... For Ron Paul. A Republican. Hot damn, smart man.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Friday, October 26, 2007
Genarlow Wilson to be freed
Sometimes sports are just less important.
But sometimes it is sports that brings attention to a person who needs it.
This is the case of Genarlow Wilson, a young honors student and former high school football player who was locked up for getting oral sex from another high school student at a New Years Eve party. Genarlow was 17 at the time, the girl was 15.
Somehow, in the ass-backwards state of Georgia, this was considered such a serious crime that Genarlow was sentenced to 10 years in state prison.
Lemme run that one by you again: 10 years. For getting a hummer at a party.
For this horrific offense, Genarlow was removed from school, removed from football, and sent to prison. His future - he was being recruited to play football at several 1-A institutions, and was an honors student - was tarnished forever.
And for what? Because he got head from a girl at his school, consensually, at a party.
If you think I'm not carrying around a love contract these days, you're fuckin' crazy.
Congratulations to Genarlow Wilson. Here's hoping that you can get life back on track after having everything - everything - taken from you. Cheers.
But sometimes it is sports that brings attention to a person who needs it.
This is the case of Genarlow Wilson, a young honors student and former high school football player who was locked up for getting oral sex from another high school student at a New Years Eve party. Genarlow was 17 at the time, the girl was 15.
Somehow, in the ass-backwards state of Georgia, this was considered such a serious crime that Genarlow was sentenced to 10 years in state prison.
Lemme run that one by you again: 10 years. For getting a hummer at a party.
For this horrific offense, Genarlow was removed from school, removed from football, and sent to prison. His future - he was being recruited to play football at several 1-A institutions, and was an honors student - was tarnished forever.
And for what? Because he got head from a girl at his school, consensually, at a party.
If you think I'm not carrying around a love contract these days, you're fuckin' crazy.
Congratulations to Genarlow Wilson. Here's hoping that you can get life back on track after having everything - everything - taken from you. Cheers.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
A fan comes clean
Note: This bout of honesty comes due to the writings of one Dan Shanoff, who had a great blog post today about becoming a fan, and what really matters. Made me think. It is highly recommended reading, and is available HERE.
This is hard for me to admit, as by merely admitting what I'm about to admit, I will be admitting to lies that stretch back to my teens, at least, and maybe farther. Here goes.
My father was not a Red Sox fan.
Which means I didn't inherit my love of the Sox from my father. Didn't spend sun-drenched days in Fenway, watching the Sawx do battle in the middle of summer. My father wasn't from Worcester, Massachusetts, like I always claimed. We didn't have the wonderful father - son relationship, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Dad was from Scottsdale, Arizona.
His team was the Dodgers. The Los Angeles Dodgers.
Don't get me wrong: I love the Boston Red Sox. I do. But I didn't come by them in the usual ways.
My mother is the one responsible for my love of the Red Sox. It's true.
I never lived in Boston, or on the Eastern seaboard. I'm a Western US kind of kid. I can't imagine living in a place so small, so cramped, and without mountains (and with the big dig. Ugh). But when I was young (somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11, I believe), mom and I went out to Boston to see her college friend, her husband, and her son.
It was September.
The Sox were in contention.
And when we took the T down to Fenway, I was blown away.
Yawkey Way, full of people, with the smell of sausages and peanuts and popcorn and beer and baseball... the cheerful sounds of "Go SOX!" as you walked through the crowd. I knew then that I would always be a Red Sox fan.
And then I saw the inside of the stadium. My, that stadium. Fenway Park is the greatest ballpark on the face of the planet. It is baseball's cathedral. The size, the proximity of fan to player, the wall, all make it... well... the most special place on the planet to see a baseball game. You think that, at any minute, Ted Williams or Carl Yastrzemski or Jimmie Foxx is going to walk of the dugout to take a few cuts at the plate.
My life would never be the same again.
I brought home more merchandise than any 8-11 year old kid should be allowed. A Red Sox poster that featured the likes of Oil Can Boyd, Mike Greenwell, and the immortal Wade Boggs. A Sox hat. A tee shirt with "The Hunt for Red October" silk-screened on the front.
From that day forth, I was a Red Sox fan. And in spite of giving my dad all the credit for that choice, my mom is really who is responsible.
That said, it's tough to follow your team when you live 3000 miles away. With a 162 game season, it's damn near impossible. Remember, this was before DirecTV and the baseball package. The Sox became my "AL team."
My NL team? Why, the upstart Colorado Rockies, of course.
I'm a Denver guy. When we got pro baseball in Denver, it was a very exciting time. I finally made it to a game at Old Mile High, late in that first 1993 season. I don't remember much, except that I liked the uniforms, and I loved the team. These guys had come out of nowhere: Andres Galarraga, Dante Bichette, Joe Girardi... who were these guys?
Answer: they were the sign that Denver was finally moving beyond just a cowtown. They were a sign of progress. The National Pastime, in Denver! Pro ball! Major League City!
The Rockies fans set a record for attendance that year. More than 4 million people went through the turnstiles. We weren't very good, but we weren't supposed to be.
I've since kept my eye on the Rockies. I love going to the stadium downtown, and at one point actually worked at Coors Field. For my money, and I don't have much, there's nothing better than the baseball stadium on a sunny, summer day. Being bathed in sun with a great, upper deck view of the Rockies, enhanced by the view of the Rockies (and vice versa) has no equal, in my opinion.
Call it what you will. Am I a turncoat for rooting for the Rockies in this World Series? Maybe. But when someone asks from now on who I root for, it'll always start one way:
"I have two teams."
This is hard for me to admit, as by merely admitting what I'm about to admit, I will be admitting to lies that stretch back to my teens, at least, and maybe farther. Here goes.
My father was not a Red Sox fan.
Which means I didn't inherit my love of the Sox from my father. Didn't spend sun-drenched days in Fenway, watching the Sawx do battle in the middle of summer. My father wasn't from Worcester, Massachusetts, like I always claimed. We didn't have the wonderful father - son relationship, straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Dad was from Scottsdale, Arizona.
His team was the Dodgers. The Los Angeles Dodgers.
Don't get me wrong: I love the Boston Red Sox. I do. But I didn't come by them in the usual ways.
My mother is the one responsible for my love of the Red Sox. It's true.
I never lived in Boston, or on the Eastern seaboard. I'm a Western US kind of kid. I can't imagine living in a place so small, so cramped, and without mountains (and with the big dig. Ugh). But when I was young (somewhere between the ages of 8 and 11, I believe), mom and I went out to Boston to see her college friend, her husband, and her son.
It was September.
The Sox were in contention.
And when we took the T down to Fenway, I was blown away.
Yawkey Way, full of people, with the smell of sausages and peanuts and popcorn and beer and baseball... the cheerful sounds of "Go SOX!" as you walked through the crowd. I knew then that I would always be a Red Sox fan.
And then I saw the inside of the stadium. My, that stadium. Fenway Park is the greatest ballpark on the face of the planet. It is baseball's cathedral. The size, the proximity of fan to player, the wall, all make it... well... the most special place on the planet to see a baseball game. You think that, at any minute, Ted Williams or Carl Yastrzemski or Jimmie Foxx is going to walk of the dugout to take a few cuts at the plate.
My life would never be the same again.
I brought home more merchandise than any 8-11 year old kid should be allowed. A Red Sox poster that featured the likes of Oil Can Boyd, Mike Greenwell, and the immortal Wade Boggs. A Sox hat. A tee shirt with "The Hunt for Red October" silk-screened on the front.
From that day forth, I was a Red Sox fan. And in spite of giving my dad all the credit for that choice, my mom is really who is responsible.
That said, it's tough to follow your team when you live 3000 miles away. With a 162 game season, it's damn near impossible. Remember, this was before DirecTV and the baseball package. The Sox became my "AL team."
My NL team? Why, the upstart Colorado Rockies, of course.
I'm a Denver guy. When we got pro baseball in Denver, it was a very exciting time. I finally made it to a game at Old Mile High, late in that first 1993 season. I don't remember much, except that I liked the uniforms, and I loved the team. These guys had come out of nowhere: Andres Galarraga, Dante Bichette, Joe Girardi... who were these guys?
Answer: they were the sign that Denver was finally moving beyond just a cowtown. They were a sign of progress. The National Pastime, in Denver! Pro ball! Major League City!
The Rockies fans set a record for attendance that year. More than 4 million people went through the turnstiles. We weren't very good, but we weren't supposed to be.
I've since kept my eye on the Rockies. I love going to the stadium downtown, and at one point actually worked at Coors Field. For my money, and I don't have much, there's nothing better than the baseball stadium on a sunny, summer day. Being bathed in sun with a great, upper deck view of the Rockies, enhanced by the view of the Rockies (and vice versa) has no equal, in my opinion.
Call it what you will. Am I a turncoat for rooting for the Rockies in this World Series? Maybe. But when someone asks from now on who I root for, it'll always start one way:
"I have two teams."
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
We're coming for Favre.
See what we did to Ben Roehtllaekjfjlkjdfajewkaljflbljkaberger this weekend? You like that shit? That's how we treat guests in our house. That's how we throw down now. That's how we tell people that the Predominantly Orange Monster is back.
FUCK YOU, Pissburgh.
Next? Brett Favre and the Packers on Monday night.
I'm of the belief that this guy:
... got what he deserved. You don't wear a Favre jersey. Ever. See how he's holding his head oh-so gently, after receiving a shot to the back of his dome? Well, Elvis Dumervil is the chair, and the guy in the Favre jersey is Favre.
FUCK YOU, Green Bay.
Taste my pain, bitch.
FUCK YOU, Pissburgh.
Next? Brett Favre and the Packers on Monday night.
I'm of the belief that this guy:
... got what he deserved. You don't wear a Favre jersey. Ever. See how he's holding his head oh-so gently, after receiving a shot to the back of his dome? Well, Elvis Dumervil is the chair, and the guy in the Favre jersey is Favre.
FUCK YOU, Green Bay.
Taste my pain, bitch.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Brilliant!
I've been loving on the Coors Light coach commercials, where they splice footage of NFL coach press conferences with shots of guys (like me) drinking beer and asking smartass, smarmy questions (like me). They're awesome.
And many people have seen the video of the Oklahoma State football coach yelling at a columnist for being mean to one of "his" players. It was absurd, and kind of funny.
Now the two have been brought together.
Let us enjoy the enjoyment.
And many people have seen the video of the Oklahoma State football coach yelling at a columnist for being mean to one of "his" players. It was absurd, and kind of funny.
Now the two have been brought together.
Let us enjoy the enjoyment.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Well, that's the last time I take advice from Troy Aikman
During the Sunday football marathon, or what I like to call "my stories," former quarterback-turned-punching bag and current football analyst-turned-douchebag did a promo for this new Fox show, "Back To You." It's got Kelsey Grammar. It's got Patricia Heaton. It's got Fred Willard. It's about a local TV news team in Pittsburgh.
In other words, this show sucks. I know that going in. And yet I listen to that mutton-headed fuckstick Aikman when he says "That show is so funny. I mean, so good. That Kelsey Grammar's character reminds me of one of my coworkers. Dick Stockton."
Me? I can't resist getting an inside look at Dick Stockton's life and his apparent mis-treatment of a dumbass like Aikman.
Naturally, I DVR'd that shit, and tried to watch it this evening before bed.
I made it roughly 4 minutes.
What an awful, awful show.
Kelsey Grammar and Patricia Heaton? Troy couldn't help but whip out his sausage.
I'm not sure what the point of this entry is. I just thought it was a good time to make fun of Aikman's concussed ass, because I feel like being an asshole tonight. Aikman, you inbred dipshit licker of assholes: thanks for nothin'.
In other words, this show sucks. I know that going in. And yet I listen to that mutton-headed fuckstick Aikman when he says "That show is so funny. I mean, so good. That Kelsey Grammar's character reminds me of one of my coworkers. Dick Stockton."
Me? I can't resist getting an inside look at Dick Stockton's life and his apparent mis-treatment of a dumbass like Aikman.
Naturally, I DVR'd that shit, and tried to watch it this evening before bed.
I made it roughly 4 minutes.
What an awful, awful show.
Kelsey Grammar and Patricia Heaton? Troy couldn't help but whip out his sausage.
I'm not sure what the point of this entry is. I just thought it was a good time to make fun of Aikman's concussed ass, because I feel like being an asshole tonight. Aikman, you inbred dipshit licker of assholes: thanks for nothin'.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Love just leaves you bruised
Before you ask, I don't know what Jim and Pam from The Office have to do with this song. But the song properly wraps up how running into Lauren changed my weekend.
Love just leaves you bruised. If you want to know, you find something to lose.
I did not see that coming...
Beer fest. A time for guys to be guys and girls to serve us beer. Met up with Patrick, Thom, The Deuce (Thom's brother), and assorted others, and proceeded to the Colorado Convention Center to partake in some one-ounce-at-a-time fun.
And fun, it was. Tons of beer from all over the US, some great samples, some bad samples, and surprisingly nothing from Missoula, home of three great breweries. At learning this, my excitement was suddenly tempered, if only because the familiar is comforting, especially in the face of 400 brewers making everything from very good barleywine to an absolutely atrocious pomegranate beer. Sometimes, you just want a taste of Cold Smoke from Kettle House, or Moose Drool from Big Sky, or Dancing Trout from Bayern; they bring you back to center, let you find your happy place again for a moment, before setting out to conquer the rest of the booths.
Alas, none of these brewers showed up.
I should have known this to be a bad sign.
Just when I was getting past the Big Sky slight, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the best friend of a wonderful ex of mine. Lauren's friend, Karen, spotted me, and my thoughts immediately went to panic mode.
Karen: "HI!"
Sam: (Oh, FUCK.)"Um. Hey. Oh, hi Lauren."
Lauren: "Hi."
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and I have to admit, it was a lot less awkward than I'd ever expected it to be. Consider for a moment that the last time we saw each other was nearly a year ago. To think how long a time ago that was, realize that the Rockies weren't even within spitting distance of the playoffs, the Broncos were, and Allen Iverson wasn't a Nugget yet.
And consider that there was precisely zero closure between the two of us. At least, not for me. I was told in an email that she was no longer interested, and via phone call that she was seeing a new guy, the dreaded Gil.
Despite all of this, seeing Lauren was good. And she looks great. Looks very happy. Which made me happy, and sad, at the same time.
After a few minutes, they walked away, and I figured we wouldn't run into each other again in a giant room full of 10,000 people. Naturally, I was wrong.
But it wasn't "running into them" I should have been worried about. I should have been more concerned with busy-body Karen having the great idea of "Let's introduce Sam to Gil!" Oh, can we please?!
Sure enough, up runs Karen.
"So, you wanna meet Gil?"
"No, not really."
"Well, he and Lauren are on their way over here right now."
And as I looked over her shoulder, sure enough, there was Lauren, arm in arm with my new nemesis. The dreaded Gil.
And as we shook hands, and I desperately searched for a reason that Lauren wouldn't be happy with him, I was quite upset to know that there was nothing. She's found her man.
And I'm happy for her. And I'm happy for him, because she's so fucking awesome, and if he's smart, he won't make the same idiotic mistakes I made, and disappoint her, and hurt her.
Because if he does, I'll break his kneecaps.
What bothers me most about this whole scenario? The fact that Gil is actually a pretty cool guy. If the circumstances were different, I would probably hang out with this kid.
Circumstances being what they are, I will break his kneecaps if he hurts Lauren.
That, my friends, is life. More specifically, my life.
And fun, it was. Tons of beer from all over the US, some great samples, some bad samples, and surprisingly nothing from Missoula, home of three great breweries. At learning this, my excitement was suddenly tempered, if only because the familiar is comforting, especially in the face of 400 brewers making everything from very good barleywine to an absolutely atrocious pomegranate beer. Sometimes, you just want a taste of Cold Smoke from Kettle House, or Moose Drool from Big Sky, or Dancing Trout from Bayern; they bring you back to center, let you find your happy place again for a moment, before setting out to conquer the rest of the booths.
Alas, none of these brewers showed up.
I should have known this to be a bad sign.
Just when I was getting past the Big Sky slight, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but the best friend of a wonderful ex of mine. Lauren's friend, Karen, spotted me, and my thoughts immediately went to panic mode.
Karen: "HI!"
Sam: (Oh, FUCK.)"Um. Hey. Oh, hi Lauren."
Lauren: "Hi."
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and I have to admit, it was a lot less awkward than I'd ever expected it to be. Consider for a moment that the last time we saw each other was nearly a year ago. To think how long a time ago that was, realize that the Rockies weren't even within spitting distance of the playoffs, the Broncos were, and Allen Iverson wasn't a Nugget yet.
And consider that there was precisely zero closure between the two of us. At least, not for me. I was told in an email that she was no longer interested, and via phone call that she was seeing a new guy, the dreaded Gil.
Despite all of this, seeing Lauren was good. And she looks great. Looks very happy. Which made me happy, and sad, at the same time.
After a few minutes, they walked away, and I figured we wouldn't run into each other again in a giant room full of 10,000 people. Naturally, I was wrong.
But it wasn't "running into them" I should have been worried about. I should have been more concerned with busy-body Karen having the great idea of "Let's introduce Sam to Gil!" Oh, can we please?!
Sure enough, up runs Karen.
"So, you wanna meet Gil?"
"No, not really."
"Well, he and Lauren are on their way over here right now."
And as I looked over her shoulder, sure enough, there was Lauren, arm in arm with my new nemesis. The dreaded Gil.
And as we shook hands, and I desperately searched for a reason that Lauren wouldn't be happy with him, I was quite upset to know that there was nothing. She's found her man.
And I'm happy for her. And I'm happy for him, because she's so fucking awesome, and if he's smart, he won't make the same idiotic mistakes I made, and disappoint her, and hurt her.
Because if he does, I'll break his kneecaps.
What bothers me most about this whole scenario? The fact that Gil is actually a pretty cool guy. If the circumstances were different, I would probably hang out with this kid.
Circumstances being what they are, I will break his kneecaps if he hurts Lauren.
That, my friends, is life. More specifically, my life.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
The Dreaded Dry Spell
It has happened.
I'm not sure when, and I'm not sure how. But in some way, between ending things with Jenny and where we are now - wherever that is - I have lost track of what it was that made me a desirable person.
Is it my attitude? Does my smile now give away some deeper insight into my life, my soul? Is it my unwillingness to change, to settle?
I don't know where I am anymore. I've been on Match for a few months now, and despite getting a few nibbles here and there, it has been a rousing disaster. If Shakespeare was writing it, this would be a great tragedy.
What's worse, the headline of this particular blog ("The Dreaded Dry Spell"... pay attention, slackers) is already out of date. It's more of a dry desert at this point, which is worse. Shit, I'd kill for a dry "spell."
28. Washed up. To paraphrase Rob Gordon in High Fidelity, "We were frightened of being left alone for the rest of our lives. Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of 28, and we were of that disposition."
How completely unreasonable. How completely, emotionally lewd. How fucking true.
I'm at a point now where I'm meeting random (albeit, pretty) women at parties, and getting their numbers a few days later, only to call and receive no call back. I'm calling old flings and flames and trying to get together for a drink, a beer, a cup of coffee. And, if I'm lucky, a clue.
A clue about what I keep doing wrong. I know it's me, and I know it's the same thing every time. I know I'm lost and I just keep walking through this forest of bullshit, trying to find answers that may or may not even be real. I'm searching for some reason to stop loathing myself, my issues, my reasons, my justifications.
I'm not finding much.
The problem is, as mentioned, the lack of a call-back. But why should they call me back? I'm a distant memory; the guy who wasn't quite good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting enough to want to tie themselves to for a significant amount of time. Instead, they found the good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting guy shortly after I exited stage left, and they haven't looked back.
Me? I'm allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll about the look-back.
Kim is, as she has always been, in Missoula. I'm in Denver. That's a no-go. I'm at the mercy of fate, hoping that our paths cross again. But, like that lyric from The Format:
we are parallel lines
we’re running in circles
we're never meant to cross
And that's how it feels. I'm on one line, and the rest of the world are on another, and we're never meant to cross.
And I miss Kim.
Miss? Maybe not. Do I know her well enough to miss her? Were my feelings for her just part and parcel with having a great time on vacation, her smiles and jokes and soft skin just plunging me farther into a dream world where the two of us find ourselves together? Or are they real?
(I think that's the problem, by the way. I never know when I'm happy. I figure it out long after the person has gone, and as the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" plays in my head, I'm violently angry at myself for becoming a part of the cliche. Fuck me, and fuck my stupid brain and emotions. What the fuck is wrong with me?)
So, I'm going to experiment with some self-therapy. Over the next several days, I'm going to discuss several of the great loves of my life in this space in the hopes of figuring out why things ended. The five of you who read this blog can help me figure out an answer to that age-old question:
What The Fuck Is Wrong With Me?
I'm not sure when, and I'm not sure how. But in some way, between ending things with Jenny and where we are now - wherever that is - I have lost track of what it was that made me a desirable person.
Is it my attitude? Does my smile now give away some deeper insight into my life, my soul? Is it my unwillingness to change, to settle?
I don't know where I am anymore. I've been on Match for a few months now, and despite getting a few nibbles here and there, it has been a rousing disaster. If Shakespeare was writing it, this would be a great tragedy.
What's worse, the headline of this particular blog ("The Dreaded Dry Spell"... pay attention, slackers) is already out of date. It's more of a dry desert at this point, which is worse. Shit, I'd kill for a dry "spell."
28. Washed up. To paraphrase Rob Gordon in High Fidelity, "We were frightened of being left alone for the rest of our lives. Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of 28, and we were of that disposition."
How completely unreasonable. How completely, emotionally lewd. How fucking true.
I'm at a point now where I'm meeting random (albeit, pretty) women at parties, and getting their numbers a few days later, only to call and receive no call back. I'm calling old flings and flames and trying to get together for a drink, a beer, a cup of coffee. And, if I'm lucky, a clue.
A clue about what I keep doing wrong. I know it's me, and I know it's the same thing every time. I know I'm lost and I just keep walking through this forest of bullshit, trying to find answers that may or may not even be real. I'm searching for some reason to stop loathing myself, my issues, my reasons, my justifications.
I'm not finding much.
The problem is, as mentioned, the lack of a call-back. But why should they call me back? I'm a distant memory; the guy who wasn't quite good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting enough to want to tie themselves to for a significant amount of time. Instead, they found the good/grown-up/smart/rich/funny/interesting guy shortly after I exited stage left, and they haven't looked back.
Me? I'm allllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll about the look-back.
Kim is, as she has always been, in Missoula. I'm in Denver. That's a no-go. I'm at the mercy of fate, hoping that our paths cross again. But, like that lyric from The Format:
we are parallel lines
we’re running in circles
we're never meant to cross
And that's how it feels. I'm on one line, and the rest of the world are on another, and we're never meant to cross.
And I miss Kim.
Miss? Maybe not. Do I know her well enough to miss her? Were my feelings for her just part and parcel with having a great time on vacation, her smiles and jokes and soft skin just plunging me farther into a dream world where the two of us find ourselves together? Or are they real?
(I think that's the problem, by the way. I never know when I'm happy. I figure it out long after the person has gone, and as the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" plays in my head, I'm violently angry at myself for becoming a part of the cliche. Fuck me, and fuck my stupid brain and emotions. What the fuck is wrong with me?)
So, I'm going to experiment with some self-therapy. Over the next several days, I'm going to discuss several of the great loves of my life in this space in the hopes of figuring out why things ended. The five of you who read this blog can help me figure out an answer to that age-old question:
What The Fuck Is Wrong With Me?
Thursday, October 4, 2007
More Montana Pictures...
Oh, pretty good...
He probably had this coming...
Last night in Missoula. This was just before the dreaded John - Her ex-boyfriend and my new nemesis - showed up at McKenzie River to ruin my momentum in the "I think she's starting to like me" sweepstakes. I wouldn't call it "cock-blocking," because that would suggest that I was merely trying to get her in the sack. The fact is, I was really trying to get to know her, and sex honestly didn't enter into the equation.It was later in this very night when I found myself with an opportunity to make a move and realized I have the testicular fortitude of an infant. Awesome.
Bowker always says, "You define the moment, or the moment defines you." I think it's from Tin Cup. Anyway, several moments defined me this weekend. Shitty.
I have more pictures, and will post them when I can.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Pictures, as promised
That's us. From left: Me, Kim, Laura, Thom. Naturally, I look like a chode.
This is the only photo I ended up getting with Kim in it, which is absurd considering from the moment I arrived in Missoula, I wanted to hang out with her. And I did. I just forgot to take pictures, I guess. I suck.
Got an email from Thom today. He is advising me on the Kim '07 project, which is now the official project name (in case someone asks). He said to push it back to Kim '08, essentially, and that I should move slow on this one.
So, people, I ask you: how the fuck do you move slow without A) alienating her, or B) feeling like you're not moving towards your goal? I've never been good at games, and I hate games, and this... feels like a game. Like if I don't call, she's going to think I'm playing games, and if I do, she's going to think I'm desperate.
I fucking hate this.
Wednesday - Quickly
Okay, I promised photos and they're still coming. No need to worry there. However, the last two nights have been upended by baseball (Rockies on Monday) and laziness (me, last night), so you'll have to forgive the tardiness.
Just a quick update: I'm not going to Missoula. For one thing, a ticket up there is nearing $600, and that's pretty spendy for a dude that just spent about that much total on his last trip. I can't afford to drive it again, and adding to the complications, The Girl (Kim) is working all that weekend at the hospital (she's a nurse). She works nights, which would lead to me doing absolutely nothing while she worked, and it just doesn't sound like all that grand of a time.
I'll get back up there, and perhaps more importantly, she might be coming here.
Pictures and full update TONIGHT.
Just a quick update: I'm not going to Missoula. For one thing, a ticket up there is nearing $600, and that's pretty spendy for a dude that just spent about that much total on his last trip. I can't afford to drive it again, and adding to the complications, The Girl (Kim) is working all that weekend at the hospital (she's a nurse). She works nights, which would lead to me doing absolutely nothing while she worked, and it just doesn't sound like all that grand of a time.
I'll get back up there, and perhaps more importantly, she might be coming here.
Pictures and full update TONIGHT.
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