Some Random Thoughts

1. I want to name my first born son Eirron Norrie. Can you figure out why?

2. First day of soccer coaching today. Let just say when half the kids run around with their hands in their pockets and one is more excited about picking up the cones than playing, well there is some work to do.

3. I came very close to become a playground legend today (about 19 years after it really matters). With about 50 kids watching I took a kickball, and from about 60-70 feet away threw it baseball style towards the basket. My first thought was, "this thing has a chance," and as it got closer I was convinced it was in. The distance seemed good and it was definetly on target. It ended up hitting the very front of the rim and bouncing out. So close to immortality I could almost taste it.

Love and Marriage

“I can’t wait to get married so we can go on Wife Swap.”
- My fiancé

A match made in heaven coming to a wedding chapel near you in May of 2008. Quotes like this from your future bride are disturbing on a number of different levels, but I think what disturbs me the most is that Sabrina actually likes to watch Wife Swap. For those that haven’t seen it, the basic premise can be summed up in this series of equations where:

P = psychotic wife
L = loser husband
A and B designate dysfunctional families

P(A) + L(A) = P(B) + L(B) = convinced of being perfect parents

P(A) + L(B) = P(B) + L(A) = act like lunatics imposing differing (but no less retarded) parenting philosophies on each other

If this doesn’t make sense don’t worry I am not that good at math and it really isn’t that important anyway. Rest assured these people are some of the biggest psychopaths and least competent parents around. If it weren’t for MTV airing My Super Sweet Sixteen I could be easily convinced that these people lacked more self-awareness than anyone else on the planet.

In last night’s episode (I watched against my will as it was on in the background while I read) producers paired a family of self-centered, drunk, lazy Italians from Ohio with a pair of hick-talking, horseback riding rodeo cowboys from Delaware (State motto: before you knew it you’d driven through it (made that up myself)). The show was predictable. No one gets along, everyone lives at different extremes of the parenting spectrum, constant arguing, with the only people being truly effected are the kids who are scarred for life on national television. The only bright spot of last night’s episode was the end where the two husbands got in a fist fight with the hick meting out what he described as, “cowboy justice.”

This show just backs up my idea that we should have birth control in our water. The system would be fairly easy. We place some kind of pregnancy blocker in the tap water. To unblock it one needs only to go to the town office and pick up the antidote. No questions asked, no screenings, no job verification or credit score. You just need to show up. Judging by the general laziness of the American people I think this would cut down on unwanted pregnancies by a healthy percentage. This would also cut down on couples, like the ones that go on Wife Swap from just pumping out future kids who will most likely just be societal pains in the asses. I mean they will probably have one to start, but once they see that having kids makes it difficult to continually feed their egotistical, self-centered lifestyles, they will probably just cut it off at one. Basically my system cuts down on the idiots becoming parents, which decreases the talent pool for shows like Wife Swap. It’s a societal win-win and I won’t have to trade my wife for an over-eating, bad TV watching woman who needs to be pampered at all times. Oh wait…

The Pope, Jesus and a Car Salesman walk into a bar

I hate jokes this. Actually most times I just really don't like predetermined jokes. I like my humor on the fly and creative. Reading a joke out of a joke book and repeating it does not make you funny. It just makes you a good reader with an average memory. I can't remember the last time I told a joke like this and after writing this I vow to never do it again.

What made me think of this was a certain person that works in my school. I didn't really promote this blog around school (I doubt it would have mattered if I did) so I feel somewhat comfortable writing about people there. This particular colleague loves these jokes. He has so many of them that I am convinced he goes home and memorizes them just to come in and tell. I never know how to react to them. I usually just quickly laugh and quietly repeat the punchline to reinforce that I heard the joke. Awkward.

It is difficult to pinpoint what exactly makes something funny. Different things illicit different reactions. That is except for people tripping and falling, everyone thinks that is funny. All I know is that when you spout out something with a set punchline, most times, it is stupid. That being said have you heard the one about the priest, George Bush and Madonna...

Sedatives not working? Rent Capote

I should preface this by saying that I was really excited about this movie for two reasons:

1. I had just finished In Cold Blood
2. I like Philip Seymour Hoffman

And while the movie wasn't the worst thing I had ever seen, my god was it boring. I am not sure what I expected when the movie about an eccentric author placing himself in the depths of rural Kansas. But between Hoffman's accent and the complete lack of anything ever happening I just couldn't last. I slept for the last ten minutes. It was one of those sleeps where I didn't even feel myself getting tired, more worn down than anything, and then Sabrina was waking me up. I don't know how she made it.

I do have a tendency to be able to fall asleep rather easily so I guess I can't totally blame the film. This is the same guy who fell asleep right before the dance scene in Napolean Dynamite and I was loving that movie. Some things just put me out.

I met Barack Obama in my dream and man was he a dick

I had a dream the other night. Usually I don’t remember dreams that vividly. Dreams don’t play a big part in my sleeping time. I have no idea how to interpret them and frankly I have no need to figure it out. That was what made this dream so remarkable. When I woke up I actually remembered it.

In this sleep world I was still a student in some kind of school. For a project, certain students were paired with celebrities of sorts. I don’t remember anyone else there except for Penelope Cruz. Well I got paired with Barack Obama.

Being quasi-political (I know some names of candidates because I look at the pictures in Time each week) the Obama pairing intrigued me. I wondered what he would ask me. Well to say he “mailed in” the interview would be an understatement. That loser didn’t even try to get to know me or my feelings on issues. Such a hypocrite. I don’t know what I expected from a politician but he could have shown a little class. He was on his cell phone most of the time. In the end I think I just told him that I watched Lost and Heroes. That was it.

Anyway, I woke up before the interview was over which was good because it was getting awkward. Obama is going to have to do a great deal in the coming months if he wants my vote.

Don't stand so close to me

“I don’t want them to enter the black hole that is your life”
-Sabrina, my fiancé, in reference to her socks

According to the woman who is on the precipice of pledging her lifelong devotion to me, my life is a black hole. At first I was hurt. But after a few seconds, and some apologies on her part, I was able to see the validity in her statement. Aspects of my life resemble “a region of space-time where escape to the outside universe is impossible.”

Now in Sabrina’s defense she was referencing socks. I have a problem with socks. My problem is that I lose them with startling consistency. I could buy a package of socks today and lose at least 3 of them by the middle of next week, guaranteed. Who knows where they go? All I know is that my apartment is about 400 square feet (at most) and I have lost more than 2 dozen socks in here in the last year and a half.

I can’t even lose socks correctly though. It’s not like I lose pairs of socks. I like to lose just one of them, rendering the other one somewhat useless. This leads to many days where I wear socks that are “just close enough” to being matches. Last weekend, while at my parents’ house, my mom dropped a large plastic bag in my lap. It was full of socks with no match. There were at least 40 in the bag that had no mate.

Its not just socks though. I lose many things, like my Ipod, camping tent, soccer cleats, guitar picks, and pride when I try to dance. Can’t help it. I just lack the ability to keep order. Things go missing at such a rate that it doesn’t even really faze me at this point. That is probably a bad thing. Like a star that has collapsed on itself, I am sucking things out of my universe. Hopefully Sabrina doesn’t fall in. I need her around.

No Child is Left Behind on a Snow Day

If you want an overblown weather report about impending snow just take a stroll down to your local elementary school. It doesn’t matter where you live. If there is even a hint of snow in the forecast I guarantee that is the main topic in any hallway in any school in America. Teachers are a sad bunch. They will constantly refresh weather reports on the internet, confer with colleagues on their thoughts about a possible school closing, and perform various rituals they feel will increase the chance of a whiteout.

Two day ago was one of those days at P’dale. The weather report called for a 30% chance of 1-2 inches of snow. Now I took that prediction as a 70% chance of nothing. That didn’t stop the hysteria though. The day was filled with speculation, wishing, praying, and a vast majority of teachers staring longingly at the sky. In situations like this I take a firm stance. I have been called a “downer” or “pessimist” for my reluctance to ever admit that we might have a snow day.

I wasn’t always such a curmudgeon. But then I got burned. During my second year of teaching there was a night where the weatherman predicted an imminent storm. It was not a matter of whether snow would fall, but rather how much digging we would be doing in the morning. As I watched humongous, digital clouds engulf the map of Jersey I decided to have a couple of libations and dismissed even the thought of going to bed. This was a slam dunk. I even made plans for the next day. I would sleep in, read a bit and then when it cleared up a bit, go shopping for some things I needed. In the meantime a couple more beers would put a nice touch on the night.

It’s easy to see where this is going. I finally went to bed at around 2AM, content, comfortable and looking forward to a day of slumber. For some reason I woke up at about 4 in the morning. Just for shits and giggles I decided to look outside. Um what? There wasn’t even a flake on the ground. I glanced at the streetlight (obviously the best place to look to see how hard it was coming down) and saw nothing but soft fluorescent. No precipitation.

First I panicked. The call for a snow day usually comes at 5AM which only gave the weather an hour to turn around. Then I let out a string of expletives directed at Sam Champion. At this point I knew I was in trouble. I hurried back into bed and squeezed my eyes praying for sleep. Fat chance. All I could think about was the great day I supposed to have and it was ruined. There would be no snow, but that didn’t stop me from lying in bed for the next hour and half waiting for a call that never came.

Now I already explained what a day before a storm is like in school. Surprisingly it pales only in comparison to a day where there was SUPPOSED to be a storm. If you want to see people cursing their lot in life, just head down to the local school on one of these days. Its apathy and anger at their very best. Teachers feel as if they have been cheated. It’s ugly. No teaching occurs, just apathy. So yesterday when I got the call for a snow day I was happy. Not because I knew I would be spending the day in bed, but because the kids wouldn’t have to endure a day of bitterness and cruelty.

I am better at sports than fifth graders

Sorry for the delay for all four of you. I already had this entry written last week and was just slow on posting it. I will just paste the original here and then add today’s occurrence at the bottom to hammer home the point with startling clarity.

Most of you know I teach 5th grade. At one point in my life I considered myself an above-average athlete. Played three sports in high school, soccer in college, pickup games year round, etc. Gravity, age and general laziness have taken their toll. If I was getting recruited right now my scouting report might read:

Too many pounds, not enough muscle, slow and can’t jump but at least his reflexes aren’t what they used to be.

All of that is okay though because I have found a new outlet to display my athletic prowess. I do this in the form of challenging my students to various athletic endeavors. It’s a good way to stay fresh. Every year a student or two claim they can beat me in various challenges like a race, long distance kicking, kickball, etc. This has never happened. Honestly no one has come close. The last time I raced a student I ran backward for the last quarter of it like Maniac Magee (a fifth grade reading reference). I only write this because for those unathletic souls out there who feel the need for s confidence boost or some self esteem, look no further than you local elementary school. As long as you don’t look too creepy and your intentions are sound, there is a whole world of kids up to the challenge.

Fast forward:

Today I took part in a game of knockout. If you don’t know what it is look here . Anyway, today was against a mixed group of fifth and fourth graders. After I systematically, and with sniper-like efficiency, eliminated a large number of students I was left with only one player left. He was a FOURTH GRADER. I guess I am just not a closer. I am no Mariano Rivera or Kobe Bryant. Not clutch. After I talked a bit of trash to this student, who barely comes up to my waste, I preceded to get knocked out in the first three shots. It was a bitter reminder that my athletic skills are deteriorating at an alarming pace. There is a group of third graders who I am sure are chomping at the bit.

Hey Gym Locker Room Guy: Just because you can be naked doesn’t mean you should be

I probably don’t need to elaborate more on this topic than what the title already states, but let’s see if I can push a couple hundred words out about it. I am in the gym today finishing up my normal routine of:

Enter gym
Find interesting magazine
Get changed
20 minutes on elliptical machine (Fat Burn setting, level 5)
Get drink
Stare at weight lifting equipment
Get another drink
Put on sweatshirt, get out car keys, call it a day

Well today, somewhere between steps 7 and 8, my routine was broken up when I endured what can only be described as the most disturbing millisecond of my life.

Now before I elaborate on this I need to explain some of my own, personal aversions to nudity. More specifically, my staunch unwillingness to be naked. I like clothes. Better yet, I love clothes. I like having them on. I like them covering my various flaws and I love having the comfort of more than one layer. Clothes are like my security blanket. I have nightmares about being naked. These aren’t ones where I have to give a speech and all of a sudden I am in my birthday suit. No in these dreams I have chosen my own personal hell as I have misplaced my clothes and now I am forced to go through my regular life without them. They are some of the most chilling sleep experiences I have. I avoid nudity at almost all costs and I expect others to adhere to this –ism.

Unfortunately, the gentleman at the locker next to me at the gym did not embody (pun?) the same beliefs as I. No, he was your classic, “I’m at the gym, conventional norms do not exist in this space” kind of guy. Clothes be damned. To make a long story short, I was hunched over my bag getting out my sweatshirt when I felt a presence next to me. Out of sheer instinct, like a jungle animal that smells danger, I turned toward the left. That’s when I saw it. Since time is a quantifiable measurement (at least by our Earthly standards) I am sure some scientist somewhere could calculate how long I looked, but I would like to see the clock that computes that quickly. Nanoseconds would feel like centuries. Rest assured I looked away but not before the image burned itself into the recesses of my brain. No cheap jokes about him buying me dinner first.

Howdy Tim

In the show Home Improvement, Tim Taylor (Tim Allen's character) is given sagely advice from his next door neighbor Wilson. For the two of you that have never seen the show Wilson and Tim meet in their respective backyards which are connected and Wilson helps Tim solve all of his day-to-day problems. The catch with Wilson is that you never see his face. The show began with Wilson just hidden, save his eyes, behind the fence separating the backyards. Over the many years the writers and producers found more creative ways to hide Wilson's face. Whether it was behind a book or a mask, the audience never saw his face. I actually never really knew what he looked like from until I wasted two hours of my life watching the E! True Hollywood Story: Home Improvement. (This was an hour long program that I have seen twice. I have spare time)

My, and I assume most people's, reaction to this scenario of never seeing someone's face was ridiculous and eventually moderately annoying. The show did it is as shtick and then kept it going ad nausea. How could something like this happen in the real world?

I have been living with Sabrina's parents for about a year and half now. It’s been a good run that will soon end and in that time I have gotten to know some things about the neighborhood. The guy next door is a police officer that drives an unmarked car while the lady on the other side is a nosy gossip. Mr. Jimmy roams the streets smoking cigarettes and the guy up the street is a crazy dickhead who I try to antagonize by speeding up in my car only when I am driving by his house. And then there are the neighbors across the street: Bob, Linda and their daughter who is about Sabrina's age. There is nothing particularly remarkable about the family. They seem to like the color white as they have four, impeccably clean, white cars. What is remarkable is that in the 548 some odd days I have been living here (not including the 3 1/2 years of visits to the house prior) I have never seen Bob and Linda's daughter's face.

Now I have seen her from a multitude of angles. Walking to the front door, getting in the car, talking to someone outside. But I have never seen her face. At first it was interesting. I would catch her at just the wrong moment: just as she turned away, right after she ducked inside. I wasn’t stalking her; I just wanted to see what she looked like. Recently I found myself pressing the issue. I would wait in the car an extra second to see if she would turn the right way. I would look preoccupied while really hoping she would get out of her car before me if we arrived home at the same time. This was fruitless. I never saw her. I needed to see what she looked like. Did she have a horrible scar on her face? Did she look like anyone I knew? I know this sounds mildly psychotic but I don’t really know another way to describe it. I even admitted to Sabrina that it was bothering me a little that I had seen her so many times and still couldn't pick her out of a lineup.

Well Bob and Linda put their house on the market and it finally sold the other day. They have been emptying their house preparing for the move. I drove home on Monday and could tell they were just about finished and ready to leave James Ave. for good. When I pulled up I could tell that Mystery Girl was around because her car was running and the backdoor was open. I thought, "This is it. This is my final chance to see her." I waited in the car. I made myself look busy. I fiddled with the radio, checked my cell phone and shuffled through some papers. Waiting. Then I saw movement by the front door. She came out but I was horrified to realize she was carrying something. A large dollhouse to be exact. The dollhouse blocked my view. I could only see her from the neck down. It was like some cruel joke. She carried it to the car and put the dollhouse in. She immediately turned away and dashed back in through the garage. Frankly, I was stunned. I was never going to see this person. She had become a real life Wilson, without the intellect and fatherly advice. Now I have to imagine someone else’s head whenever I think of her. Even while writing this I imagined a girl I used to work with as the face on her body. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. Maybe I will call E! and have them do a True Hollywood Story on her family.

Its a delicate balance

I think you know the guy. While watching the game he cheers just a bit too loudly. He gets just a little too into the TV show and talks about it just a bit too much. (Coincidentally I am like this with The Office) He lets you know just a fraction more about his popularity with the female population than you care to imagine. He is just “that guy.” No one wants to be him and those who are like him are just too clueless to know it.

I have met many versions of him in my life. In elementary school it was Freddy Guzzy who was just a little too into He-Man action figures. In high school it was Alex A. ( I don’t want to type his whole name in case he Google’s it, and we work out at the same gym) who was a little over-the-top about professional wrestling. (In my second parenthetical section of this paragraph I can say that Alex’s obsession paid off as he is actually, technically a professional wrestler). In college it was Eric N. who just was a little too annoying about everything be it food, sports, cars, video games. Lucky for me I lived with him for a year. It was study in excess to say the least.

Well after knowing these folks my whole life I know when to spot them, and I met a doozy on Saturday. His name was Ozzy and his vice was soccer. Now soccer is a classic “that guy” sport. Part of it stems from soccer’s lack of American mainstream popularity. In addition, soccer lends itself to a certain clothing style that just screams, “look at me, I chose the wrong sport!” Ozzy had that look down to a tee with the Adidas Copa Mundials and, the always in style, Umbros. (Which I thought had been discontinued but was proven wrong). I met him at a soccer licensing course I was forced take so I can coach the WO U-9 Fighting Wildcats to the ‘ship this year. Understand that to obtain the old “F License” you need do little more than show up to the gym with a heartbeat and a $30 check. Throughout the day we were required to take part in “non-competetive” drills to demonstrate proper skill.

Ozzy did not realize this. From what I can gather, Ozzy assumed one needed to show overall soccer dominance. His victims were of little consequence as well. It didn’t matter if he was beating me or Helen; the 5’2 195lb mother of four who was getting the license to help out her daughter’s team. Ozzy went, as the French say, “balls to the wall.” He was flying all over the court, flicking backheels, going in hard for tackles and in the downtime showing off his world class juggling skills. At one point the instructor even tried to call him out on this by challenging him to juggle the ball for as long as he could while the class watched. His response, which actually kind of impressed me, was, “we better not because I can juggle for a really long time.” It honestly was a sight to behold.

Now I don’t have a deeper lesson or worldly comparison to this behavior. Some people are just idiots with little self awareness. That’s the way the world is I guess. These people need to make up for those that care too little. It forms a natural balance I suppose. So I want to thank you Ozzy. You even out the world for my friend Dave who thinks soccer sucks. It’s a delicate balance. We need “these guys.”

The Five Stages of Grief

A couple of years ago my friend Nate and I were standing around shooting the breeze. At one point Nate mentioned something about his hair. Nate had, shall I say, less than a full head of locks. The baldness was in its opening stages for him. I looked at his hair and then felt the top of my own and felt comforted. I grinned at Nate mockingly and made the comment to him (because I am a supportive friend), “Man if I ever started to lose my hair I think I would kill myself.” Nate laughed at me but in his eyes I thought I saw a hint of murderous rage.

Fast forward to the winter of 2003. I was playing music at the time and Sabrina and I trekked to the city to take some promotional shots of me posing introspectively at different parts of downtown. One of the pictures was me walking up the stairs from the subway. A week later we got them developed and when we got to said picture I froze with terror. I turned to Sabrina and screamed, “What the hell is that!!” The “that” to which I referred was the giant horseshoe pattern my hairline was forming on top of my head. Sabrina grabbed me as I tried to dive headfirst out of the second story window.

Now there are five stages to grief. Denial I had been taking care of for years. The Anger was immediate and ruthless. I blamed Sabrina for not telling me. I got mad at my parents and grandparents for what I deemed to be just another in a long lines of personal genetic disappointments. Bargaining was a two-sectioned stage. I quickly realized that hair growth supplements were not 100% guaranteed and also inordinately expensive. So I lost bargaining on a monetary level. Then I bargained with the hair itself. I tried combing it this way and that, spiking it, gelling it, anything to hide the obvious. This went on for awhile until I realized I didn’t want to be a “comb over” guy. Then came Depression. Now this stage stuck around for awhile. I would examine every picture of myself to see the best or worst angles for my hairline. I also realized that even baldness wasn’t going to give me a break. Instead of receding back into a respectable widow’s peak I was doomed to have the dreaded horseshoe pattern with triangle patch in front.

Only now after four years have I finally started the Acceptance stage. I probably tried to fool myself before into thinking I had come to grips with the situation. I hadn’t. I was kidding myself. Slowly though I have begun to accept. When I look in the mirror I know what I am going to be seeing. When I see pictures I know what to expect. There just isn’t going to be hair there anymore and that is okay. That’s karma and I regret my words to Nate. If I had just bit my tongue I would combing my gorgeous locks laughing at all of those bald bastards out there.

VORP, WARP, EQa, oh my…

I have been following baseball for as long as my memory serves. An early institution in my life was the collecting of baseball cards. Collecting, in actuality does not really do it justice. Ordering, sorting, and studying baseball cards is probably a more accurate description. My family still makes fun of me because on a trip to Yellowstone National Park (Montana, Wyoming and the Dakotas: My parents’ idea of a good vacation is a title for another for another day) I didn’t spend the hours and hours of driving in my grandparent’s RV enjoying the pristine and awe-inspiring scenery. Rather I sat in the back sorting my 1986 Topps set into teams, then positions, then by batting average, then by players posed sitting, players posed standing, hair color etc, etc. It was a never-ending and strangely captivating process.

While this was the source of entertainment for me in the elementary years, I have never been one of those who remembered the individual, minute, stats for each player. I can’t tell you what Wade Boggs hit in 1985 (.368 – just looked it up ) or John Tudor’s lifetime ERA (3.12) Nevertheless, I have been drawn to baseball for as long as I can remember. My dad grew up a diehard Red Sox fan and he sucked me in painfully early. I still remember my first trip to Fenway Park to see the Sox play the Angels (the last time I was there I snuck into the stadium with a tour group, so I am glad I have grown up). I still have a vivid image of Keith Moreland hitting one out of Wrigley Field when we lived in Chicago. When I was too young to stay up late enough to watch important Sox games my dad would always post the score of the game by the light switch in my bedroom so I could wakeup and immediately know what had happened. Some of these moments are the reference points for much of my childhood.

I don’t pretend to know everything about baseball, but I know enough. More knowledgeable than the casual fan. Less crazy than a totally rabid Bill James-ite. I fall somewhere in between but I can feel stirrings of the crazy.

I couldn’t collect baseball cards my whole life. Eventually it becomes too childish I guess, but I still needed some sort of baseball outlet. And in stepped fantasy baseball. In 8th grade my friend Joe Keiser asked if I wanted to join a roto baseball league. I had no idea what I was doing but one Saturday found myself at a local diner (a couple of adults were in the league, not as creepy as it sounds) drafting a team. I don’t remember much about that initial league except that I had Rafael Palmeiro playing first base for my team. He had a decent season and I knew that I was a baseball genius.

The obsession with fantasy baseball continued for the next 11 years and I would think about fantasy baseball throughout the year. Real baseball fans know that the off-season can be just as captivating as the regular season. But then on October 24, 2004 the fascination stalled. The Red Sox won the World Series and I guess I just felt like I had seen everything. I was through. Exhausted. Baseball had given me everything. I tried joining a new league the next summer and it just wasn’t the same. I found myself not even following it for the second half of the season. And then last summer I joined a league and forgot to show up for the online draft altogether. What had happened to me? I still loved baseball but maybe I was growing up, and growing out of my desire to be a part of as my friend Danny put it so eloquently the other day, “that thing that losers who cant play baseball do to make themselves feel better.”

I watched baseball for sure, rooted for the Sox but a little piece of the juice was gone. I saw myself becoming “that fan.” You know the guy: he knows his team to a certain extent but the rest of the league is a mystery. He can name a handful of superstars but the JJ Putz’s and Austin Kearns of the world are lost on him. I also, in an egotistical way felt like I was no longer going to be the smartest baseball guy in the room. I wasn’t putting in the effort.

And then my friend James called and asked me if I wanted to be part of a league with him and some of his friends. He warned that this was no ordinary league. This wasn’t a league based on the compilation of stats or hitting the most home runs. That was for amateurs. The league was based on strategy, expectation and played through simulated games worked out through an algorithm I couldn’t explain if I studied it for the rest of my life. I was interested enough to agree and shortly I was hooked. I realized there was an entire world of baseball beyond the back of a Topps card or inside the pages of a newspaper. There was VORP (Value Over Replacement Player) or PECOTA Cards. I started spending hours sorting through spreadsheets and talking about 17 year old prospects in the Oriole minor league system. James and I have logged more than a couple of hours discussing player options (he is bringing me up to speed on some of the more obscure players) At one point we became so overly excited about a stat called “Upside” that we failed to realize that we did not even know what it meant or how to interpret it. All we knew was a guy we wanted to pick had a big Upside number and that was all that mattered.

So now I am ready for baseball again. There is a whole new world out there. In a sort of a cliché, I feel like a kid again. I feel like I am in the back of the RV again with my baseball cards and while I might be missing the outside world speeding by it doesn’t matter because man do I love baseball. Even while writing this I refreshed Baseball Prospectus more than a dozen times. There weren’t any new articles to read but not to worry, there is always three minutes from now

Sabrina's friends must have heard about me

I am a good kisser. Actually very good. I know this because I have been told as much. More than once. I wish I could give you the names of the people, but I am worried about varying issues that may arise from disclosure. You are going to need to trust me, it's true. (To prove my point, Sabrina just read these first couple of sentences, agreed with me and then asked for a kiss. Boo-yah.)

I always just assumed this piece of information was saved for a very close circle of people. Namely, the people who have been fortunate enough to get to first base with me. But last night my reputation preceded me. We went to a bar to meet up with some of Sabrina's friends. (Girl friends because she is not allowed to have guy friends that dont have significant others) As the night was winding down one of Sab's friends was getting ready to leave. She hugged Sabrina and gave her the standard friend kiss on the cheek. Then she turned to me and I leaned in for the hug and of course kiss on the cheek. Then BAM she pulled the old turn the head at the last second move and planted one on me, right on the lips. She feigned horror for public posturing. But inside I knew the truth. From here I assume the legend will only grow.

Why wasnt the last episode called Revelation?

"We believe because we love it." - Sabrina Koester

Certain things in life require you suspend disbelief for a second. Nothing exemplifies this more than the, now cancelled, TV show Alias. If you have never seen this particular program let me give you a quick look into it. Sydney Bristow is a covert government agent whose assignment is to uncover the deception in the world and make Earth a better place for all to inhabit. She is given the task of taking down large criminal syndicates and with her band of secret agent friends, they set about to uncover not only the criminal element in the world but also save the world from super natural powers beyond the scope of reality. All in all a captivating watch. Captivating actually may not be strong enough word. As the above quote would suggest this show almost became a religion for Sabrina and I. (She was talking about a scene from the show)

In thinking about it there are major similarities between Alias and organized religion. Make no mistake about, I am not comparing Alias to Christianity in particular or God forbid (no pun intended) comparing Ms. Sydney Bristow to Jesus Christ, Muhammad, etc. No rather I contend that for Alias to be watched, enjoyed, or followed one must be willing to look past some glaring and obvious flaws. I am sure the same can be said for many television shows, especially serial shows with reoccurring characters, major and minor plots and subplots, storylines geared to a knowledgeable fan base and supernatural references. But Alias takes a step beyond these other shows because it actually deals with the idea of "belief at all costs." And also remember that this was before Lost, Heroes, etc. It worked because it combined elements of faith, perseverance and the search for answers. I don’t necessarily mean in the show but rather it offered these things for the viewer. You got the sense from the show, like religion, that everything would turn out okay, but there was always room for doubt.

To use Christianity as a barometer consider this comparison: To fully vest oneself in the works of the Bible one must be willing to assume that Christ was able to turn water into wine, heal the sick, etc. Sydney Bristow’s feats offer some of the same general lack of believability. She is just human enough to be injured, but criminals just cannot seem to finish her off. And those that watch get the sense that to question what was happening in the show would be to question the very reason we watch. We watch because we want to be given answers no matter the complexity. Sydney is the one who will save the human race? Well I’m on board. Her friends will follow her to the ends of the Earth? So would I. The show hops through space and time like Star Trek on speed? That’s just the way the world works. And because of this faith in producer JJ Abrams and his grand vision of the show, we watched and watched and watched. All in all we tackled a majority of the first four seasons in about 3 weeks and often gave up sleep on work nights with a simple quote, "Just one more episode." You can cast your vote for me as Teacher of the Year here.

When the last disc of Season 5 came through on Netflix and we had only two episodes left there were mixed feelings. On one hand we hoped to get some answers. We wanted some vision of the future while neatly tying up any loose ends that existed in the plot. But at the same time we wondered what would happen next. Not in the show, but to us. There would be no other story, no other developments. We would be left to interpret the show on our own. Draw our own conclusions and live beyond what we had been given.

Are these feelings some sort indictment about the idolatry of television in society? Probably on some level, but on another level it illustrates how religion, on many levels is a show. There is a plot, the characters are a little better or a little worse than anyone we know and it wants us to keep coming back week after week. It gives us some and asks a lot in return. We need to keep the ratings up to ensure Christianity or Islam or Buddhism is the way to go. The more watchers, the longer it sticks around. That is until you realize it really can’t give you anymore and then it is time for the show to end. Alias did this and walked out on a high note. Now I need somewhere else to go, I hope this season Jack Bauer cures leprosy.

Why did I start drinking coffee?

When I was younger I could never go into the fish section of the grocery store. In fact, I really couldn't go near it. The smell of raw seafood and the images of whole fish sitting on display in crushed ice made me instantly nauseous. I would have to hang in the cereal isle while my mom picked up whatever we were having. I never ate fish.

Similarly, in the Norrie house, every Friday was pizza night. As a family we were either socially allergic or monetarily indisposed to eating anywhere but home. Restaurants were not part of the equation. Thus Fridays were a big deal. Usually it would just mean ordering a pie from Dimolas, but on occasion mom and dad would want to get Chinese. On these occasions the 'rents would come up big and make a special trip to the pizza parlor because they knew their eldest just couldn’t force down General Tso's or rice and noodles. Couldn’t stomach and didn't want to try.

Well it would seem Dylan was right that the time's they are a changin'. Years later I am morphing, becoming a new man so to speak. Every once in awhile the little lady will want some Chinese and I'll be damned if the Sesame Chicken doesn’t sound good. Some nights at my friend Pat's house I find myself asking for seconds on the salmon.

There was no set point, distinguishable moment or conscious decision to start enjoying these things. I honestly had never thought about it too terribly hard until a couple of weeks ago when I was standing in Dunkin Donuts. All of a sudden I woke up and realized I had been here everyday for the last two weeks. I found myself about to, like a seasoned pro, order my medium French Vanilla, cream, sweet and low. At that point I thought, "What the hell am I doing? I hate coffee!" This was the same drink I used to refer to as burnt water. I couldn't even sip out of my parents' mugs without being left with a sickening aftertaste for an hour. In fact, at one point, some friends and I had argued quite seriously about the negative effects of coffee compared to beer. (I argued in favor of the hops and barley of course) Yet here I was ordering that very same "deadly poison" as it had been referred and loving every minute of it.

I started to wonder what else I could change about myself. Maybe I could get myself to go skydiving or even start to like flying. Was it possible that I would actually one day like the movie Grease? Maybe there would be a time when Phoebe from Friends would seem humorous to me. I could even get comfortable walking down the street with Sabrina and having both our arms around each other at the same time. For a brief moment nothing was safe.

But then I remembered that coffee was addictive, a diuretic and made the drinker’s breath stink. Not all change is good. Some things should stay consistent and there is pride in stability. I’m fine as is. It was an epiphany or sorts and I had it all while staring at Saresh and her Dunkin Donuts uniform. So when she asked me if I wanted my usual replied, “No, its time for a change,” and started putting my money away. But then I saw the picture on the menu of the hot steam emerging from a cup of java and said, “Scratch that, I’ll take an extra large mocha, heavy cream, four sugars.” Skydiving here I come.

Wrong template = already suck at blogging

Inspired by my friend Mike Pacchione's seemingly painless transition to blogging (going from emailing people his complaints on life, to simply streamlining the process through a web page) I think I will just begin here and see where it goes. Considering I have about 10 friends total that use the internet on a regular basis I doubt I will be a Blogspot MVP anytime soon.

Unfortunately this foray into the depths of what I am interested barely got off the ground as I stalled at the "choice of template" page. Does a template say anything about you? Am I simple man or in other words a Tekka template kind of guy? Am I deep and thought-provoking enough to use a Dr. Moto or even Son of Moto template? Or should I just admit that I have given up on life and go with Scribe? If a blog tells alot about you then surely a template shows alot about you. I'm too complex for a Simple template, but I'm not Marty McFly enough for the Denim. In the end I just looked for direction and chose the only one that let me follow instead of lead. I chose Thisaway and I guess that's where we are going with this thing.