't think McNabb is healthy and I don't think they can stop Tomlinson.
Jekyll: Well, Westbrook needs to step up, but I think their D can handle it.
Hyde: That's because you're retarded.
Jekyll: Oh, and one running back can carry the Bolts this year?
Hyde: What was my record last week?
Jekyll: Bite me.

Dallas at SEATTLE (-3.5)
Jekyll: Coming off two straight wins against good teams, I'm picking Parcells and the Cowboys this week.
Hyde: OK, I'll let you ignore for now the fact that those two wins were at HOME, and now they're back up playing in the Pacific Northwest, but you know, whatever, you can pick the Cowboys after two shoddy wins.
Jekyll: Who do the 'Hawks have left at receiver now? Jerry Rice? Lynn Swan? Is Steve Largent coming out of retirement?
Hyde: You don't need top-notch receivers when you have Shaun Alexander, it's an easy win at home against an iffy Cowboys squad.
Jekyll: Iffy? Drew Bledsoe this year is looking like a young Tom Brady.
Hyde: Ouch. Let's end it on that one. That just hurts.

Dressing Like Grown-Ups

I don't talk about the NBA too much on this blog. I think, maybe once I've done it, and it was brief. But I wanted to put in a few words about the NBA's new dress policy before it became sorely outdated.

A recap: the NBA is mandating that its players present themselves in 'business casual' dress anytime they're representing the team-- so travel to games, on the bench if injured, press conferences, et cetera. One of the bullet points on that mandate is that players are not allowed to wear chains, pendants or medallions outside the clothes (inferring also the Run-DMC style alarm clocks, which I don't see so much anymore, but I'm assuming they're included as well).

Why are they doing this?

It's a simple marketing thing. The NBA has none-too-subtly gone in the hip-hop direction in recent years, and while this in itself isn't a bad thing at all, the execs are afraid that this will alienate the fan base that every sport tries to lure-- families.

Having players dress like thugs and rap artists brings tons of money to the game-- hip hop culture is filled with dollar signs-- but it's also dangerously hinging itself on what could be just a fad, so when the 50-cent era finally wears off, which it will, it risks losing all the cash that this recent wave has brought to it.

OK, so it's financially motivated, so what?

You knew just by reading the article that it was only a matter of time before the race card was played. And it was, first by Steven Jackson of the Pacers. Not that I'm saying he's wrong, because if I were in that position, it would certainly seem to me that my employers were trying to make my workplace "less black."

Do I personally think it's racially motivated? No, I don't. I don't think the NBA has any issue with it being a "black" sport, I just think they're trying to make it more of a family atmosphere. When you bring families into your fan base, you're reaching youth, who will in turn bring their kids when that time comes, and so forth. You're creating a steady economic base for your product.

The easiest parallel here is to the NFL, which has done a superb job at marketing their product to young, old, hip and uncool alike. And if you compare the level of discipline between NFL and NBA players (at least when they're representing their teams), it's no contest. The NFL has got it down (but then again, you could always go into the 'team sport' vs 'individual sport' argument, but we'll save that one for now). The NFL is all about class, an attribute that many NBA players are sorely lacking.

My point in all of this is to reiterate that the NBA's decision, at least as far as I can tell, is strictly about its own economic future. Unfortunately, it creates a negative byproduct of perceived persecution. Hopefully, the players will see past that and look at the road ahead of them-- a much brighter, well-paved road-- and basketball might have some hope of gaining some of its lost fans again.

Computer Hacking and Other Monday Thoughts

It had to happen sooner or later. You just knew it was coming.

It took me about a month and a half, but I finally hacked through my company's computer security policy today. It felt good, too. Real good. Real, real good.

Not that I'll start abusing this discovery, mind you. In fact, I won't do anything about it. The accomplishment lies in simply achieving it, not exploiting it. I mean, did Sir Edmund Hillary build a house on top of Everest after he climbed it? Exactly.

And yes, I think that's a fitting comparison.

Moving on, there's an odd collection of thoughts that have been clunking around in my brain since the last time I was posting regularly (speaking of which, I must have taken blog-fiber pills or something, because all of a sudden I've found myself back into regular posting mode).

(Thought 1 is outdated by about 3 weeks, possibly more)
I don't understand the outcry about Kate Moss using cocaine. Like you never saw this coming? A 60 pound European fashion model? They use coke like you and I use coffee. That would have been like finding out in 1977 that Robin Williams took amphetamines (not to throw him under the bus, and not to imply that he was, but do you think it would have surprised anybody?).

Don't get me wrong, I don't exactly endorse the white stuff, never have, never will, but this is the same chemical that Thomas Edison used to drink. Are we going to stop using light bulbs now? Let's get a grip, folks.

(Thought 2 is also outdated by roughly a month)
Really disappointed hearing about Paris and Paris splitting up. This had almost as much potential as the Cruise-Cruz union. Speaking of which, I always wondered if they would have switched names, kept their own, or gone with some weird hybrid. "Ladies and gentleman, introducing Mr. Tom and Penelope Cruuze."

(Thought 3 is almost 2 months old)
Kudos to the NFL for finally playing a game in Mexico City, where attendance can regularly break into 6 figures. I bet it was the work of one of the execs who played a little too much Madden '05, because that's exactly how I figured out that strategy last year. Of course, I chose to move the Dolphins, not the Cardinals, but it's the same idea (for non-video game nerds, that's an NFL game where you have the option of relocating your franchise).

(Thought 4 comes from my road-trip to Maine earlier this month)
What happened to bucket seats? Can I still get those without buying a pickup truck these days? If I'm on a long drive with the girlfriend, this is a must. Somebody should really look into this. Stupid center console.

(Thought 5 became outdated on Friday)
My pick for the next Bond.
Now, this is going to seem weird, and it's only if they decided to go for an American guy, but I really feel like Terry O'Quinn from Lost would have made a decent Bond. I really do. And I know I'll get disagreement on this, and I know he doesn't have hair right now, but I just needed to get that out there.

There, I said it.

Dude, Where's My Car?

Every now and then, Saturday mornings can rival Monday mornings as far as the levels of sheer terror. This is especially true after a night at the bar.

I woke up early today because my splitting headache wouldn't allow it any other way. I sat on the couch for a while, alternating between watching the History channel and napping to the History channel. I had only one thing to do today, which was go look at a new apartment-- my appointment was at 12:30.

At about 20 after noon, I threw on some pants, swished around some Listerine and became instantly ready for societal interaction once again. The prospective apartment was about a mile away, so I was only looking at a 2 or 3 minute commute, depending on how many stop signs I wanted to run.

But when I got outside into the street, I noticed something. Something strange.

My car was gone.

Think, Brad, think. You had a car yesterday. You had to, or else how would you have driven home from work? OK, retrace my steps here. I came home, wrote a few emails, then drove to the bar. After the bar--- oh, that's right, I didn't drive after the bar. Something about a law. Jail time. It's all coming back to me.

Ironically, the car was parked not a hundred yards from the prospective apartment complex (and if you're asking yourself now if I'm choosing an apartment solely on its proximity to bars, then I'll just say stop asking so many personal questions). So I walked.

I arrived at the office after a solid 15 minutes of briskly-paced stumbling, now at the point where the beads of sweat starting to form on my forehead smell suspiciously like malt liquor. After a brief walkthrough of a fairly standard and none-too-surprising model townhouse, I hoofed it over to my morning bar, Dunkin Donuts (yes, a bar and a DD within a stone's throw of this place-- location, location, location). A few shots of caffiene and a short drive in my newly discovered vehicle later and I'm back on the couch.

But wait, there's more.

Sitting there, settling in to the permanent groove I've left in the cushions, I'm reliving a conundrum that has plagued mankind since at least the mid-80's. A perplexing dilemma. A relentless quandary, if you will. I'm watching a movie on TV that I actually own on DVD.

Why do I do this?

I have the full, unedited, commercial-free version 6 feet from my head, yet I'll willingly sit through the entire film without thinking twice. Why? Why? I don't understand myself. Why do so many people do this? I know it's not just me. Will I get to sleep tonight? Why?

Anyway, it's now 2PM and my day is pretty much over. The movie thing is the biggest worry I have right now.

Now that I think about it, maybe Saturdays aren't so bad after all.

Schizo-Football

(Author's note: This post is in a series of split-personality-disorder sports arguments. Since there's never just one side of the story)

I'm back.

I'm back, too.

We're a quarter into the NFL season (yes, a quarter, now that every team has played four games), so it's high time I bring you my two bits on football season.

Me, I'm a gamblin' man.

Me, I'm not, but I'll argue to high hell about football.

So each week I'll try to run some football talks, and some picks, brought to you by both hemispheres of a spirally twisted brain.

Giants at COWBOYS (-3.5)
Jekyll: I'll take Eli Manning and the G-Men over the 'Boys this week. He's leading a strong offense this year.
Hyde: What? Did you even watch the Eagles game last week? Dallas picked them apart!
Jekyll: Yeah but McNabb's hurt, you can't expect him to keep it up all season.
Hyde: And Eli Manning? Overrated. Come on. Show me something when it counts.
Jekyll: Nine TDs and 2 picks this year, and those 2 picks both came off a receiver's bobble. The kid's for real.
Hyde: Look, I'm not saying he won't be a good quarterback, I'm saying he's not ready to take on Parcells, Bledsoe, some reincarnation of Terry Glenn, and the rest of those guys. And do you know the Giants' record coming off a bye week? It's horrible. Plus, they have one of the worst passing defenses in the league.
Jekyll: So Cowboys with the points?
Hyde: Yep, 'Boys with the points.
Jekyll: I'm taking the Giants.

CAROLINA at Detroit (+1.5)
Jekyll: I'm having trouble figuring out the Panthers this year.
Hyde: Everybody is, that's why the Lions don't have a prayer.
Jekyll: You don't think Harrington's got a chance?
Hyde: Joey Harrington is a longer-lasting version of Ryan Leaf. That's how much I think of him.
Jekyll: I don't think he's got Leaf's arm, either.
Hyde: I'd take the Panthers in this game if they were getting 12 points on the spread this week, I don't care, that's how much I think the Lions suck. So at 1.5? Come on, you gotta take them.
Jekyll: I don't agree. The Lions haven't lost at home this year, they beat the Ravens--
Hyde: ...and the Packers, that's it! Who cares?
Jekyll: You know, if you pick the Panthers in this game, you'll officially be Sports Illustrated's bitch. Prison bitch.
Hyde: Sign me up.
Jekyll: Whatever, I still pick Steve Mariucci's Lions.

Washington at KANSAS CITY (-6)
Hyde: I'm picking the Redskins as my upset special this week.
Jekyll: And you apparently picked crack as well.
Hyde: They're 3 and 1.
Jekyll: You know the Patriots are underdogs this week too, right?
Hyde: No. I'm sticking with it. That's final.
Jekyll: Dumb ass. KC's got this game.

Minnesota at CHICAGO (-2)
Jekyll: Who you got here?
Hyde: Wow.
Jekyll: Any guesses?
Hyde: Wow.
Jekyll: Culpepper to rebound?
Hyde: Jesus Christ. I can't think of a worse game to watch.
Jekyll: ... at least they're not playing shirts and skins. I'll take the Vikes.
Hyde: No way, Chicago's D at home.

Cleveland at BALTIMORE (-4)
Jekyll: Well here's my upset special this week, I'm taking the Browns in this game.
Hyde: I like the Ravens' defense here.
Jekyll: Yeah, and you also liked them last week against the Lions. You remember them, right?
Hyde: What, you think Ruben Droughns can carry this team?
Jekyll: Better than Kyle Boller. Man I hate that guy.
Hyde: Sticking with Ray Lewis this week.
Jekyll: Whatsamatter, buddy? Afraid you'll get shot if you don't?
Hyde: Yeah, kinda.

Beer Week: Meet the Drunken Idiot

At Union College every year, they have this thing called "Springfest." Now, I'm sure these types of events aren't unique to my small, upstate University, but it was fun in its own right.

At the time, I had been writing for the school newspaper for over a year. Mostly, they had me cover bands and concerts (I was also on the executive board of the radio station at the time, although I hadn't yet made it to General Manager), so Springfest was a logical beat for me.

Our headliner that year was the Pat McGee band. Maybe some of you have heard of them, maybe some haven't. I really haven't been following them lately, so I couldn't even tell you if they exist anymore, but at the time they were a solid act at a college show.

Festivities started at 11 AM, which meant one of my roomates and I got up at 10:30 and started work on two 1.75 liter bottles of "Senator's Club" vodka. If you've never heard of that particular brand, it comes in a plastic bottle, if that tells you anything. By 11:30, we were loaded, so we decided to go down and check out the concert-- but not before bringing some mixed drinks in plastic containers.

At the time, the policy was that you could bring closed containers, but not within about 100 feet of the stage. They had a separate area roped off for "non-drunkies." Security was very laissez-faire back in those days. They've sinced tightened it. Pussies.

So we continued to booze. At around 2, my roomate puked all over the flagpole, so he went to go sleep it off. Me, I stayed. I stayed a while too, now that I had two mixed drink containers which were both very much full, and a heavy buzz that wasn't going away anytime soon -- after all, I hadn't eaten anything that day.

When the headliners came, I was done. I enjoyed myself... I think... and I wasn't ready to leave or anything, I just mean that I was drunk, hammered, plastered, you name it. Done. Just done. When the end was nearing (noise ordinance, they had to be off the stage by dark), I was approached by the editor of the newspaper, and between her and myself, the conversation went a little like this:

Her: So... ready to do this interview?
Me: Yyyyeeppp.
Her: You sure? You seem a little...
Me: No... no... well... yeah... maybe a lidddle. I cannn doit though.
Her: How? Did you bring a pen? Paper? Do you even know what you're gonna ask?
Me: Shherrr, I'll just wing it. I'll remember.
Her: Yeah... well... I'm going to have Becky here do the interview.
Me: Shit, really? That sucks.
Her: Go have fun. You're drunk.
Me (to Becky): I'm really usually not usually like this... usually. I swear.

At which point, I believe, I fell over. The conversation was done.

I kept my staff writer job for another year after that, when another incident not involving alcohol precluded any future journalistic endeavors, and strangely enough everybody was happy-- the editor found a more willing writer, the eventual writer was obsessed with the band, I made it to 7 something in the morning (20 hours-- I don't remember the rest of the day after that conversation, or I'd tell more), and my roomate hibernated until class Monday morning.

So you see, it was all a happy ending after all. No negative repercussions. No arrests. No breakups. No violence. It's times like these I wish I could just buy the world a beer. Or twelve. Happy Beer Week, everybody.

Beer Week: The How to the Why

After my last post, you know why I started boozing. Now, you'll find out how.

Growing up in the rough & tumble suburbs of Albany, NY, where every day's a struggle, we found ourselves buying 40-ouncers from some run-down foreign-run convenience store at the intersection of Drive By Boulevard and Gangsta Way. Well, truth be told I don't know the exact intersection, but you get the idea. Maybe a little crazy to have 6 kids who haven't shaved yet packed in to a station wagon, but the point was clear -- this was beer and this was cheap.

The strangest and most disagreeable brew I've had was a particular brand of malt liquor called, "Phat Boy." I've never seen this since, so it must have been like the unknown beverage foray between Coca-Cola and Snoop Dogg or something.

Even though nobody really likes the taste of beer, we learned to like it based on it's effectiveness at turning us into brainless drooling idiots. Maybe that's some sort of psychological thing, like beer really tastes awful but as a planet we'll never know because our brains keep telling us to drink up. What do they call that? Something about "diction?"

I had an advantage during my freshman year of college. I had a headstart. Most of these preppy New England brats (I went to Providence College for that year) had no clue how to sip, chug, funnel... I mean, they couldn't even puke right. It became a stumbling block for me since I was constantly wondering who I'm going to have to sneak out of the ER before Physics tomorrow.

By the 2nd year (now at Union College), it all cut loose. We filled an entire wall of our common room with empty cases of Milwaukee's Best Ice. You might know it by the alias, "Beast." When you think of it, it was the true work of 4 engineering students (which we were, then)-- it's got 10% higher alcohol content at 15% reduced price.

The next year, we moved to high class. The highest class, in fact. The Champagne of Beers. Miller High Life. It stuck with us through that year and into Senior year, where we started adding Saranac into the mix (Saranac is a local brewery with a very very nice selection). In three short years we'd gone from the backwash to the best. Evolution, I call it.

Which all brings me to here, really. My relationship with beer is still young-- we've had our rocky, tumultuous times, along with some really good ones I'll never forget. A few more that I'll never remember, and a bunch that I wish I could forget. But it will grow. The relationship, I mean. It will grow and prosper, as I wait to bear the fruits of it-- baldness, sloth, liver damage, a criminal record, etc., but it'll always be there. I've got scars to prove it.

An Iced Quickie Between Beers

Just some notes about the opening of the NHL season, about which I'll post more next week, since the games start in a half hour.

What to expect this season:
Penalties, and lots of 'em. Remember last year when the NFL instituted that "let receivers fly" rule, where they couldn't get chucked more than 5 yards off the line? Yeah, it's like that. They're once again cracking down on obstruction penalties to speed up the flow of the game. Unfortunately, this means a bunch of stoppages and 20 penalties combined between the two teams. Of course, there's a silver lining to this raincloud: more penalties equals more power plays. Which equals more goals, or at the very least more excitement.

Look for historically bad teams to rocket to the top of the standings and vice versa. Remember, there was a huge roster shakeup this year, so the team in your area, no matter whether you know the team name or not-- in Nashville, I'm guessing not-- could make a playoff run fairly easily.

Ticket sales are already up. Season ticket holders in some markets have been given personalized jerseys, free concerts, first dibs on other stadium events, lap dances, you name it. Well, I made that last one up, but my point is that this league is serious again. They're struggling to maintain their "major professional sport" moniker, because they've finally realized they could lose it.

Do do yourself a favor this year. Make a hockey player happy. You won't regret it.

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note, my old geezers's winter league starts this Friday, so definitely take that last point to heart.

Why the Wagon Won't Let Me Back On

At one point in my career, I told myself I'd never drink again. Admit it, you've done it too. There's no shame in it, really. I'm glad I stopped at once.

I was young, naive, all of 16 years old and my first experiment with vodka had failed with flying colors (by the way, that color was red, the same color as the cranberry juice I ingested just hours before, and yes, it was definitely flying). My best friend laughed at me, and rightfully so. I returned the favor the following summer.

I know now that it was dumb of me to say, because it wasn't more than a few weeks before I was partying again. I learned my lesson. As I sat there sipping my Molson (it would be years before I had the courage or the stomach to hit hard liquor again), I realized that no matter how many intestinal mistakes I made (not many after that first one), I would always come back to the sauce. Not to rely on it with any sort of chemical dependency-- that's a disease-- but, well, hell I just like my beer.

I'll attempt to steer this rambling bit back to a topic with this little analogy:
Imagine you like ice cream. For some, this won't take too much right-brain power. And this ice cream is slowly making you look like the first season of Roseanne, causing you to walk through doors sideways and setting you on the fast track to type 2 diabetes. Now imagine there's a Haagen-Dazs factory across the street. You think you're going to quit? You think you've got that much willpower? You think you can lay off that last pint of Rocky Road? Really? You think so? You think you're that tough?

Well, you're wrong. And I know this because I have the #1 beer bar in the country within safe walking distance of my apartment. At any given time, over 500 types of beer. They even keep track of how many beers you've drank through a low-tech computer system. There's free stuff rewards for milestone beers (50, 125, 500, etc.). And I'm supposed to stay away from this? Sure, right, no problem.

It's like putting cookies in front of Cookie Monster, Scooby-Snacks in front of Scooby-Doo, cocaine in front of the 1986 Mets.

I'm not saying I'm some sort of dysfunction on society. I have a job I drive to every morning. I'm not violent or destructive. Not by any means. I'm just saying hey, I like the sauce.

I'm ending today with a trivia question. Guess how many different beers I've had at this holy Mecca of hops?
A) 100
B) 250
C) 400
D) 550

Beer Week

I'm going to tell you that Beer Week is here. I'm going to tell you that Alison, Scott and I are doing it. I'm going to tell you that the whole week is chock-full of alcoholic goodness. What I'm not going to tell you is that Oktoberfest ends on the first Sunday of October, which was yesterday. Because that would ruin it. And I'm not that guy.

Seriously.

Luckily for us, local breweries promote their Oktoberfest brews throughout the month without a trace of irony. While Bavarian residents are busy churning out inventions that rival the steam engine, American nationals are still enjoying (and recovering from) the fruits of the season (the pumpkin ales around this time of year are nice).

So what is an Oktoberfest beer? My Page-a-Day "365 Bottles of Beer for the Year" desk calendar describes it thusly:

In general, Okeboterfest beers are malty, sweet, copper-colored lagers with low to medium levels of bitterness. This beer style was originally brewed in March for consumption in the fall, but today many of these beers are made year-round.

Got that? So you've got a darker (but not "dark"), sweeter (but not "sweet") beer. Won't be as carbonated as a Budweiser, but they'll finish a lot smoother. Great for those crisp fall days when you're enjoying the foliage from the comfort of your cubicle at work. Just don't get caught.

And for a bit of beer news from outside the European continent, check out this gas-inducing concoction from our neighbors to the south.

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