Hand-Me-Down Love

Passion is a wondrous thing. It can inspire, create, evangelize, and destroy. Passion can repel those of opposed minds, but it can just as easily attract those of like minds. Better still, passion persists well beyond the convergence of two like minds and hearts. There's nothing quite like seeing and knowing that you've made an impact on someone else's life, and your passion is often the stamp to leave a lasting impression.

I do not think that it would be right to blog about certain people in a public forum, so I will withhold the names of those who I indirectly thank here for their passion. There are many in my life who have inspired, created, evangelized, and even destroyed me with their passions, and each has left their marks on my consciousness. Some I regard with caution, while still others I embrace wholeheartedly. It's a utilitarian matter in some cases, weighing the costs and the benefits of adopting a passion inherited from another. In other cases, you can respect and admire another for their passion, without totally buying in to their passion.

Just being passionate about SOMETHING is usually attractive in and of itself. I believe that it is all too common for people to lose sight of the things that inspire them. Obliviously observing another's passion rarely leaves me without a smile on my face. It reminds you of what you might have forgotten days, weeks, months, even years ago. It can send you back in time to when you were another version of yourself, and it forces comparison and introspection. From this we can nurture to full health that which we thought was lost, or we can at least gain a fuller understanding of why we have changed over time.

At this time in my life, my sources of inspiration have dwindled considerably. It's rarer for me to run across someone who awakens the latent passion inside of me. However, I still catch glimpses of the past in everyday life, whether it's turning on a TV to see a football game, watching a video on YouTube, or reading a cookbook. Little pieces of someone else, their imprinted passions, until now dormant inside me, stir. A rush of memories, emotions, smells, colors, and tactile feelings all flood my mind with a complex sense of that other person. I recall their passions, how I felt about them, and the smiles that spread over my faces countless times whenever I was able to see passion unmask the facade that so many wear. It's a snapshot of that which drives someone's heart to beat one-hundred times a minute.

While the amalgam of memories and emotions often elicits forlornness and longing, it also brings a smile to my face, for I know that I've discovered something that once belonged to someone else. I feel as though I have unearthed a treasure chest of passion that a subliminal treasure map guided me towards. It's as if the seed of a hand-me-down love, planted long ago, has finally sprouted. I miss the gardener, but I will instead thank them silently for the gift received.

Shipping Down to San Diego

Achievement, aschmievement. Here I find myself, lying in the same bed from which this blog was woefully born, in Sunny San Diego, California. I suppose the only difference is that I'm missing three holes in my left knee and I'm not hopped up on Vicodin, taking cues from David Ducchovny on Netflix (instead I'm stone cold sober and watching as many nuclear crisis flicks I can get my fingertips on).

Let me be straight. The world isn't falling apart, yet. There are much worse places to be than my parent's house. For all I know the DSS could have shipped me off to be that poor shmuck in Libya. All the same, my dream of living on the East Coast has all but evaporated into the 73 degree San Diegan sun.

But I'm not finished with you yet, New York. Not by a longshot. And it will take every keystroke and every minute of slaving over a hot hard drive on my lap (that's why it's called a laptop, right?)  to cling to the damp, freezing, blighted, wintry conditions I treasure so dear.

I've got cabin fever.

Shipping up to New York

I will refrain in the future from making these superfluous apologies for my blogging absences. To whom I am apologizing, I imagine, is myself. But until next time, I'm sorry that I have been silent so long. A few, albeit significant changes in my life have caused me to lose sight of my writings and how cathartic they can be. I will detail them in full below:

First, I have completed my first year post-graduation, and then some, by continuing my work as a server in various restaurant establishments. I have also been roundly rejected by the San Diego Police Department for the position of Police Officer I. As you might imagine, to someone who has not-so-secretly dreamt away his entire life of becoming an agent of the law, this was a staggering blow to my psyche, and ultimately precipitated the biggest decision of my life, so far.

I have no criminal record. I do not take any illegal substances. I am mentally stable, though I feel a desire to give my life meaning by protecting my fellow citizens (to some, my stability can now be questioned). I have a Bachelors of Arts in Political Science with an emphasis in International Relations from a well-respected public school in the state of California. I am a native of the city to whose police force I was applying. I passed the Police Exam with flying colors, and I even sacrificed several layers of skin off my palms when my legs temporarily gave out under me when I passed the Physical Abilities Test. How could I be rejected?

Immediately, the repugnant feelings of entitlement and disdain for those who were accepted began to ferment. I could nearly smell the stench of my fury as it rose up from my heart, blazed up my esophagus, planted itself on my tongue, and strained to pry open my clenched teeth to escape into earshot of those who might take offense. "How could they not pick me? What was wrong with me? I am young, I am fit, I am smart, I am clean, and I am dedicated. HOW ON EARTH COULD THEY IGNORE ME?!" Disbelief gave way to resentment: "Oh, of course. All the homecoming Marines took up all the slots. The SDPD shoots-to-kill with a higher fatality percentage than any other major city's police force. Who better than soldiers fresh from Iraq and Afghanistan?" My teeth won the battle, but I ultimately lost the war.

The fact was I was not needed, and seeing as though the Police Department is a bureaucratic agency much like any other in the city (Sanitation, Transportation, Utilities, etc.), there were re-application time limits. And while my resentful thoughts concerning the military were probably unfounded, I was on to something. The First Marine Division is quartered in San Diego, and veterans who have been honorably discharged are given preference in selection to the Police Academy. And it makes sense. Those who have been through boot camp successfully once could probably treat the Police Academy like child's play and pass easily. I, on the other hand, though determined, would have to experience the psychological and physical effects of the Academy without any idea of how I would cope. I cannot and should not fault the government for wanting people with experience relevant to their job requirements. I applied to a bevy of new restaurants shaking hands with each interviewing manager, wincing as they firmly-gripped my freshly bandaged palms and my limp fingers collapsed like a crushed animal in a vice.

Second, I decided that the change I had sought all my life, primarily a change of venue, was to be a move to New York City. My best friend in college graduated a year after me. Growing up in New Delhi, India, and spending his teenage years in Westchester County, New York, he had no particular attachment to San Diego. His mother and father did well for themselves, executives at Pepsi Co. and American Express at one point in their respective lives, and bought an apartment on the corner of Bank Street and the West Side Highway in the West Village of Manhattan. And though business had called the both of them away to work and live indefinitely in India again, the apartment remained. My friend had designs for such a posh, undisturbed apartment. And one drunken night, he offered me the passenger seat in his red 2008 Ford Mustang and a one-way trip from San Diego to New York City. I awoke the next morning in a haze, one only whiskey, good ol' times, and the beautiful mornings of Clairemont Mesa can conjur. Yet, in that haze, instead of struggling to remember the mischief of the night before, one things stuck ahead of the others. I was moving to New York.

It was an offer I could not refuse. Living rent-free in one of the most expensive areas in Manhattan, let alone the nation, I had finally achieved the East Coast transplant for which I had yearned for over a decade. The road trip was a long, but ultimately satisfying trip, replete with new friends, stunning landscapes, and the solemn realization that every highway east of Chicago required obscene tolls. We enjoyed date shakes, Kansas BBQ, Chicago style pizza, Chicago-style hot dogs, Wrigley Field, Buffalo wings, and the cherry on top: the Boston Red Sox @ New York Yankees in New Yankee Stadium. After an 11-inning bout, filled with comebacks, epic failures, game-tying home-runs, and a bullpen implosion, the Yankees took the game in walk-off fashion. The rain had slightly picked up, and many Yankee fans had long since gone home, expecting the Yankee win as a foregone conclusion (and the fact that the Red Sox' chances of making the playoffs were slim to none at that point in the season), and I took the significant presence of Red Sox fans who stayed until the very end as a moral victory. As I shuffled up the stairs to the train, I heard an inebriated Yankee fan slur, "I'd better not see any Boston fans on this fucking train." I shook my head and smiled to myself; I was home.

Arrival in New York was certainly surreal, but not without its problems. For one, I was broke. My relatively spontaneous decision to move to New York on short notice meant that I had not saved enough money to take me through the 11 day road trip AND last me until I found a job. It took every day of two months, scouring Craigslist for every job in the service industry for which I was remotely qualified, in order to find a simple job as a server at an Irish pub. Until then, my friends were going out and having fun, and though somethings they generously treated me to drinks, I felt guilty accepting them, pledging that once I got rich, I would buy them feasts. And even getting my job was an adventure.

In fact, when I was originally interviewed at the Downtown Galway Hooker Pub on 7th Ave. and Charles St., I let it slip that I was not a New York native. She would not give me the time of day after I erred on the side of honesty. I would not repeat this mistake. So when I came across the same posting on Craigslist, I sent the same résumé and cover letter, unaware that their generic posting was the same I had applied to weeks before (most restaurants choose not to disclose their name or location before reviewing your résumé and asking you to interview with them). However, when I received the same generic email response asking me to interview with them, signed by the same hiring manager who had shut me down, my mind began to churn.

I spent the next two days detailing a strategy, preempting every possible question short of a direct one, that could possibly lead me to disclose my true origins. My conscience could not permit me to lie through my teeth to my employer, so I compromised morally and settled on telling the truth and nothing but the truth, but not the whole truth. I traced my wardrobe back two weeks to ensure that I wore different clothes. I used hair gel to mold my shocked fibers into a cohesive statement, rather than their usual relaxed chill out session. I even opted to wear a blazer instead of my warmer wool coat. And of course, as my heart beat like a bass drum, sweat popped out of my pores, and my clenched knuckles lost their color, I was greeted by a friendly, cheery face by my side. Lucke, the other manager, invited me to sit down at a corner booth. And as she bade farewell to the previous applicant, I convinced myself to stick to my guns and not mention Southern California at any cost.

"Hi, I'm Lucke. I'm from Orange County." REALLY?! "NO WAY! I'M FROM SAN DIEGO!" I blurted out helplessly. We instantly hit it off. We did not even touch on work experience. She told me she would call me back within an hour or two and assured me that she liked me. Two hours later, I was employed.

The job itself was nothing new. Serving tables is an exercise in paying attention to minutia and thinking three steps ahead at any given time. You make sure all the condiments that one could possibly want with their entrée are on the table before the food arrives. You note the rate at which a customer is slurping their drink. You notice whether or not they are using their straw or removing the slice of lime or lemon from the lip of their drink. The little things matter because you never want the customer to have to ask you for anything.

Dealing with a highly volatile work environment, however, was new to me. The owner is quick-tempered, sharp-witted, hawk-eyed, and a 110 pound hurricane. Demanding, yet generous, pleasant, yet razor-tongued, she might be the best boss I have come across. I imagine she must retain these qualities in order to be so successful as to own three different bars in Manhattan. My co-workers were all pleasant, competent, and mostly friendly. A few of the bartenders were a little snobbish, riding their high horses and showing no regard for my work ethic or individual identity. The managers were mostly fair and cool. And then came George.

George was a 36 year-old Brooklynite who lamented the gentrification of "his city." He proclaimed to be old enough to command respect, but young enough to hang with the hip crowd. He tried buddying up to everyone (the female servers in particular), but instead of making good on his repeated promises to "look after" me, I worked 90% of the day shifts over the course of two months.

A brief aside: The West Village in Manhattan is full of restaurants and bars and residences. Places of business are hard to come by (usually in Midtown, around Central Park, or Downtown in the Financial District), as are their suit-donning workers. When they have quick lunch break, the understandably seek out businesses close by, so Midtown and Downtown lunch venues get considerable business and their servers make considerable tips. The West Village is devoid of such business. I would get to the bar at 10:30am, set it up by 11:30am opening, and then fold napkins until 4pm, when I was finally relieved by the night shift. With any luck, I might snare one table and squeeze $8 from them. But with a depressed minimum wage of $4.65/hour, $8 is a slap in the face.

Back to George and I. In order to get better shifts, I decided to go above and beyond the call of my job description. I organized the server side station by labeling locations for miscellaneous supplies, I polished the copper tables, I maintained the integrity of barstools by tightening screws, I replaced burnt out light bulbs, and even decorated the bar for Christmas (I should note that I was not alone in this endeavor). I would proactively acquire the list of the reservations and parties for the night from the cavern-like enclave of the hibernating day manager, if she were present. I would scan this list for any potential conflicts or overlaps, and bring these to George's attention. Yet instead of gratefulness for my attempts to facilitate the most basic operations of a restaurant, my "conscientiousness" (George's word) was met with scorn. I was admonished for "getting on his tits" and "being too conscientious." Eventually, I helped George so much that he told me that he was transferring me to the Midtown location. And while I had a heavy-heart and a bruised ego that comes with someone not wanting you around anymore, I realized that the Midtown location was plenty more lucrative. For the next week, I worked the thankless day shifts, with my eye turned towards greener pastures.

However, on Thursday, the day the schedule is usually posted, I noticed that I was not scheduled at the Downtown Hooker for the following week. Naturally, I assumed that George had completed my transfer to Midtown. I called them to ask for my schedule, but the scheduling manager had no idea what I was talking about. I explained that I worked for the Downtown Hooker, and that George had transferred me to Midtown, to which the surprised manager protested, "I'm having trouble finding enough shifts for my own staff. I can't take you on as well." I swallowed my fury and pain and confronted George in the most professional manner. He explained that he had suggested to our other manager that she try to find a few shifts at Midtown for me, that he would have just let me go, but he liked me. With my fists trembling with anger and adrenaline, I listened as George tried to backpedal. "I could put you back on the schedule for one day or so until we can find room for you." I curtly declined, glided to the bar, at which point my favorite bartender poured me a tall glass of Jameson. I thanked her, brought the glass downstairs with me, said my goodbyes to all the kitchen workers, then returned upstairs with an empty glass, donned my coat, and walked into the night.

I exited before the alcohol could hit me. But even the Jameson could not comfort me. Every warm, sweet gulp mocked me. I preferred the dry, bitter cold of the night. It was this cold that I hoped would fuel my now increasingly devious designs. Feeling like Edmund Dantès, I imprisoned myself in my bedroom, plotting out my increasingly incoherent designs for revenge: how I would call the owners and protest my treatment, how I could encourage my co-workers to throw down their aprons on George's desk (like Rudy) and refuse to work, how I could contact the CEO of the restaurant strategy/investment company that he hired to help direct us... The warm embrace of alcohol felt instead like waterboarding. Nonetheless, the gradual cessation of my boiling blood caught up with me, and as my eyelids grew heavy I resigned myself to blackness and dreams of retaliation.

I woke the next morning and set about applying to new jobs. The anger of the night before had transformed into a feeling reminiscent of shame and fear. I felt ashamed that I had reacted so immaturely to something that happens daily to thousands of Americans a day. I felt afraid that I had drank that glass of Jameson so quickly and impulsively. I recommitted myself to my forward progress and decided to cut out drinking while incensed and/or alone. And just as a friend of my cousin's alerted me to an opening at a posh bowling alley/club, I received a phone call from a part-owner in the family of Galway Hookers (no pun intended). She asked me why I had quit, and reassured me that the principal owner and she both wanted me to stay with the company. She offered to rehire me with assurances of better shifts and potential promotions. I told her I had to think about it, and that I would meet with her in two days.

I met with her two days later to discuss the prospect of me reclaiming my job. She told me that the owner and she had encountered a few issues with George, and that while they both wanted to hire me back, that it would come down to him or me. Since the head honcho was away on vacation, she estimated a decision within 7-10 days. Meanwhile, out of a job, my mother offered to fly me out to San Diego for my father's birthday, and to just spend some time with my friends and family. And of course, as soon as I booked my flight, I received a text from the part-owner: "George is no longer with us. Charlene will call you tomorrow about putting you back on the schedule."

The meeting went quickly. I was told I was the strongest server on the floor and that I would be treated with more respect than how George slimily forced my hand. I explained that I had already booked my flight, and that I could work as soon as Thursday of the next week (two days from today). They wished me happy travels, and I went home.

There have been other developments in my life, to which I will pay tribute in following entries. This trip to San Diego has truly been an experience that I ought to translate into text. And I have yet to mention the various personalities I have encountered in New York City that have already begun to change my life. I also have yet to mention my aspirations to federal service in the form of a Special Agent with the Diplomatic Security Service. All these topics will be covered in the near future, I assure you.

-Joe

One is silver and the other is...

It's been quite some time since I last posted on this most-likely forgotten blog. It seems that my desire to write fell to the wayside as the glimmering prospects of real social interaction drew near. And though some of these interactions ended up landing me a job with my favorite Mexican restaurant, Lucha Libre Gourmet Taco Shop, they also paired me with a girl to whom my feelings flared.

Forever ensnared in that terrible trap, I will be. Forever searching for invisible personal boundaries which mustn't be crossed. Drawing ever so closer to the edge, a curious pinky finger on my right hand slips slowly and quietly, so as to not disturb the other appendages with his excited curiosity, over to the dark blue denim seam of my jeans. The others shuffle over in tow, slightly behind. The pinky scouts the white river between us. The cottony ocean, replete with billowy waves and frozen sea spray, coddles a slender leg, crossed under her. The Downy rift measures four inches in width and approximately 6 inches in length. As the other fingers crowd in for a better view, sudden, but deliberate movement is spotted across the pure and white body of cotton, it appears a delicate left Pinky finger has perched on its respective knee, as if to mark its territory. But could this be an invitation? Could it be a show of camaraderie? "Hey, your hand is on that leg, and mine is on this one. Might we share our knowledge of respectively foreign lands?"

But, no, no! Making important decisions based on assumptions could land one in a foolish position, bringing both shame and dishonor. The right hand convenes as a set of five digits. "It would be unwise, " says the Thumb, "to repeat our gaudy display to the hand across the bleached fabric ocean. It may find us repulsive and unbecoming of a gentleman-hand. We ought to retreat." Shaking his head, the Ring finger remarks, "But why else would that femmehand mimic us? It must want us to meet half way to discuss something. I don't know--maybe territory changes, whatever. All I know is she wants to communicate with us." The Index rebuts, "Is she wanted to communicate with us, she would have already done that. By wasting time, she is clearly showing aggression, staring us down because she wants us to back down. I say let's not waste our time here. It is clear we aren't wanted." The Middle shrugs. "All I know is she's got nice fingers." And all the while, the little Pinky was staring, intensely fixated on the gloss of the nails, the slender curves of muscle and skin that perfectly wrapped around each knuckle. His nail glossed over with all the wonder. And as the thumb, index, middle got up to leave, the ring, shaking his head and swearing under his breath, abruptly turned and grabbed Pinky. "C'mon, let's go. Assholes won't even allow dreams." But Pinky heard none of this. He was still far off in his world with all the wondrous opportunities popping around in his mind. And as the fingers began their descent into their dark, warm, cottony abode, Pinky caught on the edge of the pocket, to steal one last look at the girl's hand. The fingers slowly retreated out of sight, over the billows of the comforter mountains. Pinky sighed and made the climb up to the pocket, content with filling his dreams of bounding across the chasm and meeting the other hand.

I find that when I really like someone, I become extremely focused on all the little details of the moment. When I first meet someone, I feel like stapling my hands to the table so as not to have them spring up and run their fingers haphazardly through my hair, as if something awful could have made its nest within the past five minutes. I like to make eye contact, so when meeting someone who has trouble making eye contact, I rack my brain for reasons why I may be making them feel uncomfortable. Contrarily, if the eye contact isn't an issue, I try to decide on the appropriate times to suddenly break away and look at something else. And, then, do I look upwards? No! That could indicate that I was uninterested and that something, anything up there in the big blue sky, or as is more common, the white, acne-scarred, ceiling panel could entertain me more. Do I break down and to the right? No, the ground is never interesting. Do I look straight down? Never. It seems like you're hanging your head in guilt or shame, which could make for a very awkward conversation. But by no means do you lock eyes with your converser and stare them down. That could make you seem like an agent of hell, born without eyelids and tearducts to perfect their deathgaze.

During the movies, I never chew my popcorn softer. I listen intently to hear the rhythm of my date's chews so I can time them right, to minimize the amount of dialog we'll miss to the crunches. I also have never finished my popcorn while on a date. This is due to slow consumption, so as not to give away the fact that I eat like a troll when popcorn is thrust under my nose. But chewing softer, to reduce noise, takes longer than munching and crunching away on that cheekful of delicious, buttery corn.

I think that putting your arm around someone can be a nice touch of intimacy, but also an incredibly cliched and corny ploy to pull at someone's heartstrings. I say, if you put your arm around her/him at the beginning of the movie and keep it there, then it's ok. But if you pick the sad or dramatic part of the movie to float your arm up there, then you might as well admit it to yourself that you spent $20 to put her in a friendly headlock. Hope it was worth it.

I have a fairly strict 3-strike policy for potential girl friends. It helps me keep out the riff-raff, and holds me accountable to three of the most important personal traits one could possess. But I have to say, talking while the movie is on is awfully close to becoming a 4th strike. It pisses me off like no other. I paid good money to hear what the screen has to say, so please let me hear it. It's as simple as that. Conversations were made for the café across the street, or on the benches outside the theater. If the movie is not entertaining you to the point where you feel you must interject some of your own dialogue to help it along, just leave. You've already wasted your money, don't waste ours on the way out.

My train of thought has rambled some. I've gone from describing the panic that borders ecstasy and nervous-breakdown upon meeting a girl I like to bitching about movie etiquette. I guess it all falls under paying attention to details. Since I pay attention to details when I care about someone, I feel gut-hurt whenever I can't remember one. I feel like I haven't been paying them enough attention, or that the other person will believe I just don't care. The funny thing is that I don't hold others to similar expectations. If someone forgets that I've already graduated college, I brush it off, chalking it up to the fact that we haven't seen each other in a long time. If someone forgets where I'm from, I tell them, "No worries. You've met so many people in college, it's not easy to keep track of them all." However, when I forget something important about someone, say, their major, their hometown, their boyfriend/girlfriend's name, I find an idiotic temptation to lie about it by playing along. As if I need to save face in a world that is chock full of individuals of extremely varied backgrounds, I feel a need to deny that I have forgotten, or at least avoid it altogether.

Oftentimes I don't do this, and instead face the music and try to remember. But the fact that I feel that I have so slighted somebody for forgetting their favorite band, or that they've already taken their LSATs, is unsettling. Maybe I'm onto something. Maybe, in a world where personal information is becoming so available and internalized by internet networking sites (Facebook, to name...one), to not know the information that is voluntarily displayed is a sign that you must not be a very caring friend.

Every year, on my birthday, I get dozens of friends writing on my wall, congratulating me for surviving another year. However, the vast majority of these "friends" haven't spoken to me in over year, sometimes more. In fact, I seriously doubt that they'd make any proactive effort to contact me on a day outside my birthday for any reason. How can I call these people friends? Are they really too absorbed in their own lives that the only time they have for me is a 5 second blurb on my Facebook wall because Facebook chooses to tell them its my birthday? Hence, the birth of the Facebook Purges. I have a monthly routine of weeding out "friends" from my friends list and removing them. Nearly all of them were friends to me at one point, but are no longer close to me. Sometimes, it's because we ended up at different schools, states, even countries. The circumstances were beyond our controls, and our lives shifted course. And while this makes maintaining a close friendship very difficult, it's still definitely possible. I will admit, I am no good at maintaining long-distance, close relationships. It's all too hard to feel plugged in to someone else's life, even through Skype. You never meet the friends and coworkers that shape the lives of your distant friend, and as his/her world changes, yours changes too, but not alongside, instead it breaks off the path and makes a fork in the road. And the further you trek along your path, the further from your friend you become. The rift turns insurmountable. Awkward reunions franticly scrape around, looking for the vestiges of a past that one was shared, and we are left with only fond memories and aborted dreams of a future that was forever to be ours, but now not to be.

I'm going to skip the Red Sox section, because, frankly, I'm too tired to complete it. Suffice it to say that Wakefield went 7 strong innings, and the Sox won 3-2. As for the Celtics, they lost a disappointing Game 3 in Boston of the NBA Finals. Pierce and Allen didn't show up to play at all. We'll need all of our starters to be effective if we have any shot at putting up another banner.

Good night, all.

-JoesOs

Online Meets/Papi & Tek Go Deep as the Natinals Drop 2 of 3

I expect to be crucified by those few and far between who end up reading this blog entry. The reason for this sordid preface is that I plan on sort of defending the physical meeting of people vis-à-vis the internet.

I know, I know. The internet is full of creepy, fat, 30-somethings who reside in their mothers' basements and, at heart, are but slobbish weirdos who whack off to fetish porn all day while working as web designers, fry-cooks, or low-level managers.

Even still, I like to think that there exist beyond this stereotype real people, like you or I, who just realize the potential of the internet to connect people who are far away from each other. It seems obvious, but the internet is best used for this; morse code is out of fashion and carrier pigeons are extinct (or perhaps that was the "passenger pigeon? Ehh, same difference...EDIT"). It can instantly carry information across long distances in real-time. But this data can come in a multitude of forms, whereas phones carry solely voices, and TVs physical likenesses and voices.

Given this unique and amazing potential, and that humans are social beings, is it so far a leap of logic to infer that social creatures will use the best (quickest, most efficient, most inclusive) means of sociability to connect with one another? Surely enough this realization was manifested in AIM, or AOL Instant Messenger, when I was in the seventh grade, year 2001.

Perhaps my natural inclination towards obsessive cycles of interest led to my somewhat ambivalent relationship with AIM. I have many friends who swear by it; their social lives are somewhat anchored by instant messaging. I have a few who resolutely abstain from downloading the very application. But I, a rare breed apparently, engage AIM with a cyclical nature. I tend to spend hours upon hours online for weeks at a time, only to sign off, never to touch the little hopping icon on my dock for months.

On a personal note, I happen to pick up an interest and drain all life from it over several weeks, months, years, only to toss it to the wayside after I've sucked every bit of worth from its now limp, light, carcass. I suppose its vampiric in a way, but it's nothing I can choose. Since Sonic The Hedgehog on Sega, to Batman action figures, to my bicycle, to wiffleball, to baseball, to working out (one of the worst) etc. , I've developed an extensive history of minor and temporary obsessions. All of my life is pocked by these marks against my ability to take all things in moderation.

But I'll save the in-depth Freudian analysis for later. For now, I'll contend that my ambivalent attitude towards AIM has its roots in this personal revelation.

But why grow tired of AIM? It offers countless opportunities to talk to your loved ones and friends now matter what time it is and where they are?

A commonly-heard critique is simply that the emotion and the subtle nuances of facial expressions, bodily reactions (laughing, crying, nervousness, etc.), vocal inflection, and (my favorite) sarcasm are all lost on AIM. This fact, I can believe, cannot be debated if you have ever once used an Instant Messaging service.

Another common jab at applications like AIM, MSN IM, Yahoo IM, Google Chat, etc., is that they are addictive. This I can sort of understand. Since it's definitely a technological form of connection, it dumbs down the process of a "conversation," simplifying it to the point where regular social conventions are forgotten, at least, and corrupted, at worst. I suppose if one were to spend a lifetime behind an LCD screen it wouldn't be hard to lose touch with "RL" ("real life", for those of you out there who were as lost reading the countless net-worthy acronyms as I). As dozens of social scientists have enunciated to us via the infamous Stanford experiement, humanity is a learned characteristic, and like a foreign language, without practice is easily lost.

Additionally, since in the United States and other highly-developed countries efficiency and speed are stressed and valued commodities, IMs are ideal. They take only as long as you can type out what you mean, and they are sent instantly (over a relatively fast internet connection). Clearly we value such traits given the much money we spend annually Fast Food and TV dinners, even at the cost of our own health. An easy parallel could be drawn to our reliance on technology, but I'll refrain from making such an obvious comparison.

However, given all theses cautionary criticisms, I feel that the internet can be something more than a plague. Just as human beings can recognize the value inherent a tool that can connect them instantly, they too can invest authentic time and thought into relationships formed over internet beginnings. Not all online users are out of touch with reality. Most, I dare say, are perfectly in touch with it, and are socially comfortable enough to utilize the internet, even after weighing the social stigma attached to it by less tolerant, and more ignorant generations.

No matter what older or younger generations will tell me, I feel like I have a unusual and unique relationship with the internet. I could be totally wrong, and in fact ironically a member of the majority of AIM/Facebook subscribers, but I personally believe that I take the internet at face value, a speedy and basic way to get people talking and getting to know each other, and nothing more.

A deeper inquiry to my spotty relationship with AIM and other social networking sites would reveal the truer and distinct reasons I tend to go through AIM cycles. To best illustrate them would be to go down a list of commonly cited AIM attributes, so here we go:

IMs keep friends close no matter the distance: If you're reading this blog because you're a friend of mine who saw my initial "Note" on Facebook, you should be smirking right about now. Everyone and their mothers (literally, in some cases) know that I'm not particularly good at keeping in touch with people once they leave earshot...no, I'm downright poor at it. No matter who the person is, no matter how much they mean to me, I'm afraid I'm just bad at it. Why? One may infer self-absorption, too much work/studying, too much fun/drinking, too many friends, not enough friends, but the truth lies in the emptiness of AIM and Facebook.

The critical loss in the basic social characteristics of a mano-a-mano conversation squander the true social value in internet conversations. It's impossible to get a rise out of someone if you're a sarcasm fiend, or if you can do great impressions, or if you can sing. The internet sheds individuality as it pertains to anything but creative writing and successful applications of emoticons (little smiley faces seeming created from text such as letters, numbers, and punctuation marks). And that, I cannot stand. You can tell infinitely more about a person when you look them in the eyes and say something. And that's just more reassuring than a profile picture.

Emptiness aside, I can understand the basic value of getting to know someone. If you want straight facts about someone, whether or not they are your long-lost friend or someone completely new, AIM is ingenious. The Facebook status update and the Tweet are beautiful, if not pathetic manifestations of real-time, interactive voicemails as have ever been conceived.

But meeting someone new over the internet, after undoubtedly browsing a few of their profile pictures to check "hotness," is really a crap shoot. Too many mannerisms are lost on the internet "conversation." Interestingly enough, "conversation" is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as "an oral exchange of sentiments, observations, opinions, and ideas," yet "I am sad," doesn't quite hit home like someone who can't look you in the eye, always faces the ground with unwavering misty eyes, and a quivering lower lip. Besides, the outbreak of Photoshop has endangered the "profile picture's" genuineness universally.

Relationships, be they romantic (dating sites) or initially platonic (any social utility), are like in-bred babies (pardon the un-PC metaphor). Oftentimes they are conceived stillborn, or develop socially retarded (ref. the literal definition of retarded). It's an imperfect, if not blasphemous correlation, but I feel like whenever I talk to a stranger online I risk giving away all my conversation points. Now, it's not as if I go into an online conversation armed with a set of topics, but I certainly wouldn't want to exhaust the few that are serendipitously unearthed by an online conversation.

I feel that any sort of technical communication, as distinct from actual physical interaction in the real world, taints honestly good and potentially rewarding conversation topics. And if they aren't discussed online, if they are ever brought up again in an actual conversation, one may have bought a false impression fashioned by an internet converser. I speak from experience when I say that sometimes that which sounds inoculate to conflict can easily be dragged into ragged strife over miscommunication.

And yet, I found myself posting freely on Yelp's "Talk" threads without care or concern for all that I've spoken. It's true that the internet is a great way to pass the time. In my case, when I'm living at my parents' house, recovering from a knee surgery, I guess it's permissible, barely. But normally, when I've got many other responsibilities, it's so tempting to go online and talk with new people. Some are pretty quick and witty with the keyboard, which makes it enjoyable (though the authenticity of "quick wit" is diminished without the availability of a timestamp on posts and messages parodying their target) whereas others are not.

In fact, as discussed above, humanity can easily flitter out the window once bullies hide behind their SNs (screen names). It's quite disturbing how easily people can shed their actual identity to give birth to a new one online. Perhaps its therapeutic, manifesting otherwise harmful or socially unacceptable behaviors vicariously through an online alter-ego, but all signs point to no, given the correlation between the internet and people who shoot up high schools and colleges, people who molest kids, and rapists generally.

To date, I've only had one proven meeting with someone I "met" online. To be honest, the relationship failed. It was semi-romantic, though not from the beginning. What at first was a highly successful and mutually beneficial exchange of ideas and opinions (a conversation) turned into a relationship. Emotional, sexual, and social needs came to play, and the result was disastrous. I avoided the girl for the majority of two years, and for that I'm ashamed. However, to me, the real failure was our inability to reconcile each of our two personalities (the digital and the real). If you exchange many personal facts and facets of your life with someone you've never met, online, you are at risk of creating such a distinct personality. No matter how honest you are with this other person, the potential social additions to each conversation (inflection, facial expressions, etc.) detract from each, and it only becomes apparent when such a conversation is repeated in real life. Not knowing what to expect from the other person, certain expressions and reactions may be a turn off, so much so that the wide discrepancy between your friend's internet alter-ego and RL alter ego cannot reconcile, and thus are split in a schizophrenic dilemma.

And so I caution you all: take heed of my warnings when and if you meet somebody online. Regardless if Match.com says you're applicable, regardless if you reviewed the same restaurant on Yelp with relevant commentary, online meetings are dangerous, and not just in your To Catch a Predator Chris Hansen sort of way. They risk aborting potentially flourishing relationships by exhausting conversation topics and creating a social rift between two public and unequal personas (online, and in real life).

DO NOT CROSS--------------RED SOX LINE-------------DO NOT CROSS

This one will be short, as I exhausted an unimaginable amount of space on the above entry (thanks a lot Ms. Bad Cook). Besides, today's game wasn't all that spectacular.

One scary moment had me pause and rewind MLB.TV (as best I could, that buggy piece of shit) several times. When Nick Green's neck was almost impaled on a hurtling piece of maple bat, I was genuinely frightened for our brilliant AAAA SS. Thankfully, he brushed it away with his right forearm, but missed the DP ball, which rolled lazily to Bay in LF, allowing the runner to get to 3B with ease, and on the throw, the hitter to 2B. If not for this, Lester would have allowed but 2 ER and had himself and his line solid outing.

Big Papi hit his 7th HR of the season with a hard shot to deep LFC. It scored three runs, allowing the Red Sox a 3-1 lead. I'm thrilled they let him play 1B today. I hope they do it again tomorrow. Lowell could use the rest anyway.

The other player most Red Sox fans had retired to the grave, Jason Varitek, our captain, hit his 11th HR of the year. Though his BA is waaay down as usual, his power numbers are waaaay up compared to last year. He's hit 6 LHB, 5 RHB, which is interesting given his traditionally better RHB splits.

Papelbon got his 17th save of the year, and mostly without incident this time. He was perfect, but had to throw 19 pitches to get there. His pitch count, OBP, and BA are all worse than previous years. I really do wonder if it's time to sell high on Pap after the season. He just doesn't seem himself, after he complained of shoulder fatigue and had to change his arm slot, which apparently affects his velocity.

The Red Sox won 6-4 over the Washington Nationals. God, I love interleague play... Mor plz? K thx bai.

Faddah's Day/Nick Green's GW Walk-Off HR Round Pesky Pole

Before I begin this entry, I suppose it would be appropriate for me to mention that I watched today's Red Sox game with my dad as it was broadcast nationally on TBS. As bad as we are at them, I treasure each botched high-five I exchange with my dad, especially the atrocious one we had to awkwardly repeat after Nick Green's walk-off solo home run in the bottom of the 9th inning of today's game against the Atlanta Braves.

My dad works an awful lot, and he works very hard to ensure the best for my family. My mother, bless her heart, is a stay-at-home mother, and for this I'm forever indebted. However, this meant that my father had to shoulder the singular financial responsibility of providing for his family; a task that has been traditionally taken for granted and never lauded enough. He has always been a sort of idol to me, though I could never and would never want to do the sort of work he does. I try my best to listen to him when I ask him about work, and while I feel that I'm grasping the gist of the myriad office lingo he uses (without the intention of making me feel small, it should be noted), I'm still just as confused and slightly bored by it like when I was small. He's been the pinnacle of responsibility, and though he never comes down hard on me, and always offers help to me whenever I feel like I need it, I find it really hard to look him in the eyes sometimes. I think it's probably because I feel like I just can't measure up to him, and that I've got big boots to fill. It's not that I can't bond with him, but we are as different as we are similar, I feel.

For instance, he works in an office in a management position. He's very good with money, and always comes off as cool, calm, collected, and rational. He doesn't drink or smoke (not that he didn't when he was my age), yet defies traditional "square" traits. I'll never forget when one of my older, wittier friends in high school Speech and Debate told me that he thought my dad was way cooler than I was. It kind of hurt at the time, and it kind of still does, but not because I disagree with him.

I could never work in an office setting replete with cubicles, acronyms, and memorandum. I'm currently not as good with money as he is (understatement of the year). I drank a considerable amount through college, though I don't smoke at all. I'm definitely a lot calmer and rational than my sister was growing up, or so I thought until the last two years of college. And though I don't think I'm a square, I'm planning on joining the San Diego Police Department and I'm definitely not one of the "cool kids."

But one thing we hold very dear to us is our fondness for Boston professional sports. His is the New England Patriots. Mine is the Boston Red Sox. We both lean towards the sports we played growing up (football for him, baseball for me), but we love the other team almost as much as the other. So despite our differences and the professional gap that will most likely always separate us, we always come together to discuss sports with zeal. Some of my favorite memories of my dad involve simple trips to El Torito whenever my mom was feeling under the weather (she's allergic to cilantro, so we never get Mexican food), where we'd order tableside guacamole and talk Red Sox and Patriots. Every Sunday we'd get wake up early an watch football. I try to text him in-game scoring updates while he's in boring board meeting and I'm sitting on the edge of my desk chair fulfilling my daily spiritual duty to my beloved Red Sox.

I used to worry that our relationship was too predicated on our bonding over spectating sports. I thought it was silly that something as seemingly trivial as professional sports could matter so much to me. And while it's certainly not the foundation for our relationship, nor the be all end all of it, it's a crucial part because it's one activity we can both enjoy together on the off chance that our free time overlaps. Now I feel silly and somewhat ashamed that I ever doubted my relationship with my father. I love him dearly and will always look up to him for as long as he's a Red Sox fan.

Now that that's out of the way, good evening to all of you fathers out there, and Happy Father's Day. I hope your day is filled to the brim with power tools, big screen TV's, cigars, beers, BBQ, and golf/fishing/baseball, because mine certainly is. And I'm 21, childless, and just toeing the line demarcating the dependent boundary on my own father's tax returns. So since my day is so special thanks to Craftsman and Johnsonville, I'd hate to think that yours wasn't especially chock full of meat and mechanical gadgets (unless said meat and gadgets pertain to the salacious, in which case I'll be hiding behind the nearest tall, heavy object I can find).

But for those of you out there who do not indulge so, I wonder what Father's Day means to you. The North American Commercial Federation's Subcommittee On Holidays seems to have reached the conclusion that garden tools, screwdriver sets, luxury vehicles (including compensatory vehicles, a.k.a. "schlongmobiles"), hi-tech electronics, and sausages rank highest in demand amongst the general paternal population. I can't watch a baseball game without watching some middle-aged guy riding an obnoxiously green mower with a Deerection, and that's not counting Father's Day. But aside from Viagriculture, I'm afraid that the diabolical marketing veeps out there are actually behind the Man Laws of our world (sorry Burt, though I'll give you "beeracolada"). I believe even the most honorable of our sex, those who devote their lives to bestowing happiness and hope upon the little ones they care for, fall prey to the predilections of money-grubbing marketeers hell-bent on cashing in their auto-created norms.

In order to infer American male stereotypes, one need only watch ESPN on Father's Day. Sure, there might be the occasional sweet and touching advertisements about buying your dad Just For Men so he can convince his prospective employers to offer him a job in this economy. But on the whole, ads go straight for the jugular. Of course you have the fat guys sitting around barbecuing, drinking beer, and watching the game. That will never change, because that stereotype has become a cliche in and of itself almost to be simultaneously parodical.

But the ads that kill me are the tool, car maintenance, and agriculture ads. The running gag is that the man always messes something up because he's too headstrong and his wife was right all along. She presents him with the correct weed killer or the right size wrench or the preferred car oil, and then he's forced to apologize to his smug wife, who clucks her tongue or paternalistically pats his head and walks away.

Aside from the critical gender arguments one could make about these ads, I find more disturbing the reliance of each of these ads on fears of inadequacy and self-consciousness. Alarmist ads are nothing new. They feed off the fear of the consumer instilled by the company who wishes to sell their cure-all solution. However, these new breed of ads cultivate new fears of inadequacy in men, be it in the bedroom, the garage, the backyard, or around the house.

Tools, paints, and gardening ads seize upon the theme of something being broken or unsightly. The wife is dissatisfied with the husband's inadequacy to fix the broken window or repair the caulk, paint the room, kill the weeds, or cut the grass. The ads first reinforce the male stereotype of the handyman in this scenario. Then, they play upon the man's fears that he cannot fulfill his duty as the handyman unless he purchases the right tools for the job, because without them he has failed one of his roles (as husband, or if he's building a tree house, as father).

Automotive maintenance ads focus on the theme of wastefulness. This is a change from previous advertisement inclinations towards power and speed, thanks to our gradually awakening national conscience toward environmental preservation. Nonetheless, the wife or manly man narrating the ad scolds the targeted man for wasting horsepower, efficiency, or gas dollars because he's not using the right oil. That or you're letting down his own car by not "giving your engine what it wants," in which case the consumer has fallen slave to an inanimate object, quite literally.

This is not to rob people of their capacity for integrity and independence from the sirens of sexy ads. In fact, there remains a significantly part of me skeptical that people imbibe SoCo's thick, sickly sweet cough medicine just because the advertisements exhibit hip graphics. Sexy young women in tight jeans and still tighter tank tops melding with anachronistic lava-lamp colors of auburn and neon green evokes the same feeling you get when someone is trying way too hard to be nice enough to score a date. I'm hardly even fazed by the implied insult these ads spit in our faces, that we can't get sexy girls made of marbled ribbons of chocolate and granny smith-green surrounded by exploding SoCo and Lime kaleidoscopes unless we partake in their ritual bastardization of "the usual suspects." The company cloaks the Casablanca origins of "the usual suspects" in the veil that is the motif of a gang of friends out looking for merry mischief on the town, when in fact one of them will end up with a DUI, another with an indecent exposure charge, and two with herpes. I would like to think, and to be truthful to my inner romantic, do believe that people are smarter than this.

But alas, the very existence of these ads challenges my hope for our race. Inferring via the laws of the market, these types of ads exist, and are repeated by every other company whose market involves the 13-65 age grouping, because they work. If their tactics failed to secure their targeted audiences, future advertisement campaigns would attempt other hooks and lures to snare the brand loyalty of our materialistic minds. Yet, they never seem to change, no matter the product, no matter the time period. It's as if our steady march of technological development is followed closely by a stampede of sensual junkies craving the latest and greatest visual stimulus.

To me, advertisements are always a key fixture on Father's Day simply because of their conspicuous presence and their shameless preying on our collective self-conscious. It seems to me on a day reserved for celebration of those individuals who selflessly devote themselves to an idea beyond themselves, prosperity for their beloved children, that ads should maybe lay off the implicit accusations. Then again, that's why I'm a poor, proud owner of a BA in something other than business management.

-Yours truly,

Joe's Os

DO NOT CROSS--------------RED SOX LINE-------------DO NOT CROSS

The above is the warning that beyond lies a murky, seedy realm of Red Sox baseball. Do not cross that line unless you are willing to fall slave to my obsessive rants about grown men playing a boys' game. It is not for the faint of heart, nor for the squeamish, because I'm about as blasphemously fanatic about the Boston Red Sox as a Christian Crusader in Damascus.

Timothy Wakefield went for his MLB lead-tying 10th win of the 2009 season, but couldn't come up with it. However, Wake's start was a fairly decent start, going 6.2IP, giving up 9 hits, and 4 earned runs. It didn't seem like his knuckleball was fluttering much, probably due to the wind blowing in towards the batter and the rainy weather.

David Ortiz scored the go-ahead run making it 3-2 after hitting his 6th HR of the season into the Green Monster seats. He absolutely crushed that ball opposite field, as it landed high into the Monster seats against a strong wind. He's looking like he's back from the dead lately, as he's hit 6 home runs in his last 36 or so at bats after only hitting 1 in his first previous 192 at bats.

Ramon Ramirez came into the 7th inning with two outs and a man in scoring position, and quickly surrendered the game-tying hit (the run was charged to Wakefield). He then got the next batter, but lately it should be noted that Ram-Ram has looked anything but unhittable. Maybe he's not the Jesus we all thought he was.

Okajima, who's usually dominant with his precision gave up the lead retaken by the Red Sox in the bottom of the 7th inning after J.D. Drew's opposite field RBI line-drive off the Green Monster. Interestingly enough, the home plate umpire Bill Hohn ejected Atlanta's long-time manager Bobby Cox, reliever Eric O'Flaherty, and 3rd baseman Chipper Jones for arguing balls and strikes, after he granted ball 2 to Drew on a pitch that was down and in, but clearly a strike that would have struck Drew out. On the very next pitch, Drew retook the lead for the Red Sox, so it's understandable that they would have been frustrated. Then again, the umpire was bad for us too, so stop whining and sit the fuck down Cox.

Papelbon came in to pitch the top of the 9th inning, not in a save situation, with the game tied at 5. He rewarded us with yet another Papelbon adventure. They showed a stat before he began pitching. Last year, in 69.2 IP, he gave up only 8 BBs. This year, in only 28.1 IP, he's already given up 16. Somehow, his WHIP miraculously remains around 1.40. He loaded the bases with a hit and 2 BBs, then with 2 outs, he got Matt Diaz to swing ridiculously at a ball that was two feet over the brim of his hat.

Nick Green, who's played outstanding defense in the past month and is hitting nearly .300 on the season, came through with the game-winning walk-off HR that perfectly wrapped around Pesky's Pole. Green says that he didn't realize that it was a walk-off win until he rounded 2nd base and saw all his teammates jumping up and down and slapping each other and congregating at home plate.

Pilot/Josh Beckett's 3rd Career CG Shutout

I have avoided blogs like the swine flu, the avian flu, and SARS before that. Because in truth, blogs are viruses just like the aforementioned ailments. They all claim to offer a mutated, and therefore unique perception of the world: just similar enough to all so that they maintain a uniform sense of narrative and coherence while ravaging your cells.

Blogs, like diseases, can infect anyone. This is partially owed to their upside; many different strains offer various opinions and perspectives ranging from a broad cross-section of society. However democratic, while some diseases leave you with antibodies to fight future attacks, blogs prefer to weaken the author with each crippling entry, making them less and less likely to chose other public means of demonstrating personal emotions, feelings, thoughts, opinions, etc.

Take me, for instance.

Within the public sphere, a person may choose to eject what's hidden inside, flinging out into the commune for others to prance upon. They may do this for many reasons: a cry for help ("Look what's happening to me.."), self-importance ("Look what I did!"), paternalistic altruism ("Just so you know..."), Tourette's ("FUCK! I mean, sorry.."), or any number of nuanced, complicated reasons going towards the development of a social identity as distinct from the faceless masses.

But this choice must not be overlooked. It must not be taken for granted because there exists a myriad other means of expressing emotion or manifesting thoughts (apart from Tourette's, of course, in which choice is compromised). Diaries, journals, painting, writing stories, composing songs, poetry: all of these are examples of an individual's private search for meaning in their life. So why must one blog publicly? Are there unique benefits attached to each of the above reasons or is there one foundational good achieved by spilling your secrets to the world?

Although it might personally reward one's curiosity or fulfill one's entertainment quota, exploring the ulterior motives of other bloggers is not my chief objective. In fact, I claim, albeit falsely, 100% apathy towards their intentions. This blog will not be about other peoples' blogs. This blog won't make reference to other blogs. This blog will be 100% the musings of my mind.

And now, to turn the analytical lens of perception on myself. Why am I doing this? If I liken blogs to disease, why contract one willingly?

Well, like disease, blogs come in all shapes and sizes, a plethora of different symptoms accompanied by a wide spectrum of magnanimity. This blog, I will liken to alcoholism. It is non-communicable, highly influenced by behavior and emotion, and more than likely, genetics.

This blog will not make you itch in unspeakable locations, nor will it leave you bed-ridden hacking up pieces of your lungs, nor will it cause you to hallucinate (unless you drop acid because the format of the blog is conducive to such activity, in which case, "see you on the other side, brother.") and have cold sweats.

This blog will be sporadically linked to me "falling off the wagon", or otherwise consistently following bouts of taking triple shots of whatever emotions dug up in me by the gravediggers of my soul (gothic almost, right? Cha-ching).

And finally, since my great-grandfather, Joseph Daniel Harrington was once an esteemed columnist for a now defunct Boston paper, I guess the blog is genetic too (minus the whole getting paid $.010 a column, which would be nice actually). I am predisposed to publicly displaying my thoughts, just as I am alcoholism, which plays nicely out with my Irish disease metaphor.

But enough about plagues and blogs (blagues?). Now let's get to the one question I'm sure everyone was really asking themselves: Who the fuck is Josh Beckett and what does CG mean?

The short of it is that Josh Beckett is currently the ace starting pitcher on the Boston Red Sox staff. CG stands for "complete game," which means that a pitcher begins the game by throwing out the first pitch to the first batter, and concludes the game by recording the final (27th, if the game does not go to extra-innings) out.

The longer part is that I've noticed that every blog has some sort of random and unique quality to it. Sometimes, each entry will be titled according to a momentous event that the author wishes to remember in the future. Oftentimes the entry title will briefly reference this event so that at first glance, the memory of the day will come hurriedly rushing back to the author in a wild blur or colors, people, and sensual imagery. All of the time, however, the title will have to do with something that resounds deeply within the author.

I'm a self-proclaimed Boston Red Sox fan. Many in my life have pointed out to me that this is also a disease, but instead of likening it to a blog, I liken it to religion. My temple is MLB.TV and I worship my deity nearly every day, around 3 hours each day. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, organized religion--or is that a vice?

I have faith in my 40 man roster and I will stand by them for all eternity, and in exchange for my faith I will be rewarded (twice already in my lifetime, thank you very much). And if likening heavenly afterlife to the champagne showers of a locker room deep in the belly of a baseball church, if flinging $8 beers and cracked peanut shells into the wispy air in ecstatic rapture and exchanging sloppy but spiritual high-fives with complete strangers is blasphemous, then Beelzebub here I come, because there's nothing quite like a World Series Championship.

But, I digress. What I mean to say is that the Red Sox are as important to me as anything in this world. Therefore, simply titling my blog entries with memorable events of the day's Red Sox game will suffice in stirring awake my slumbering memory, deep in its Red Sox reverie of future victories and baseball conquests.

A caveat: this blog will not exclusively focus on the Boston Red Sox; however, it will devote a sub-section of every entry to the day's game, unless there is no game, in which I'll still have a section filled with Red Sox musings. It'll be found toward the bottom of each entry and it will be formatted in such a way to set it off from all the rest, so if you care little-to-nothing about baseball generally or the Red Sox specifically, then you can afford to skip it.

As this is but a sad pilot episode, a droning preface to the denouement of my extro/introverted critical observations, I will conclude by writing that should you feel bored or otherwise tired of my writing mannerisms, by all means say so, and I'll gladly glance over them, finish my glass of Jameson, and cry. For I know the tragedy of the blog is such that we are all so warm and coddled in our own lives that what you or I have to say about this mired world of ours matters very little for the rest. Socrates once said that wisdom is measured by our awareness of our own ignorance. I say, "who's Socrates?"