Famous Last Words

Best of the best

2011-09-26T21:54:00.000-07:00

Since I just witnessed an all-time great episode of television last night, and I know the world desperately needs this, I will rank the ten best shows currently on air. They don't have to be currently in-season, but they must be still in production. So no Friday Night Lights or 24.

Another rule: All shows ranked below are scripted, fictional series, comedy or drama. So no Daily Show, Colbert Report, Jersey Shore.

Let's get on with it already.

10. Sons of Anarchy: While uneven, the boys of SAMCRO eek onto this list by sheer entertainment value. This show is never boring. And the acting, especially from Katey Segal, is top notch. SOA also gets points for having Maggie Siff on my screen. Much appreciated.

9. Curb Your Enthusiasm: After eight seasons of Larry David haggling over inane social customs with ignorant, oblivious, spoiled Hollywood bourgeois, Curb often feels rote. Larry fights a hostess of a fancy restaurant and then needs this hostess for a big favor at some future point in the show, only to be rejected. Cue the theme music. However, every other episode or so - counting "Palestinian Chicken" - scores a knockout and invigorates the series. If Curb were a baseball player at this point, it would bat around .270 but hit 25-30 homeruns.

8. Boardwalk Empire: Beautifully rendered, well acted ... this is a professional show in every regard. And the topic - the rise of the gangster lifestyle in the 1920s - is ripe for great storytelling. Yet the shows often leaves me feeling cold. I watch the characters. I am entertained by them. I do not feel for them. It makes this list because it's well done, but Boardwalk has yet to reach its full potential. Tony Soprano brought a real intensity to The Sopranos that is lacking with Nucky Thompson.

7. Louie: I've been reading plenty of proclamations along these lines: Louie is the best show on TV. I won't go that far. Some episodes fall flat, like the time Louie and his girls visit the racist aunt. What makes Louis ONE of the best shows is its ability to make me laugh one episode and feel enormous catharsis the next. This is not strictly a comedy despite the presence of the No. 1 comedian in the world. The episode with his suicidal friend was better than what most dramas can offer.

P.S. And the segment where Louie was on TV defending masturbation has to be one of the funniest of the year.

6. 30 Rock: A year ago this would be much higher, but the show lost just a smidgen off its fastball. That does little to detract from the funniest set of characters to come down the pike in a long time. Even if an episode here or there fails to live up to the show's standards, the combo of Jack Donaghy/Liz Lemon/Tracy Jordan will never fail to get me through 22 minutes. A show that is a pure joy to watch.

5. Justified: This FX offering flies under the radar a bit. Timothy Olyphant was born for the role of Raylan Givens, the laconic, prone-to-violence federal marshal Raylan Givens. Walton Goggins shines as his smooth antagonist Boyd Crowder. Never before has backwoods Kentucky been this intriguing.

4. Parks and Recreation: Just beats out 30 Rock as the best comedy on the air. Season 3 was damn close to perfect. Andy Dwyer is a riot. April Ludgate is sarcastic apathy at its finest. But this show is awesome for one reason: Ron Swanson. The gruff, libertarian, "man's man" boss of the Parks and Recreation department in Pawnee, Indiana is comedy gold. I put him up there with Donaghy, Costanza, even Homer (Simspon, not the guy who wrote "The Odyssey") I could watch a show with just him complaining about his job. If you can't or don't want to watch this show, at least YouTube the character.

3. Mad Men: My main problem with Mad Men in seasons 1 and 2 was that many episodes did not move the plot along one inch. The show fell in love with its characters and setting and forgot about the "stuff actually happening" part. While still awesome television, I would not say it's No. 1 for that reason. But they have rectified that issue the past two seasons. This is the most dissected and talked about show among the TV snobs in America (and I include myself in that group). Many would say it's by far the best show going - it's won four straight Emmy's for best drama. I disagree, but that doesn't mean I dislike it. This show is gold and the biggest mistake HBO has made in years was passing on this sure-fire critical hit.

2. Game of Thrones: Speaking of HBO, this is the best series the channel has produced since the final episode of The Wire. Tremendous acting. Awe-inspiring to look at in HD. What really sets this show apart is plot. They burn through it like Sherman to the Atlantic. Every episode ends in a great plot twist, including the biggest twist of the year in the next to last episode. And if you feel there's a dearth of great female characters on TV, watch this show. Arya Stark. Cersei Lannister. Katelyn Stark. Daenerys Targaryen. You might have no idea who these people are. You should. But ... the best part of this show is BY FAR the performance of Peter Dinklage as Tyrion Lannister, aka "The Imp." He's one of those ambivalent characters who you're not sure is good or bad but you're sure is damn interesting. Simply, he's phenomenal. As is this show.

1. Breaking Bad: I must thank Jeff Schaible for turning me on to this show. I saw the commercials for the first season and assumed it would be one of those trippy stoner shows, like a televised version of Trainspotting. I was not interested. Then I started watching, and it's clear that while Mad Men wins all the Emmy's, it is not the best show on its own network. Bryan Cranston so dominates the role of Walter White it frustrates me when he's not on the screen. No show does suspense like Breaking Bad. It's the Cohen Brothers on AMC - the desolate settings, the pathos of sudden violence and black comedy. And it just gets better and better. The most recent episode - Crawl Space - had my heart pounding. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. There's no question in my mind this is the Tom Brady (not yesterday's version) of television shows, and I say this aware that I haven't watched all of them. I just know.

Freedom

2011-09-19T20:07:00.000-07:00

Two weeks have passed since I spent my first full day in my new single apartment in Coconut Creek. I can safely draw some conclusions about my new abode. Why not share them?

The first night I slept in this place, a powerful sense of loneliness consumed me. I did not see it coming, either. I've spent time alone in apartments before - the summer of 2006 in Brookline being a prime example. But for some reason, the sentiment turned intense that maiden night. I grew up sharing a room with three sisters, then had roommates in college and roommates/housemates in Florida. It took me a few nights to get used to it, but I am.

It's awesome being able to watch what I want when I want now. It's great to not have to worry about waking anyone up at night or in the morning, cooking, watching a movie or practicing the xylophone. I rule this house! ME!! The power is intoxicating.

The location is quite nice. I'm right at the entrance on the first floor. I don't even have to share a hallway with my neighbors. Speaking of which, I've yet to meet a single one. I rarely see anyone milling about, sitting on their porch or anything. The guy next door drinks a lot. I can tell by the Budweiser cardboards I see outside his door every other day. But that's the extent of my knowledge concerning the near dwellers. Perhaps they are shut-ins like me.

My new complex is across the street from a supermarket plaza and I'm withing walking distance of a Starbucks! How neat is that? I walked the 15 minutes last Sunday. It was 92 degrees. I drove to the same Starbucks today. What can I say? Florida is not friendly to pedestrianism.

It hasn't all been lollipops and coffee milk here. I've had an ant problem - little sugar ants crawling all over my countertop and kitchen floor, even my nightstand on one occasion. There are some sultry teenagers who like to hang outside my apartment, smoking their cigarettes and looking intensely at me when I walk by. You don't scare me, street toughs.

The one negative that keeps popping up in my mind is the longer drive. My old place was so damn close to work. I got spoiled by the seven-minute drives back and forth. Now it's closer to 20 minutes. I know many would still love that commute, but after four years, the short drive burrowed into my system and it's hard living without it. Every night when I'm driving back I think, "Shouldn't I be home by now? Why am I still in this driving machine?"

Besides those minor quibbles, I'm enjoying the new digs. Consider yourself in the know.

A damn good night

2011-09-12T22:18:00.000-07:00

That was awesome.

I just returned from Sun Life Stadium having witnessed one of the greatest exhibitions of the quarterback science in NFL history. I saw two fights, one between a man and a woman. I saw parachuters and a stealth bomber.

And I finally saw NFL football in person.

The 9/11 tribute was great to see in person. And the stealth bomber flew directly over my head. (I was high up there.) Stealth is a good word for it. I didn't hear it coming. There are motorcycles and scooters louder than that fine piece of American weaponry.

The game started inauspiciously with Chad Henne turning into Michael Vick. But then Tom Brady came out and showed that the Dolphins couldn't do much to stop him. Seeing him play on TV is one thing. Seeing him in person is another.

I had a nice coach's tape eye-view from my seat next to the moon. The plays develop in flash. Four or five guys running routes with only three seconds to decide where to throw it. And when he does throw, the space available is tiny. And he just zipped pass after pass after pass into those tiny spaces.

Surgical is a word used often to describe Brady, and it's damn appropriate. That first bomb he threw to Matthew Slater ... his back was to me so I sort of saw what he saw. There was a sliver of space and he zoomed a perfect dart.

Then there's one of my favorite live sporting moments I have ever seen live. The Pats were at the half-yard line driving toward my section behind the end zone. Brady was barely visible behind all the lineman buried deep in New England territory. He throws a seam route to Wes Welker. I couldn't tell if he caught it. Then he's running in my direction and I lost it.

I was quietly rooting for the Home 11, but I could not help myself on that play. Just awesome. That sent whatever remaining Dolphins fans home for the evening.

The game was far from the only interesting thing I witnessed. In the second half the people in my section started to get rowdy. There was this one female Dolphins fan who was cussing at every Pats fans walking up the aisle. "Suck my d&%$!" Or "Suck his d%^#!" while pointing to whom I suppose was her boyfriend.

A trio of Pats fans just laughed it off. But seconds later, the Patriots scored. I believe it was the Aaron Hernandez touchdown. That trio came back down to talk some trash to this lady. There were words exchanged. Another Patriots fan sitting across the aisle from me started to horn in on the action, using naughty words to describe this fine lady.

So one of this lady's friends approaches him and they jaw at each other until she splashes beer in his face. That involved the Pats fan's girlfriend and the lady's boyfriend. Some shoving, pointing fingers, all egged on by the crowd of course.

"Control your bitch," the Pats' fan said to the boyfriend. That only escalated matters. The girls started shoving a bit, but at that moment, the authorities intervened. They were just about to the eject the Pats fan but, shocking, Dolphins fans came to his defense and he was allowed to stay.

Later on, there was another fracas seven or eight rows up. A Pats fan was ejected for this one. Seems the police have a little bias, but then, Miami fans have to win at something, right?

I stayed until the final whistle. I wanted to soak it all in -- the half-empty stadium now taken over by Pats fans, who already had represented themselves in impressive numbers. I exited on the opposite end of the stadium from where I parked (my sense of direction failing me again) but I did happen to drop by a fleet of buses that were taking the victors to the airport.

This blog makes adding photo difficult, though my photos aren't great anyway, but I did see some Patriots board the buses and talk to family and friends. There was Chad Ochocinco. Nate Solder. Julian Edleman. BenJarvus Green-Ellis. Deion Branch. Vince Wilfork. Albert Haynesworth. And Bill Belichick himself. No Tom Brady, unfortunately.

But he made up for it on the field, don't you think?

Come on, Irene

2011-08-21T21:37:00.000-07:00

Latest update from the "I Don't Need This Shit" department ...

A tropical storm is waiting in the seas of the Caribbean and South Florida is in her crosshairs.

Just last week a few friends and I were talking and it came up that I have yet to experience a hurricane or tropical storm in my nearly five years in Florida. It is quite a run. I hope I don't have to change that to "it was quite a run."

A hurricane is bad enough. No one wants to live through one of those, but that sort of weather disturbance is a fact if life down here. My main problem is the forecast time of arrival.

This Thursday and Friday.

That poses a problem. I am scheduled to move Thursday and fly up to New Jersey on Friday. The timing is delicate and the last thing I need is for an interruption in the form of 100 mph winds and torrential rain.

For the last eight months I've been looking forward to this move date. Words can't express how badly I've wanted to find my own apartment. And I NEED to do it before Friday.

The day after this move, I am scheduled to fly north for my first vacation in eight months. I desperately need this vacation and I don't want anything to go wrong. And I certainly don't want to waste days (potentially) of my precious time off.

Do I worry too much? It's early Monday. This storm could be over London by late next week. A friend of mine has already told me I worry too much. My mom agrees. I just have a bad feeling about this one.

I do have one thing going for me ... I actually purchased travel insurance with my plane ticket. I saw this coming months ago. Right when I found out that the wedding I'm planning this trip around was on Sept. 3, my brain started churning.

You see, late August and early September is the absolute heart of hurricane season. My constant worry-wartism served me well this time.

I'm so on guard about this I've checked the weather three times today. My usual system of checking the weather is looking out the window. The thought of having to drive up north has even crossed my mind. If my flight is delayed 24 hours, then the Mets tickets I bought would most likely go to waste. And my chances of trying terrible drinks at Zach's bachelor party would be severely threatened.

Take a deep breath ...

I won't go totally crazy unless this thing is still on track by Tuesday. Before then I promise only to fret and worry, giving me a few more gray hairs - as if I needed more.

If, however, the weathermen say Tuesday night Irene is coming to town, then I go into arms-flailing mode.

The Reverend

2011-08-14T17:38:00.000-07:00

"I can motivate just as easy as I can bring someone down."

The Boston Globe had Speck, with his array of strange quotes I'll always remember. "Where's the wellington, hi-ho?" being the No. 1 most memorable, and oft-repeated, line.

My current job has someone even more quotable. So quotable, in fact, that one of my co-workers keeps a wall of his cubicle covered in post-it notes chronicling the best lines this man mutters.

For the purposes of this blog, we'll call him The Reverend. That's his nickname. And this man knows how to give out nicknames. I am "Willy Lee," an ironic redneck name for someone who is far from a man of the South. Other nicknames include "Shandoor," "Yo-gee," "The Professor," "The Director," "Jitter Bob," "Remo," "Mr. Pink," "Spaniard," and my all-time favorite, "Fritzy," for a guy with Sideshow Bob style hair.

As The Reverend would say: "I don't give nicknames to individuals I don't like."

This man came to America in 1984 from Communist Romania. He's a New York sports fan who happens to be very good at ping pong. He's a no-nonsense individual with a manner of speaking and plethora of phrases I will use in my every day life. Here's a few.

Pork

Used to describe anyone who is disheveled, unseemly, messy, and usually, obese.

Fui

Sounds like fu...wayyy. Used anytime someone burps, farts or says something disgusting. It's used often.

Papa-gallo

Used to describe a clown deserving of no respect.

Criminal element

Used when talking about shady characters like Michael Vick, Plaxico Burress, etc.

Those are just a few of his original phrases. But I'm here today to give you some of his best quotes. Enjoy.

On a man who likes to eat.

"He'll always be a pork. Food is too important to that individual."

On my frequent trips to Boston Market.

"Willy, that is a terrible establishment."

On an injured player.

"Is he broken? He's broken. Cadaver on the field. Career over."

On something that doesn't concern him or matter to him.

"That don't bother me no none."

On a particular co-worker making personal calls to you for a favor

"Any time he calls you, he has filthy reasons."

Here are a couple on his ping pong exploits. He does not lack for confidence.

"Whenever I am down, I rise to the occasion to show I am the superior athlete."

"Wanna lose with your ball or my ball? Your choice."

"When I serve it, I serve it nasty."

"Put any punk in front of me, and I'll beat him like a mutt."

"I made him bleed."

"His name is Alex. I'll take the English out of him. Call him Alejandro."

On someone having a cushy day or afternoon schedule.

"Those are banker's hours."

On someone calling me "Lord Willy" in honor of the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup.

"There ain't no Lord. There's only me, the baddest motherfucker on the planet."

That's all I can recall off the top of my head. There are more.

This guy is endlessly entertaining.

It's about time

2011-08-08T21:33:00.000-07:00

The last time I opened the dusty drawers of this blog, there was a functioning American economy.

With hard-working citizens forced to barter human skulls for rat meat, I figure it's time to write something here. Usually I have nothing going on. Spouting off with inane comments on pop culture loses its luster after a while. So it's funny that over the past two months "stuff" has been going on and yet I wrote nothing.

I have failed you all.

Work has been nuts. I'm now somewhat of a supervisor. My dreams of middle-management have been achieved! While my compatriots wander off on their summer vacations, I've held down the fort at the Eye's sports website. Countless columns on the NFL lockouts ceded to countless columns on the craziest Free Agency news orgy I have ever experienced in journalism. I was so drained that I bought beer at 7/11 at 2:30 on a Friday morning and guzzled it out of a brown paper bag. My eyeballs pulsated with a dull pain and my senses were fried and beer provided the only remedy.

You can guess why I've been too lazy/almost suicidal to blog.

Throw on top the always enjoyable process of moving. I haven't packed a single thing yet and I'm almost exhausted. Hiring movers, buying all new furniture, purchasing mandatory renter's insurance, setting up bills ... this new place better be worth it. I move in the day before my first vacation of the year starts, so I will not be able to enjoy my new South Beach penthouse until early September.

I plan on making this an actual 'home.' Not in the sense of a huddled family around the fireplace, but an apartment that isn't just a collection of furniture in front of a television set. With this in mind, I purchased matching sofas and sleek glass-top tables. I might even get a plant or some artwork.

Also, during the last month or so I reconnected with this girl I mentioned in a previous entry. To her dismay, I had not struck big as an Internet entrepreneur nor had I turned into an Alcide-type hunk. The reconnection was mercilessly strangled in its infancy. The one lasting effect from this tired story was a lack of eating.

There were days when a persistent anxiousness dominated my waking hours to such an extent I lost much of my appetite for a period of about four weeks. Yes, I know I have major issues.

Warning: This part will most likely piss you off ...

Backtracking, I weighed roughly 170 pounds in college. I feasted on an almost daily buffet of coffee coolattas, muffins, pizza and pop tarts. I was still a stick figure, but I did not quite resemble a famine victim. Perhaps a malnourished peasant, but not famine. My weight remained consistent through the Florida years until I contracted food poisoning. The morning after that terrible day, the scale was below 150.

I figured I'd gain it back eventually. While some of it returned, a hefty amount of stranded pounds disappeared. The stress of the past few months curtailed my eating further. At this moment, I'm at 153. When I traveled up north for a short period of time in May, many Sears denizens commented on my noticeable thinness. My mom commanded me to eat more.

You know me: I do what mommy says. While I watch what I eat a little bit more than I used to, I no longer care if I drink too many frappuchinos in one week. I enjoy dessert with abandon. I still don't eat lunch, but I consume large dinners. And while I do my fair share of exercising, the intense heat of the Florida summer, combined with constant rain and work-related exhaustion have curtailed physical activity to some extent.

Yet my weight stays the same. I might reach 154 or 155, but that's about the limit. Could I eat nothing but KFC double-downs and watch every episode of the People's Court for a good month and not gain a pound? I'm starting to wonder.

Last week I went to the doctor's office with an ear issue. (The Schaibles might remember my 2006 stay in San Diego which involved a doomed job interview and nothing but Family Guy DVDs for several days ... that malaise occurred in large part to the same ear problem for which I visited the doctor most recently.)

One of the nurses could not even read my blood pressure because my arm was too thin for the flap. She had to get a smaller one. And after the doctor fixed the ears, she asked me how everything else is going. I told her that I cannot gain weight.

She only laughed. "Most people would cut a limb off to lose weight. As you get older, your metabolism will slow down."

She's right of course. But people told me my metabolism would start to slow in the late 20's, yet it is stronger than ever. While God/nature gave me graying hair, the social skills of a wooden chair, gorilla legs and a pipsqueak of a stomach, they also bestowed upon me a world-class metabolism (and a wicked split-finger pitch.)

Odds are my skeletal frame could gradually shrink until I'm nothing but a poor imitation of Benjamin Button. Before that happens, I must fatten myself up. Stay away from stress and hunching over my laptop and blogging more frequently would be a decent start.

Harsh, but true

2011-07-11T21:26:00.000-07:00

Jason Stackhouse is tied to a bed, his rippling abs displayed prominently, while backward hillbilly Werepanthers (yes, it's as stupid as it sounds) gnaw at his torso.

The next week, Jason remains in his predicament as one of the female Werepanthers rapes him for the child Werepanthers to watch.

Why does this storyline exist? What the hell is a Werepanther? And, do the writers of True Blood think this constitutes good television?

Do they even care if it is good television?

True Blood started as a fun, sexy and campy vampire drama topped with nice helping of southern gothic storytelling. It never sought the status of The Wire or The Sopranos because that would be a hopeless endeavor. It tried to be fun and buzzworthy. The show's stars show up naked (save for some conveniently placed limps) and are always on hand to shoot the camera a sultry glare, their hair neatly coiffed and fangs showing.

And I admit, I watched. The acting is great, the production value is top notch. Every episode ends on a cliffhanger, usually involving Anna Paquin screeching into the camera followed by a quick cut to black. Not quite the definition of high-brow entertainment, but never boring.

As Season 1 became Season 2 and Season 2 became Season 3, my admiration for the show waned. I'm no prude, but the show devolved into vampire porn. There must be a site out there that counts down the minutes until a man takes off his shirt and a woman does the same. Don't even get started on the short time it takes before we see some, can I say, passionate and rough intercourse.

Still, I watched. True Blood had yet to break the No. 1 rule of TV - At first, do not bore.

Which takes us to the current season, which just aired its third episode. Let's count the screw-ups, shall we?

There's one everlasting truth in Bon Tomps -- no one is human. Everyone has some secret power. Everyone is either a vampire, a Werewolf, a shifter, a Werepanther, a witch, a mindreader and even a maenad. If someone in that hellhole Louisiana town is not some supernatural being, that person soon will be.

This leads to Mr. Stackhouse and his mind-boggingly stupid storyline. It's not fine that he remain a dim figure of comic relief; he needs to turn into a panther. The Werepanthers are dumb characters who waste precious time, yet every other scene involves them and their lack of teeth while they charmingly chew on dead squirrels.

They are far from alone in the wasteful character dump that infests this show. Tommy Merlotte ... don't care. Get him off my screen. He's annoying and useless. The witches ... again, don't care. Don't we have enough going on with vampires and Werewolves and warlocks and hobbits and sonic hedgehogs? Must we spend time watching Marni mumble in gibberish? Arlene and the baby ... just not interesting. Tara and her ratings-friendly lesbian relationship ... not interesting. Sam's new shifter support group ... more of the same. There's only 50 minutes or so of show time. Save it for Sookie, Eric, Lafayette, Jessica and Bill. Sprinkle the others here and there.

I forgot to mention fairies. The first ten minutes of the season opened with Sookie in some fairy netherworld where people eat glowing golden apples. These apples are bad! The fairies are farming .... people!! Oh wait, there's Sookie's grandfather! Let's have a heart-to-heart. Oh no! The fairy queen is turning into some kind of gremlin. Now every fairy is a gremlin. They shoot laser beams from their hands. (This looked straight from a show you'd find on Saturday afternoons on the old UPN network.)

Sookie and her grandfather jump into a closing portal and re-enter the real world. But heavens no, her grandfather is dying! Sookie cries. I'm broken-hearted because I've known this grandfather character for five minutes. He turns into a sickly gray mass and disappears. We're supposed to be sad.

I'm just mad at what this show has become.

Yet I still watch. It takes a lot for me to give up on a series. I have only done it a select few times (Boston Legal, ER). There is still just enough to keep me intrigued. I'm a big fan of Jessica. I like Bill as the King of Louisiana. Eric and Pam are always fun. But I'm setting an eye-rolling record for this season, and I doubt I'm alone.

Just a few questions

2011-06-19T22:54:00.000-07:00

After months of secrecy and deceit, the child is coming. It's exciting news for sure, but the American public has a lot of questions for the Schaible couple. Like, when bearing gifts for the new child, should we bring gold, frankincense or myrrh?

The biggest query I have is the name. Will the Schaibles go the celebrity route and choose a name like Baseball Prospectus Schaible or Coffee Coolatta Schaible? No one knows. There was less secrecy to the Osama bin Laden mission than with this baby's potential name. Here are a few guesses of mine ...

They could do the right thing and name the child after me. I'd be honored if a baby boy was named Stephen Steve Schaible. In the case of a girl, Stephanie Steve Schaible would be acceptable.
Another possibility would be to honor Jeff's best friends from college with Vishal French Schaible. A diverse name for sure. He'd easily make it to Harvard.
For a girl, the Schaibles could get lazy. Hey, it's been a hectic few months. So Emily Emily Schaible has a nice ring to it.
Since the parents really got to know each other at the Boston Globe sports department, honoring that wonderful dream maker would be appropriate. MIAA High School Roundup Schaible? Wintext Sport Joe Schaible? The possibilities ...

The smart Vegas money had to be on smooth, one-syllable name, especially for a boy. Dave. Bill. Tom. Joe. Something that would fit easily on the lists of Bristol, Connecticut's finest country clubs 50 years from now.

In the instance that the child is a girl, the field of names if wide open. I wouldn't know where to begin. It's not unlike the field of candidates for the Republican convention, except the fetus probably accepts evolution and climate change by now.

Now, there are other questions I've been hearing. Such as: Where is the birth certificate? The fact that the baby hasn't been born yet is not enough to deter certain conspiracy theorists on the web. Other issues ...

When will the child have a Facebook account?
By what age will the kid have a fastball that is better than mine? Five or six is the guess, boy or girl.
Which baseball team will be the kid's favorite, Red Sox or Yankees? Or will the kid rebel against his/her parents and hate baseball and love other activities, like clapping at a movie theater to movies like "Tree of Life?" By the way, what is "Tree of Life?" A sequel to the "Lord of the Rings?" I'm really out of the loop on this one.
Which website will the child use for his/her Fantasy games, because you can't beat the top notch product at CBSSports.com!

At least a few of these questions should be answered very shortly.

The man with the scary tattoo

2011-06-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

Last Friday my string of one-on-one basketball victories came to an end. And I knew it would the second I saw my challenger.

He was around 6-foot-2, 6-foot-3 with a very long wingspan. When you play enough times, you can just tell when guys are good. You develop a sixth sense for this stuff. This guy looked like he had played in high school.

But I'm never one to back down, so I accepted his challenge and we played a three games to 11 on a blustery, 94 degree afternoon. (I had already been shooting for almost an hour by the time he arrived, and the winds that day were cruel.)

The reason I blog about this particular game is not that I lost, which is certainly rare enough to warrant such a report. It's that the guy took off his shirt and displayed a tattoo I will never forget.

"Fuck Every Body" ran right across the top of his chest. You should have seen my face when I saw it. "Dear God, he's going to destroy me." He also had tattoos of woman's faces on his stomach. It was distracting. And sort of scary.

In the first game, I took a quick lead driving to the basket without abandon. But then I missed a shot wide right (remember, 15-20 mph gusts that day) and he decided, "Perhaps I should post up this 158-pound stick figure." From then on I was powerless to stop him.

My strategy was to play off him and pray that he would shoot jumpers. It worked here and there, but he built a 7-2 advantage. At one point, I blocked one of his jump shots, but the ball went right back to him and he attempted a hook shot. He missed that one, too, but rebounded over my back and laid it in. I screamed a profanity in frustration. You can't call "over the back" in pickup hoops, but I was still peeved. He told me to "calm down."

Yes, the guy with "Fuck Every Body" tattooed on his chest told ME to calm down.

This lit a fire in me and I hit five straight shots to tie the game, but he went on to win 11-9. Absolutely exhausted and my right shoulder killing me, I rested for ten minutes and then we faced off in a rematch. I entered Schaible mode and shot almost nothing but two's (shot from behind the arc). I couldn't drive on him. He was too tall. I couldn't do my patented drive, stop and shoot a fade-away because he had arms like the tentacles of a giant octopus.

He got out to another big lead, but I found my touch once again. It was 9-9 and I missed three two-point attempts in a row. Thankfully, he was taking jump shots and missing them. At last, I grabbed a rebound, raced to the top of the key and nailed a two-pointer. I ran forward in case there was a rebound, saw the ball touch nothing but net and raised my arms in sweet, sweet victory.

Whatever is beyond exhausted, that's what I was at that point. I also had to be at work, but a true man can never leave if a series is tied at 1. A tiebreaker must be staged.

He toyed with me down in the paint, at some points laughing to himself because he got about 90 percent of the rebounds. Again, this guy's wingspan was ridiculous. Up 7-1 at one point, he thought victory was assured. Little did he know that his spindly opponent is not called "Ironwill O'Houlihan" for nothing.

The gusts FINALLY died down and I started draining everything. I took the lead at 9-8 and had a chance to make it 10-8 but I short-armed a very makeable hook shot. Unfortunately for me, he did his thing in the paint and won the deciding game 11-9.

Yes, this story ended tragically. But perhaps I gained a modicum of respect from this fellow I shall forever know as "Fuck Every Body." He said, "Good shootin'" and we clasped hands before I stumbled deliriously to my car.

My streak of not having lost a one-on-one series, which lasted all of 2011, is over. But my pride shall never die.

Adventures at Starbucks

2011-05-31T18:57:00.000-07:00

The weirdos are supposed to be at Dunkin' Donuts. The creepy old man in his blue truck who always stared at me before I bought my 4:45 a.m. iced coffee. Or the other old creepy man sitting on a chair outside the Dunkin' Donuts, slumped over, mouth hanging open and looking like he just overdosed on pills.

I expect that at the Dunk. Not at Starbucks.

Sure, you have your screenwriters, your professionals reading the New York Times, your random musicians. However, recent experiences may require that I carry a weapon or camera so as to protect myself or capture for myself some very strange moments and people. Let's go down the list.

I walked past a woman getting out of an orange car on my way to Starbucks to finish reading my 700-page Lyndon Johnson biography. Didn't think anything of her until I saw her reflection in the black glass of a nearby store. She had no shirt on, just a bra. I couldn't help myself so I shot a very conspicuous look back at her to find this woman, probably in her 30's, with short blond hair, in the process of putting on a dress. Right in a parking lot. At 5:30 p.m. People everywhere. To top it off, she gave me a little snarl, as if to say, "How dare you!" Hey, I'm not the one who mistook a parking lot for the fitting room at Filene's Basement. I did not deserve that look. Not at all.

In the corner of said Starbucks sat a mysterious woman who had unfurled several manila envelops on the table. Nothing out of of the ordinary there, until on further inspection, she reminded me of a towering figure from my past - Mrs. Tanner, the feared 12th grade English teacher at Cranston High School East. Imagine the stern headmaster in any British movie and you get a fair picture of her. This lady had the same face, same protruding chin, same cold eyes, same glasses perched at the edge of her nose and even the same hair style, except Starbucks Tanner had maroonish hair, not black like Cranston Tanner. This poor lady must have wondered why this lanky kid in a Serra Padres shirt was looking at her in abject fear.

A few days ago I was working on my computer, minding my own business and trying to listen to my iTunes. To my dismay, my headphones were broke. I mention this because a first date was going on right next to me and I couldn't help but hear the whole thing. I've well entered my bitter, angry man phase, so this interaction pissed me off. Having to listen to some chirpy couple exchanging annoying small talk in annoying voices really .... annoyed me. The guy regaled the woman about his job as a hypnotist. Yes, a hypnotist. And he was so gosh darn happy about it. The woman spoke in a throaty, high-pitched tone that scaled at my eardrums. They were happy and cheerful and flirty. Grumpy old Sears shot them dirty looks all afternoon. (Really, a hypnotist? He told a story how he learned of his "talents" at a summer camp when he was 12. Shut up.)

Another day, another couple, just not as bothersome. The woman was very beautiful, some kind of foreign. I couldn't tell though. And the guy had a British accent and he was kind of a jerk to her the whole time. They argued about something, and he was winning. I didn't get the particulars since my headphones were actually working this time. But they aren't the crux of this vignette. A hippy-looking kid with floppy brown hair and Rivers Cuomo glasses walked right up to me and asked, "Do you know how to hack into the FBI database in this Starbucks?" I said, "What?" And he repeated his question even louder. The woman next to me shot me a nervous look and I told the kid, "I have no idea." He shrugged and walked back to his friends. I told the couple next to me, "And if I did know I certainly wouldn't tell him." They smiled, but did not laugh as uproariously as I had intended. An elderly man sitting by himself in the corner then shouted to me, "Just a stupid kid. A really stupid kid." He shook his head in disgust and continued reading his book. I will be that man in about 30 years.

Once again, trying to read my LBJ biography and a man dressed like one of the green men at the Canucks games walked in, except his getup was blue. It's been so strange at Starbucks for me recently I didn't bat an eye and kept reading, completely ignoring his prancing around.

Strange enough for you? Some of you could be disappointed that I wasn't vomited on or thrown out by a power-hungry home plate umpire. Still, weird people need to stay away from me. Actually, all people need to stay away from me. I really want to be that cranky guy in the corner of your local Starbucks by 2040.

Back to the Tercel

2011-05-13T18:34:00.001-07:00

My days as a semi-normal human being are over ... for now.

A few weeks ago my bosses told me they were switching me back to the night shift. My time as the early, early morning guy ended today a little past 2 p.m. So goodbye, weekends. Goodbye, 4 a.m. alarm. Goodbye, delicious company breakfasts. Goodbye, sunlight.

While getting up at 4 a.m. and going to bed at around 10 p.m. befits a man of 80, it was still as close to normal as I have ever been since college. I felt like I had the whole day to experience. On days off I woke up at 7 or 8 a..m., a full day to waste. And waste them I did.

Now I head back to sleeping until mid-afternoon, the sun almost ready to set by the time I'm ready to go outside. I head back to Vampire Hours.

It's not all bad. I will be able to watch the mediocre Red Sox now. I will be able to watch live sporting events without fighting to stay awake. Staying up for all the Bruins and Celtics game the past month and a half took a heavy toll. Two days ago I returned to my apartment right after work, plopped into bed and decided to nap 'for a few minutes.' When I woke up, three hours had passed.

This move fills me with no joy, but I guess if I wanted a 9-to-5 job I should have chosen a different profession. Don't you worry about Steve Sears. I will carry on. I will still drink coffee, only this time the caffeine will keep me alert at midnight, not 5 a.m. And I will always appreciate my eight-month respite as a normal human being. It reminds me of the time my craptacular 1988 Toyota Tercel needed repairs and I drove a rental car to high school. I forget the make and model, but it was sweet.

Really sweet.

It's white paint glimmered with that new car shine. Unlike my Tercel, it had a working radio and did not spew a mysterious and probably fatal green gas into the atmosphere. (I am the biggest cause of Global Warming.) The seats weren't torn. It reached 50 mph without shaking violently. Basically, I drove a limo to Cranston East for a few days. It was so sweet I should have been allowed to park in the spots reserved for City Hall employees.

The first morning a girl I liked noticed that I wasn't driving a shitmobile that Tom Joad would refuse to be caught dead in. "Is that your car, Steve?" she asked. Did I say, "Yeah, babe. Jump in the back seat and I give you a tour." No, Jean-Ralphio would say that. I stupidly admitted it was a rental. But my high school failing aren't on trial here.

I only had that car a few days, but it was a marvelous few days. I always knew I'd end up back in that 1988 Tercel back in 2000-2001. Ten years later, same old Tercel.

I just don't get it

2011-05-01T05:22:00.000-07:00

It's safe to say Bill Belichick knows more about football that little ol' me. Criticizing his selection of players is akin to me criticizing a neurosurgeon during an operation.

Still, I just don't get this draft.

They had a need on the offensive line, which has been dominated in the team's last three playoff losses. Nate Solder could address that. But defensive line/linebacker? They didn't try.

Many love to screech about the unwashed masses who yearn for a pass rusher like we're baseball fans who hate OBP and BABIP, like we're the same WEEI banshees who would call for cutting Carl Crawford.

Yes, it may be a cliche at this point. But we watch the games, and it's a clear as it can possibly be. Opposing quarterbacks have dissected this defense with ease for years. Matt Flynn did it. Seneca Wallace did it. Mark Sanchez's jersey is always a pristine white after any Patriots game, if he sucks or not. Why not? When Tully Banta-Cain and Rob Ninkovich are your pass-rushers ...

I can't go on. The fact that these two are the main pass-rushers makes me ill. I don't want to vomit on my keyboard. I liked TBC as a guy they brought in on third downs occasionally. I never, ever wanted him to start, to be the main guy.

For many years, we Pats fans have been waiting for the next Mike Vrabel/Willie McGinest. Shawn Crable never panned out. Adalius Thomas was a bust. And in the draft, the Pats aren't even trying. I always hear "so-and-so doesn't fit the scheme." So, for three years not one pass-rushing outside linebacker or defensive end fits the scheme? Clay Matthews seems to fit Green Bay's scheme. If 1980s Lawrence Taylor was available, would New England trade out of his spot to stockpile 14 second-round picks in 2013 because "he doesn't fit the scheme?"

Draft all the corners you want, a secondary of four Deion Sanders clones could not cover receivers if the QB has five minutes to throw. This is what Mike Vrabel and Willie McGinest and Tedy Bruschi were able to provide. Jerod Mayo is good, but he's not a force in the backfield. Ty Warren and Vince Wilfork are supposed to occupy O-lineman in the 3-4, creating space for the LBs to attack the passer.

Who's going to do that next season? Jermaine Cunningham? Dane Fletcher? Lt. Weinberg? I don't know. But the fact that the Pats aren't even trying to fill this hole frustrates me to no end, as a fan. Going 14-2 or 12-4 is fine. But I don't want my team to become the Colts, completely incapable of making the big play on defense when it counts.

If a sports genie told me, "I grant one of your teams a championship. Pick which one, but only one," I would pick the Pats. The Bruins would be tempting, to finish out the four major sports, but I DESPERATELY want one more title for Tom Brady and the Pats. The last Super Bowl which I am refusing to name still stings. Balancing the scales from that epic, gut-wrenching, haunting disaster of a game is the one thing in sports I want more than anything else.

And Brady is in his 30s now. The end of his career is no longer a decade away. (As for Ryan Mallett, I watched him plenty and he gets the Drew Bledsoe yips when things start to go wrong.) So instead of making sure we have 13 draft choices every season, the Pats should be focused on the now. Go for the Lombardi Trophy while Brady still wears a Flying Elvis. Sell your soul if you have to. Having five or six picks won't doom the team to 3-13.

And getting NFL-capable outside rushers is important. The Ravens have Suggs. The Steelers have Harrison. The Packers have Matthews. The Colts have Freeney. The Pats have Banta-Cain and Ninkovich.

I don't get it.

The One

2011-04-23T17:26:00.000-07:00

To Zach and all other iced coffee drinkers: Now I understand why, during college, you'd buy an iced coffee, take one sip, sneer at the terrible taste and throw the whole cup away.

In those days, the only coffee I had was in the milk/ice cream variety. Now that I must work early-early mornings, I've joined the rest of civilization. And now I truly appreciate how difficult it is to find that iced coffee that hits the palate just right.

There's one Dunkin' Donuts open at 4 a.m. close to my apartment. My girl Padma knows me inside out. She knows every order of every person who's been to that DD more than once. Amazing. That iced coffee is drinkable. A little too-coffee tasting, if that makes sense. It's not as sweet as I would like, but it's good enough.

There's another DD that gave me the perfect iced coffee. It was delicious. An unforgettable one night stand of sultry pleasure. She promised she'd come back, but she never did. I have tried again and again in a vain attempt to recapture that special time. I dream about it. The others come close, but they're not as special. There was only One.

I wish I knew how to find the special one. Too much sugar? Not enough? Different cream? I have no clue. What I don't get is how the same franchise makes the same product so differently from place to place, even shift from shift. I once drove 30 minutes to find the western most Dunkin' I know of, only to be disappointed.

Before I move on to the next section, I have to make an admission ... I've kind of converted to Starbucks.

Yes, 18-year-old Steve would be disgusted. DD is for the working man and Starbucks is for the hippies with their scarves and berets and their poetry and their French politics and their coming-of-age screenplays.

One reason I go to Starbucks more is, yes, I like to read there. I have a 600-page biography of Lyndon Johnson to read and I can't really do that in a half Dunkin' Donuts/half Baskin Robins store. Second, they seem to make what I order more often than not. With the Dunk, it's Russian Roulette.

And even at Starbucks, they get it wrong. I ordered an iced coffee yesterday and what I got I still don't know. I do know it was gross. That said, their iced coffee is more consistent. It's peak isn't as good as the One, but I know what I'm getting.

When one orders a hamburger, one knows what's coming. Same for a milkshake or a pizza. I'm not picky with any of the above mentioned food stuffs. Yet with iced coffee, I'm like an old lady who tries to use an expired coupon - I'm ready to fight if I don't get my way.

Don't fret. My search isn't over. I know the One is waiting for me. I shall catch her, and when I do I will never let her go. Sometimes you have it and you don't fully appreciate it. Sometimes it's an instant connection. Sometimes you have to work and work and hope it falls in your lap.

Either way, a lifetime of happiness is in store. I'll do what it takes. There's One out there for all of us, right?

The Struggle

2011-04-14T16:58:00.000-07:00

For eight long days I have suffered the scourge of braces. The time hath come to expunge my misery on you, the faithful, bored, semi-interested reader.

I can't eat pizza. At least, I can't eat it without a knife and fork, which I believe is a felony is some Floridian counties.

I can't chew gum. I love to chew gum.

No chicken parm subs for me.

You know how annoying it can be to have food stuck in your teeth? Well, imagine that feeling every time you eat.

I now have a baggie of tooth cleaning apparatus at my work desk.

And a kit of Orthosentials at home.

It took me a half hour to eat a bagel this week. They are not easy to cut with plastic knives.

No popcorn

No nuts

No hard candy

No caramel. I love me some caramel

And there are Led Zeppelin songs shorter than it takes me to floss.

It is a national tragedy.

Perhaps you're sitting in your pajamas reading this (and if you are, reevaluate your life choices) and telling me to suck it up and be a man. That's not my style.

Maybe you're sitting there saying, "Braces? Who cares? I have another human being inside me!" or "I lost a leg in Vietnam." Boo hoo. Wah, I'm pregnant. Wah, I'm missing a limb. Try walking around wearing the yolk of clear braces, impairing your ability to enjoy gum and candy and pizza, ruining your radiant smile. Only then can you know true pain. Only then can you know my misery.

I am a week through this ordeal. Eighty more to go, give or take. Pray for me.

The vow

2011-03-30T16:53:00.000-07:00

The process has begun. I'm having the braces on my top teeth installed next week. But before I can do that, four of my teeth needed to go.

So to the dentist I went yesterday. These men and women are hard to please.

"So I guess you don't floss much," he said while sticking various Hostel: Part V: The Cranston Vacation objects at my poor teeth. Actually, I floss every day, sometimes twice a day. "You need to do a better job."

"Do you smoke? I see some stains." They're coffee stains, I couldn't say. It's not like my teeth are black and rotting, for crying out loud.

"I see you've become addicted to crystal meth."

"Do you eat hamburgers, where instead of the burger, you're eating a patty of chewing tobacco?"

"Have you set your teeth on fire recently?"

I believe I take decent care of the chompers. I only need these braces due to issues dating back to childhood. Since high school, I've been a fairly conscientious brusher and flosser. I won't be in any Colgate ads, but I don't look like a toothless thug in a 1930's gangster movie.

Except for now.

If I smile widely, you will see four hideous gaps where my first molars should be. It hasn't been painful, but I don't care how much Novocaine they stick in your gums, seeing a scary metal clamp approaching your mouth and sensing and hearing the tooth pried out is not a pleasant experience.

They showed me my four detached teeth and I felt sorry for them. It's true. They didn't deserve this fate. They were a part of me and are now gone for future dentists to study and mock.

"Was this guy a meth-addicted arsenic swallower or what?"

I'm OK if I don't smile like a buffoon and if I only laugh modestly. No one seemed to notice at work today. But in the mirror I can cackle like a superhero villain and give myself nightmare. It's pretty bad. I look like Joe Pesci from Home Alone, except for the gold teeth imagine nothing but blackened gums.

And if you want to know what it's like in my mouth right now (and why wouldn't you?), gargle your own blood every few hours.

So why the hell am I doing this? I've asked myself this question often. I hope an angel can someday take me on a tour in 20 years of what would have happened if I did not fix my orthodontic issues. I'd have dentures at 40. I wouldn't be a world-famous Crest commercial actor. That way, all this annoyance, inconvenience and money (lots and lots of money) will be proven worthwhile.

That's all I have for now.

And I am making a vow. After this whole process is complete, I am done with dental procedures. I've spent an obscene amount of money fixing things the past three years and that will only increase over the next two.

Barring anything but intense pain, I am putting my foot down. I promised myself when I was a little boy I would never touch a cigarette, joint, cigar or any other smoking instrument. I never did. I made that vow for my health.

So I make this vow today for my social well-being (whatever is left of it) and for my wallet (whatever is left of it). The vast dental conspiracy that has convinced me I've needed tissue grafts, bone grafts, extractions and braces will go unheeded from here on out.

The foot is down ... starting in 2013.

Basketball Guy

2011-03-27T16:05:00.000-07:00

After every school day in high school, I would rush home to listen to the Jim Rome show. Did this lead to a lucrative radio career berating callers or playing fart noises on WEEI? Sadly, it did not.

Nonetheless, Jim Rome cracked me up. One particular bit he did that I will always remember is “Softball Guy.” He would rip on the stereotypical middle-aged man who takes softball way too seriously. You know the type: guy who wears batting gloves, cleats, the stirrup socks, eye black, the whole works. He acts like he’s playing DH for the Yankees, instead of third base at the Irish O’Malley field in Dorchester for Jacko and Sons Plumbing, LLC.

Yesterday, I participated in two full-court basketball games where I witnessed many incarnations of certain Basketball Guys. After years of playing with Bob Knight Hosseini and Nenad Schaible and Kyle Korver Grimala, then playing with the serious types down in South Florida, I believe I’ve accumulated ample expertise to delineate the certain types you’ll find playing any basketball game.

Has this been done before? Sure, but not with my wit and keen insight.

And-One Bloopers Guy

This guy loves to dribble between his legs, juke no one out of his shoes, run the fast break like Marcus Banks and, my favorite, loves to try fancy passes during games. Too bad for him every pass behind the back hits someone in the knee or rolls helplessly out of bounds. This guy popped up numerous times yesterday. One time, I’m Not Steve Nash, who was on my team, had a 3-on-1 fast break, dribbled up the middle and tried a behind-the-back, no-look pass that clanked off someone’s shin and right to the waiting arms of the defender. If you can pull off the Harlem Globetrotters’ moves, then play for the Harlem Globetrotters. If not, then a simple pass will do.

Doesn’t Shut Up Guy

This guy likes to showcase his knowledge of primary colors on defense. “Get White!” “Watch out for Red!” “Watch out for Black!” He calls for the ball on every possession. He complains loudly when he doesn’t get the ball. He yells at people when they miss shots. He’s the guy who makes a loud, random noise in your face when you’re shooting, just to gain that little competitive advantage while also coming across like a giant douche.

Follow the Rules Guy

This guy thinks he’s Dick Bavetta. He never misses a shot on his own, calling for a foul instead. He calls traveling and double-dribbling with such insane bias you’d think he was reffing a Lakers game. He will yell at you for ignoring the Treaty of Versailles. But if you dare call him out for any infractions, prepare for ….

Bitch-and-Moan Guy

He comes in many sizes, but he is impossible to miss because he complains about everything. His testosterone levels are enormous and he’s not on the court to play basketball; he’s on the court to impose his male dominance. I’ve played in pick-up games that were brought to screeching halts for 10 or 15 minutes just by guys arguing at each other. And it’s always the same culprits week after week. Is there anything more pointless than filibustering during a pickup game? Can’t we all just play mediocre, post-Kendrick Perkins Celtic basketball that would make James Naismith wish he’d invented the XFL?

The Chucker

George Costanza is the most famous of this popular species. The chucker believes he or she is Ray Allen and Reggie Miller, firing fade-away threes whenever the balls touches the hand. And yes, I’ve played with a guy who hoists at least four or five fade-away THREES a game.

Yesterday, the chucker was a girl. She had some game, but she took at least 10 threes over two games and each one was a more horrible disaster than the next. Like M. Night Shyamalan movies!! (And the foul!) I cleaned up after her, scoring off these terrible misses several times, enough to really frustrate the other team. “Who’s watching RED!!??!?!” Still, all chuckers, there are four other players on the court. And there’s no shot clock. No need to play like all the idiots in the NCAA tournament who dribble around for thirty seconds and then heave a 30-foot prayer. We’re better than that.

The Midget

One of these yesterday, too. He’s usually a little over 5-feet tall. And he knows he needs to make up for it by being a 7-foot asshole. He will elbow you in the nuts. He will slap you silly. He will do everything he can to annoy the living hell out of you. While one must appreciate the effort, the groin area is important and does not want to be disturbed by sweaty, small male hands. Unless it belongs to a Republican. (And the foul!)

We get it, Danny Woodhead wannabe. You’re a ‘gamer.’ Yesterday, you tried to post me up. Yes, I had at least a foot on you and you were posting me up. Now, my defense in the paint is Situation-trying-to-be-funny abysmal, but still. And you elbowed and scratched and clawed … and you never got the ball because no one wants to throw an entry pass to Tom Cruise.

On the next possession, you tried to sprint for an offense rebound and Steve “The Thin Fundamental” Sears eased right in your path and gave a solid box-out. You audibly groaned when you made contact with my muscular frame. You never did post me up again.

The Old Guy

My college buddies will never forget Bert. Or was it Bird? Anyway, he was an older, rotund gentleman who wore a Larry Bird jersey and, even worse, Larry Bird short shorts. Covering him was like swimming in a pool of his sweat. He donned the goggles and the headbands. Straight outta 1983. He also cherry picked like a mofo, but that’s another story.

Yes, you know you’re in a pickup game when there’s at least one dude in his fifties laboring up and down the court. No, not me. He might not have hair or a working back, but he does have guile. I can’t help but love these guys. They have their set-shots, their muscle-shirts showcasing healthy amounts of chest and/or back hair. They are not afraid to take off said shirts at any time. And if you ever find yourself in a locker room with one, the penis will make a guest appearance.

The Pretty Boy

Oh, he’ll play alright, but not before he applies the hair gel, the very tight black shirt and his new kickin’ sneaks. He thinks he’s way better at basketball than he is. He will be picked before more capable players because he looks like he can play, but then you find out he can barely dribble. He just wants to run around and show off his biceps to the ladies. But unless the Food Network or Bravo starts televising pickup games, ladies won’t be watching.

The Kobe

Our final type. He is the best player on the court. He assumes the leadership position and everything just runs through him. Pickup warriors can usually pick this guy out during warm-ups. He has a steely confidence and focused glare. It’s Game 7 of the Finals and he’s ready to win it all. He is also extremely demanding, unafraid to cuss you out for missing a layup or failing to grab a rebound. He’s like Kobe Bryant, except you don’t necessarily hate this guy. But like Kobe, you need him to win. You just hope he doesn’t try to backstab you to the Colorado police.

I will stop here. There are other types, but I don’t want this to turn in to a Bill Simmons column. There’s the Fundamental Guy Who Does the Little Things (ME!), the Foreigner, the Girl, the Trash Talker and the Ringer. If I missed any big ones, feel free to let me know how stupid I am in the lonely hellscape of my comments section.

Old dirty bastards

2011-03-19T17:00:00.000-07:00

I'm just a helpless damsel being mercilessly attacked by roving gangs of ruthless elderly hoodlums.

Which is why I plan on becoming a superhero who battles the senior menace, stalking the grocery stores, bingo parlors and slot machines of South Florida to catch these dangerous clap-on rapscallions.

Sigh. Who am I kidding? In all likelihood, this will not happen. First, the seniors have the politicians in their pockets. Instead of taking the blue-haired bandits off the streets, corrupt officials would target me. Second, streaming episodes of the Larry Sanders Show aren't going to watch themselves.

Steve, why the frustration with our more wiser, graying friends? Seniors are nice people who spoil their grand kids, not career criminals.

Obviously, straw man questioner, you haven't been down here in a while.

I was in line at the BankAtlantic Center to purchase overpriced concessions when a senior citizen cut me in line. Blatantly. He didn't give me the finger, but he should have. I was in Starbucks to buy overpriced coffee when a senior citizen cut me in line. He didn't take out his penis and waved it around in masculine triumph, but he should have.

Think I'm done ? I was waiting patiently while grandma shuffled coupons at Walgreen's. Fine, I might be like that someday. No worries. I waited and waited. While I perused the lovely Olivia Wilde on some magazine ... an old man cut me in line.

I stared a laserbeam at him. The full Schaible Face came over me. Thing is, this guy just did not give a damn. "I'm old. I can do what the fuck I want. You gonna stop me?"

Well, no. Can't yell at him. Can't push him out of the way. All I can do is wait even more, furrow my brow, pay his Social Security while he votes to destroy mine, and buy my items in 2014.

Not a day later, I was driving around 45 mph side-by-side with a blue car that suddenly swerved in my lane to pass a slow-moving vehicle (driven by a 90-year-old). It was like I wasn't there. And I never beep at people, but I blared the horn at this driver and made sure to get a good look. Wouldn't you know? An old lady.

Almost drove me off the road. Could have killed me!

Is it not enough to slap me in the face during Panthers games or at Walgreen's? It it not enough to make grocery shopping an Olympic sport of stamina and focus? Is it not enough to vote for Rick Scott?

Now you want to kill me?

If Bruce Wayne can fight crime in his spare time, I can do the same. You're on notice, old people. Some day I will snap, and it will be ugly.

(P.S. This clip from my cartoon twin is a likely indicator how my pursuits would go.)

The cure

2011-03-15T17:42:00.000-07:00

I actually did stuff this past weekend, hosting MMA impresario Dave Doyel on a trek to Fort Myers for Red Sox spring training.

Here are the bullet points.

• I did not get lost from the airport.
• I did miss the exit to 75 North, which crosses Florida east to west. Just a small diversion.
• I still did not get lost from the airport.
• I had my first memorable Jacuzzi experience. Where I hung out in Rhode Island and Boston, Jacuzzis were rather rare. Those things are relaxing! Either that, or it sapped all my youthful vigor and turned me into a static prune.
• We sat in the Jacuzzi with a farming couple form Minnesota. The salt of the earth cavorting with evil librul commu-fascists. They were none the wiser.
• I challenged Mr. Doyal to a swim race, assuming a victory. Instead, I was routed. I'm used to some jabroni challenging me on the basketball court, his head filled with hubris, and then quickly and coldly dispatching that hubris. To be on the opposite end is not as enjoyable. I am not a creature of the water.
• We drove around our first night in sprawling, octogenarian Fort Myers looking for a cool place to eat. We ended up at P.K. Sam's aka P.F. Chang's. After more than four years down here, I should know that you don't find cultured eating in this state.
• Game 1 on Friday afternoon. Great seats several rows up near home plate at the spring home of the Minnesota Twins, Hammond Stadium. Carl Crawford didn't make solid contact once and Jonathan Papelbon could not find the strike zone. Recipe for a Red Sox defeat.
• I did get revenge for my loss in the swimming pool with a thrilling win at Smuggler's Cove mini-golf course. I started out hot, went into a slump, but then turned on my Ironwill O'Houlihan motor to pull out a one-shot victory.
• We met up with some of Dave Doyil's Harvard buddies, one who used to work as a hawk back in the pre-Sears days. Dark, dark times. I heard of a scoring scandal and a hilarious story involving Sport Joe. For more details, you'll have to ask nicely.
• One of the guys thought about being a journalist but instead went into consulting. He asked if he made the right choice. After laughing uproariously, I asked him, "Do you like money?" He nodded. I asked, "Do you like living like a normal human being?" He said yes. So I told him he made the right decision.
• This group of Boston-educated Red Sox fans ended up at the Fire Pit, one of those cookie cutter restaurants that tried its hardest to appear trendy and appealing. Mediocre food. While we left, they were setting up the place into a nightclub. During the day, I hear it's a library and a BINGO hall. (I've been watching too much Larry Sanders.)
• The next day was a trip to City of Palms Park, the site of the Boston Red Sox. We packed into the right field bleachers and baked in the sun while we (mostly me) tried to find as many non-Caucasians attending a Red Sox game as possible. And I found a few.
• I was there for Adrian Gonzalez's first at-bat in a Red Sox uniform, a solid single. The game went very well, even John Lackey pitched like a professional.
• The one player who stood out in both games was by far Jacoby Ellsbury. He smashed the ball all over the field in the two games we saw, including a home run against the Marlins.
• After the game, NESN reporter Heidi Watney walked right by us. Just thought I'd mention that.

In summation, you can't beat a few days of spring training baseball in wonderful Florida weather with likable people. And while Fort Myers has its faults, Dave said, "I could see myself loving to live here when I'm 70."

Indeed.

After last week's unfortunate events, this little excursion was the perfect elixir. Now it's time to enter the chaos that is mid-March at my job. It begins Thursday.

I'll keep the dime

2011-03-04T16:36:00.000-08:00

This week can go screw itself.

I broke my favorite sunglasses on my birthday. I stopped at a court to shoot hoops randomly and forgot I had my sunglasses. So I placed them behind the basket. Twenty minutes later, a shot of mine bounces over the backboard, against an adjacent fence -- as I watch it unfold in slow-motion -- and directly hits my shades.

The Horatio Cane eyewear isn't the only thing in disrepair. My body is breaking down. I have to stretch for 15 minutes before I plan on breaking a sweat or I will pay the price dearly. My legs have been bothering me and the doctor tells me its because I sit down too much at work. It feels like restless leg syndrome, though I have no idea what that is. It feels better to give this malady a name.

The doctor told me I should exercise more. (I haven't really stopped, actually. A $25 co-pay for that advice.)

I can't edit any NFL lockout stories or conjure brilliant puns from the treadmill.

Ahh, work. I can't get into it too much in this space, but this is "Filene's Basement during the Running of the Brides" time for all sports media entities. If that's not enough, I had problems keeping a vacation that I had planned for months in advance.

Hell, it's not a vacation. Just a weekend. Even that resulted in a mini-crisis this week.

Also, I have tickets to see the Capitals play the Panthers, yet no one to take as of yet. Great seats, too. This is Panthers hockey! C'mon, who wants to go?

Think we've hit the bottom here? Like Charlie Sheen (I had to mention him), there's no such thing as a bottom. Or a denied interview request.

Way back during the first dentist visit I can remember, the word "orthodontist" come up. I never went to the dentist after that during my Rhode Island years, but I started under my nice insurance plan I have at work here in Florida.

First dentist said the dreaded "o" word. Warned of dentures at 40. (Not really, but he was an alarmist.) This dentite sent me to another, who passed on the same warning.

"You will lose your teeth if you don't get this checked out."

I finally broke down and went this week. Maybe the news wouldn't be that bad. I keep decent care of my chompers.

But by The Law of Sears, such cautious optimism suffered a violent death.

The orthodontist laid out the evidence better than anyone I have seen, complete with x-rays and computer imaging. Some people have worse teeth than I, which makes me feel a tad better. Just a smidgen.

But I have an "open" bite where my top front teeth don't correlate with the bottom. They flare out. And there's my bottom two front teeth, which nearly face each other.

The prognosis begins: tooth extraction. Four. I asked her in disbelief, "You mean you're going to pull four teeth??"

Yes, she answered matter-of-factly.

Then the hammer. "What you'll need are full metal braces along the bottom and front teeth."

"How long?" I ask, about to cry.

"A year and a half." I literally winced and muttered, "Jesus Christ." She sympathized.

Following braces would be months with a retainer, 24/7, and when that ends, only at night. For pretty much the rest of my life.

In summation, a giant hassle that will cost me thousands. There are social considerations of course, being an "adult" with so-called "metal mouth." For someone as self-conscious as I, this might be the biggest hurdle.

"Hi, I'm Steve. I'm a lanky, socially awkward copy editor who enjoys the comedy of Carrot Top, despises dancing, drink like Miley Cyrus and frankly doesn't do well with people. And I have braces. Wanna grab some coffee? I hope you don't mind me bringing my dental fanny pack with 14 kinds of floss, specialty brushes and a cup for my excess saliva."

On the other hand, what would braces really mean to my social existence? Not much. I can still stream Larry Sanders episodes on Netflix or regurgitate haphazard blogs on an irregular basis. It's like tossing a twinkie wrapper in a landfill. You're not ruining the Mona Lisa. It's already a dump.

With all the crap that's been dumped on my plate this week, you'll never guess what almost sent me over the edge. Remember that Family Guy episode where Lois goes nuts trying to plan the perfect Christmas for the Griffins? Peter accidentally gives away all their gifts. Brian sets the house on fire. The kids are ungrateful. None of this sets her off; it's when she asks for more paper towels and find there's none left.

It's the straw that breaks the camel's back, as the cliche goes. The "that's it" moment.

Mine came at Dunkin' Donuts. I had a gift card and I wanted a small iced coffee. Came to $1.90. I gave the cashier the card. He swiped it only to elicit a loud beep. Second try, no luck. Third, nothing.

I had just used it on Monday. It was Thursday. There was still 20 bucks on it. I informed the man the card definitely possessed sufficient funds. He didn't care. So I swiped the card from his hands and gave him two dollars, visibly upset. Seething, really.

Normally, I will throw the spare change in the tip mug. Not this time, sir. I took the dime and stormed out of the store.

A man can only take so much.

Listapalooza Part 3

2011-02-20T17:25:00.000-08:00

Bringing back an old feature ...

Top 5 songs I hear all the time on satellite radio

5. Welcome to Paradise - Green Day

4. Aeroplane - Red Hot Chili Peppers

3. Thirty-three - Smashing Pumpkins

2. The Cave - Mumford & Sons

1. Howlin' for You - The Black Keys

Top 5 songs satellite radio has introduced to me

5. Sweet Disposition - Temper Trap

4. Down by the Water - The Decembrists

3. The Ghost Inside - Broken Bells

2. Helicopters - Deerhunter

1. Young Blood - Naked and Famous

Top 5 bands that sound very similar to another band

5. Naked and Famous - Passion Pit/MGMT

4. JJ72 (them again) - Smashing Pumpkins

3. Silverchair/Seether - Nirvana

2. Muse - Radiohead

1. Silversun Pickups - Smashing Pumpkins

Top 5 "That Guy!" character actors

5. J.T. Walsh (A Few Good Men, The Negotiator)

4. Dylan Baker (Disclosure, Law & Order)

3. Kurt Fuller (Ghostbusters II, Wayne's World)

2. Glenn Morshower (24, Friday Night Lights)

1. James Rehborn (Independence Day, Scent of a Woman)

Top 5 most hated words

5. SpyGate - For obvious reasons

4. Cheese - Jut don't like it.

3. Testicle - Anytime the word comes up, something like "cancer" or "ruptured" is close by.

2. Mani-pedi - Do I even need to explain?

1. Tweet - I hate when important news is grouped with this word.

Top 5 favorite words

5. Sundry

4. Rapscallion

3. Pariah

2. Schaible

1. Skulduggery

Top 5 whitest bands

5. Weezer

4. Death Cab For Cutie

3. Wilco

2. Arcade Fire

1. Vampire Weekend (I looked this up after the fact and there are articles online about this topic. So no points for originality on my part.)

Top 5 funniest shows on TV right now

5. Conan - Love Ted Turner

4. Parks & Recreation - Love Andy Dwyer and Ron Swanson

3. The Ricky Gervais Show - Must use the term "knockin' about" in my life

2. The Colbert Report - It's been better than the Daily Show lately.

1. 30 Rock - The defending champion

Top 5 favorite TV bosses

5. George Steinbrenner (Seinfeld)

4. Michael Scott (The Office)

3. Ron Swanson (Parks & Recreation)

2. David Brent (The Office)

1. Jack Donaghy (30 Rock)

Top 5 random Conan characters (excluding Triumph the Insult Comic Dog)

5. Coked-up Werewolf

4. NASCAR-driving, gun-toting Jesus

3. Vomiting Kermit

2. Jewish Turtle Riding a Mechanical Bull

1. Masturbating Bear

Top 5 favorite Rhode Island people

5. Bill Reynolds

4. James Woods

3. Buddy Cianci

2. Art Lake (R.I.P)

1. Doug White (R.I.P.) - He used to come to Phred's all the time when I worked there. Nice guy. Great hair.

Top 5 favorite New York Yankees

5. A.J. Burnett

4. Ruben Sierra

3. Kei Igawa - Are the Yankees still playing him?

2. Jose Contreras

1. Kevin Brown - A travesty he's not in the Hall of Fame

Top 5 sporting events that have been ruined by my career in journalism

5. Super Bowl

4. Postseason hockey (for games that go into four overtimes)

3. Any trade deadline

2. NFL Draft

1. NCAA tournament - Utter insanity and almost impossible to enjoy now

Top 5 athletic moments

5. Cabin X football extravaganza - Where I intercepted a pass for a touchdown, caught a touchdown and ran for a touchdown to lead my team to victory

4. Dunk you very much - We were playing on an eight-foot rim once in Cranston - I don't know why - and I was facing some kid who had his girlfriend loudly and obnoxiously rooting for him to beat me. So I took it to the rim and dunked in his face. True story. Also true ... the girl stopped talking after that.

3. Leveling R.T. - In college, the three amigos plus our roommate from Seattle were playing two-on-two touch football. As the QB, the fourth roommate with the initials R.T. kept running for big plays. This is very lame in two-on-two. So in a bit of frustration, I attacked him at a perfect angle during one of his runs along the sideline and pushed him with such force to send him flying to the ground. Message delivered

2. Deion Sanders Sears - In one flag football game for CBS, I made two interceptions on consecutive possessions and caught a touchdown. I played such shutdown defense that the guys were calling me Deion. Or anti-Asante Samuel.

1. Three-on-three touch football champions - Zach, Jeff and I played a makeshift tournament in touch football for hours. We beat all challengers and advanced to the final against some athletic European types. It was a war. I caught the game-winning touchdown on fourth down. Afterward, I've never been so exhausted in my entire life.

Top 5 least favorite athletic moments

5. Dodge ball to face - In gym class, I was hit in the nose in dodgeball and bled profusely. Thing is, no one noticed. But that sucked.

4. The ski disaster - Already covered this

3. Fracture clavicle - We snuck into Cranston Stadium to play tackle football. I picked up a fumble and rumbled almost thirty yards down the sideline, but in a reverse of my R.T. leveling, I was speared badly. The tackler's heat met my clavicle. Fracture. I had to climb the fence with one arm to get out and I had to wear a sling for a few weeks. Intense pain.

2. One-on-one touch football standoff - I was the QB as Jeff and Zach battled in football. It was getting dark and for whatever reason, I decided I was done playing. With a dead arm, I threw terrible pass after terrible pass. I was Todd Collins. Just awful. We just had to call the game due to my suckiness.

1. Softball ejection - I will probably do a SteveCentury on this soon, even though Zach has told every living and non-living being on this planet and others this tragic story. I might as well get it down for the record.

And finally ...

To 5 names for Baby Schaible (which I am predicting to have a penis)

5. Vin Books Schaible

4. Tres Duces Schaible

3. Onion Dip Schaible

2. Tanyon Sturtze Schaible

1. Chinua Achebe Schaible - Duh.

Maybe I started the Fire

2011-02-16T18:20:00.000-08:00

I've already gone into detail about why I hate the Grammys. This year's edition wasn't much better. The director was on crack, Bob Dylan can't sing anymore (that was painful), they screwed up the In Memorium segment and about seven awards were handed out over the span of 3-and-a-half hours.

But it did finish with a bang.

Many were shocked that Arcade Fire won Album of the Year for "The Suburbs." A Twitter meme started, asking "Who is Arcade Fire?" Dog the Bounty Hunter doesn't know. Even a few days later, people at working are talking about it. All this makes me feel like I was on the cutting edge.

But let's be honest. Arcade Fire has been on Saturday Night Live twice. They were on the Daily Show. "The Suburbs: was high on the charts. Their music has been used in movie trailers. U2 and David Bowie are big fans. They are a staple of college radio. They're no Justin Bieber, but they aren't anonymous either.

All along I thought I was shamefully late on their bandwagon only to find I got on earlier than many.

It's been nearly five months since I bought that album and I'm still listening to all the songs religiously. I think I'm addicted. Having already covered this masterpiece in excruciating detail, I will spare you further Rolling Stone analysis. I only want to say how pumped I am that an album I liked won a Grammy for Album of the Year. Hasn't happened before.

And it's a good boost of recognition for one of the best bands still going. It's nice to be on the cutting edge of music once again.

Want more proof of my cunning? I hear a band called The Strokes is about to release an album soon. I think they have a future. You heard it here first.

FLASHBACK: The Chronicles of Mordor: Part V

2011-02-05T21:06:00.000-08:00

We left for Christchurch on a Sunday morning as Zach profanely complained that New Zealanders ate at cafés too much. (We couldn't find a seat in any of Queenstown's 433 cafes.) You see, Q-Town was the touristiest place I saw in New Zealand. All-Blacks shirts cost about $100 dollars and everyone seemed to come out of an Old Navy commercial, with their cutesy winter clothing and smiling faces. I don't like smiling faces. But it's a cool place, and if you don't mind the 16 hour flight and you really want a $400 All-Blacks eye patch, you should go.

Then it was off to Christchurch, via Arthur's Pass. Arthur's Pass is a national park with tall mountains (as opposed to the short ones) and the road goes basically up to the top. We were literally driving through clouds. Christchurch was the most cosmopolitan city I saw, but the city was pretty empty. Walk around after 8 p.m. and it's as empty as …wait for it…the Rhode Island Mall!! Boarded up shops, construction sites and tumbleweeds marked the streets of that fine, British-looking city.

However, what I'll remember most about that part of the trip was an unfortunate excursion to an Indian restaurant. I like to eat normal food. I have my tastes, but even I took some leaps during the trip. I had some guacamole, a kabob and sushi. That wasn't enough. Here's how the typical food decisions went.

"What should we eat," Monica asks.

"Hmm, I've heard of this one place that serves possum testicles and nachos," Zach puffs while twirling his metrosexual scarf. (EDITOR'S NOTE: This is my favorite sentence that I have ever written.)

"That sounds gross," Steve says. "And do possums even have testicles?"

"I don't know," Zach answers. "But if I go to such a place it will add to my already noxious air of superiority because I eat adventurous foods while watching English Premier League soccer games. I'm so European." (EDITOR'S NOTE: This is my second favorite.)

And I'm helpless. So we go to this Indian place and it's basically empty and we're escorted past the tables to a couch and given a wine menu. Again, they probably do this so when it's crowded, you wait for a seat and feel inclined to order some wine. (We had already done our elitist wine drinking in Queenstown.) They were trying to bilk our money right from the start. Then the waitress comes over and describes to us what a menu is, and what an appetizer is, and that the beverage section means drinks and so forth. She failed to tell us that you put the food in your mouth and chew.

I forget what I ordered, but I asked for the rice thinking it came with the chicken. which looked like diarrhea on a plate. Once I finished, only able to eat half of what I ordered, I found that they billed me for both the plain rice and the gross chicken. That was the final straw. The Schaible Face appeared. For those who don't know, that's a stone-cold face of rage. Sure, I should have read the menu more carefully, but I was in a huff. Zach had to buy me a fine glass of wine to sooth me over, much like a mother buys a chocolate bar for a crying toddler.

We didn't spend much more than a day and a half there. Our last day contained an epic rainstorm and balls-freezing wind that makes you question your will to live. If that didn't work, then you could go to a record store and find $36 dollar CDs. Shiver.

Zach and I boarded a bus back to Dunedin, leaving Monica alone on a cold, deserted street. Actually, she went on her own way. Little did she know that she would miss the opportunity of a lifetime, a Sears discovery that rivals Columbus and Newton. The bus made a stop at a tiny restaurant/convenience store where I discovered, to my amazement, a bottle of coffee milk.

Yes, the greatest beverage known to man. The liquid of the gods. The label read "Iced Coffee" but it sure looked like coffee milk to me. And it was. Delicious. One of the highlights of the trip. I found coffee milk in fucking New Zealand yet can't find it in Florida. That has to change.

Zach and I did not do much in our last day back in Dunedin. We watched some Sopranos episodes, made pizza and dealt with more car issues. Then the time came to part as I headed back to my big-time job with CBSSports.com while Zach faced an uncertain future living in a guys basement whose wife was about to give birth. After we said our goodbyes at the airport, he walked away and I … shot him in the back.

Dun dun DUNNNNN!

I didn't shoot him, but I could have. They don't screen for weapons at the airport. You just walk right in. (NOTE: Then I visited Dave Doyle in L.A.)

And that's that. A trip unlike any other. It was relaxing, for the most part, and memorable. I took some great pictures, met a person who lived with Zach for more than a month and retained her sanity, and saw Zach wear the same pair of gym shorts for 13 days in a row. The more things change … well, you know.

Cheers, New Zealand!

(Screen goes black, and then opens on KIM BAUER waking up from bed. She looks a bit concerned and confused. A copy of the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel The Card Cabal lies on the nightstand. She walks into the bathroom to find STEVE SEARS, his gigantic biceps and pectorals glistening after a hot shower. He steps out and Bauer clutches on to him.)

Kim: I just had the strangest dream. You traveled all the way to New Zealand and you ate a burger made out of deer meat. And this annoying guy wouldn't shut up about his stupid basketball team and kept saying "fried cheese" and his female friend had never been to Europe. Europe! It was awful.

Steve: (embracing her) It's OK. It's OK. (He pauses and looks into the camera.) What's New Zealand?

FLASHBACK: The Chronicles of Mordor: Part IV

2011-02-05T20:49:00.000-08:00

The hostel sat upon a steep street just minutes away from a big mountain that I don't know the name of. Anyway, it was very dark but there was a lodge up at the top of the mountain all lit up so it seemed to be floating in the air. Neat-o. Our fellow hostel-ites were like the others we encountered, except they preferred Fresh Prince of Bel Air re-runs. Almost to a person, they all had their wool caps, worn-out cargo pants and scruffy beards. Usually, I'm the lout totally under-dressed and poor-looking. But I bet they looked at me as some corporatist, Bush-loving American slimeball just waiting to shoot some innocent deer in the eyeball and carry the head around with me while emitting noxious carbon-based fumes into the atmosphere. I'm an American!

The next morning we went up that mountain. Monica was inclined to hike, but Zach and I overruled her and made the manly decision to take the gondola up. Even that gave me the yips, but just a tiny bit. The view from on top was amazing and I've got the photos to prove it. But it's not just the view and some souvenir shops at the top of this mountain. There's also two luge tracks. Our first run was on the "safer" track and it was pretty fun. The second one, however, was more important. It was a race. Like Mario Cart. Think of it this way: I'm Toadstool, Monica is Yoshi and Zach is Bowser.

Toadstool starts from behind but quickly gains on Yoshi. Once he gets close enough, Toadstool tosses the trusted banana and leaves Yoshi in his dust. He only has to pass the evil Bowser who is cheating by using boosters on his apparatus. Toadstool was right about to pass Bowser but a narrow tunnel approached and he couldn't make the pass. Bowser went on to victory.

What a jerky jerkface jerk.

On the next edition of the endless Chronicles of Mordor, our three adventurers finish their stay in Aspen, New Zealand and end in Christchurch, where a sneaky Indian restaurant gives Steve the vaunted Schaible-face.

FLASHBACK: The Chronicles of Mordor: Part III

2011-02-05T20:24:00.000-08:00

Here begins the journey within the journey where the three of us loaded into Monica's car destined for the beautiful sights that the South Island can provide. First, we had to stop at Starbucks. Now Zach might be able to eat a scone, work the iPod and drink a coffee while driving, but he can't read the paper as well, so I held his coffee for him. Of course at the slightest bump it splashed all over my pants, the pair I wore when I took the tumble near Tunnel Beach. While I tried to clean the stains off, someone mentioned the word passport.

Uh oh.

Before this moment of realization, I knew I had lost a book. But it was just a book. Well, it used to be just a book. In the Auckland airport, where I walked through checkpoint after checkpoint, I had my passport sticking outside my book for convenience. Once I finally landed in Dunedin, I went into a bathroom, put the book down and never picked it up. "Who puts their passport in a book?" Monica asked in disgust. This guy!

We took a slight detour to the airport, which was on the way to Te Anau. I felt sick the entire way. How could I misplace that? How on earth could I be so stupid? Thankfully, the airport police had the book and passport stored away in a safe place, even with my bookmark in place, to Zach's amusement. In Boston, I always busted his chops about losing his Husky Card, his wallet, his credit cards, his phone, or his keys. Karma can be a fickle beast.

Note: My cell phone died during this trip so I could not retrieve any messages until I got a new one, which was just last week. One of the many messages I had missed was a call from the airport telling me they had my passport. That would have been nice to know at the time.

Having been bailed out by those nice New Zealand folk, we began our adventure, driving past 3.5 million sheep (I counted) until we reached Te Anau, quiet little place close to Milford Sound. We checked in to our hostel, where I stared lustily at the computers since it had been a week since I last used the internet and not once since the Celtics trounced the Lakers to win the title. I made a note to return to those machines later.

Then we went to a park where we did our best to fit in … by playing catch with a baseball. Imagine, for a second, if you're walking innocently down an American street and you see people playing cricket. That's what it must have been like for the locals to see us. I brought out The Talon (yeah, I named my glove. Wanna fight about it?) and I warmed up the ol' cannon. Now, Zach might tell you Monica can throw faster and he might be right, but I have a better splitter. I brought that out later as Zach and I tossed some innings. He had his curve working and I had my David Bowie (Ch...Ch...Change up) working. My elbow would be killing me later that night and the next day, but damn it, it was still fun.

Te Anau, while a nice place, shuts down at 8 p.m. I would soon find out that's the norm in New Zealand. We found one of the two or three places open that night, a little Italian place. We sat there a long time, running through a litany of Northeastern stories that Zach had already shared with the entire Mariposa/Dunedin populations. I'm known as the "not like this" guy in each city, all my other grand achievements unfortunately thrown by the wayside.

The next morning, Commander Hosseini steered us to what has been called the top tourist attraction in the world – Milford Sound. Once you see it, you can understand why it earns such praise. The clouds were out in full force that day, which made for a spooky atmosphere. It reminded me of Pirates of the Caribbean movie, the mountains popping out of the waters and right into a big swath of gray clouds. Very much like a fantasy land. Mordor, perhaps.

This place is usually jam-packed with tourists, especially in the summer months. On that day, however, it was the three of us and maybe seven others on a boat that sailed out into the water, between the mountains and right next to a few waterfalls. Words won't do the place justice. Check my pictures! And to see what it looks like during the warm months, you can find a million photos on Google. All I can say about it is this: I can't imagine another place like it in the world.

I've gone on long enough so this entry must come to a close. The networks want me to add some sex appeal and violence, so I'll make a few more mentions of Zach's girl-magnet All-Blacks scarf and perhaps I'll kill off a character or two.

FLASHBACK: The Chronicles of Mordor: Part II

2011-02-05T20:09:00.000-08:00

FLASHBACK: The Chronicles of Mordor: Part I

2011-02-05T19:58:00.000-08:00

NOTE: I killed my MySpace account today. But I didn't want to lose one of my proudest accomplishments ... The Chronicles of Mordor. They led to this blog and I think they're pretty good. I did not want to lose them. So I'm republishing them here, with slight editing.

Originally published July 1, 2008

Not many people think of New Zealand and they know little about it. I didn't. It served as the setting for the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Russell Crowe and Anna Paquin are natives. They have a big rugby team named the All-Blacks. That was the extent of my knowledge about two weeks ago.

With that in my mind, I will recount my little excursion to that far away land here on my blog on MySpace, the Rhode Island mall of social networking sites. This way, when people ask me how the trip was, I can refer them to my blog and continue on my way.

I arrived at LAX at around noon Pacific time with some nine hours to kill before my flight to Auchland, New Zealand. My cell phone was dead and I had not slept much in the past 24 hours. So I spent most of the time finding an open power outlet so I could watch my 24 DVD. You'd think that would be easy but it took me 20 minutes. Once I finally succeeded I had something to distract me until Game 4 of the NBA Finals.

The game did not start too well for the Green Machine. The Lakers were making everything and little ol' me, standing and watching the game outside a restaurant with 50 other Lakers fans, could barely stand it. I had to go sit down, being so tired and moody that I'd see cute little kids running around the airport and cuss at them in my head. While I sat and tried to nap just a little, the crowd would roar in approval because some douchebag Laker had made a nice play.

I sneaked back into the crowd for the second half and wouldn't you know it, the Celtics rallied. And rallied. Until they took the lead. The crowd was stunned silent as I performed my Derek Jeter fist bump.

When Ray Allen scored the decisive layup you could feel the spirit sink out my fellow travelers and airport staff. I jumped onto that plane in a much better mood, giddy that the Celtics were actually one game away from a title.

Once on the plane I enjoyed a nice meal, watched Vantage Point, Semi-Pro, listened to the newest White Stripes album and tried to sleep. That took six hours. Five more to go. I went in and out of sleep, uncomfortably tossing and turning in my seat while feeling like I hadn't slept in almost two days -- which was the case -- until they served breakfast. I watched Rattle and Hum and just prayed for the flight to end ... until it finally did.

Seventeen hours of flying done but I was far from out of the woods. Once in Auchland I crossed through roughly 55 checkpoints, all checking my passport and luggage. To make it easier, I put my passport in the book I was holding. This will be important later. After finally escaping the international terminal, I dragged my bags on a ten-minute walk to the domestic terminal knowing my third flight was set to take off in about 25 minutes. Sweating like Jason Giambi in the first inning, I arrived, swallowed a banana (NOTE: Unintended sexual reference here) and changed my drenched shirt and found the gate five minutes before boarding.

Just two hours away. The flight was a breeze in comparison. I looked out the window during the descent and saw nothing but rolling pastures and mountains. Dunedin, a mid-sized city, was my destination, and the images outside the window looked nothing like a metropolis. The plane literally landed in the middle of a cow pasture. The airport was smaller than the Cranston East main building.

In that building I would lose -- no, misplace -- my book with my passport in it but would not realize this fact until several days later.

Blissfully ignorant I met the most successful assistant basketball coach in all Otago, Z. Cole Hosseini. He drove my tired ass on the wrong side of the road to his place in Dunedin. Yes, they drive the British way in New Zealand. I can't explain in words how disorienting this proved to be throughout the trip.

He lives with his friend/reluctant story listener Monica in a little house that overlooks the city. And yeah, it wasn't all cows. Just sheep. Well, it was more than sheep, too. Think a more Gothic Providence to give you an idea. Or just check my photos!

Zach though I'd be a grumpy, sleepy, miserable buzzkill upon my arrival, but one only underestimates a Sears at his or her own peril. Since I work such upsidedown hours in Florida, I came prepared for the vicious time shift. I left my apartment at about 4:30 A.M. on Thursday morning, June 12th and arrived in Dunedin at 9 A.M. Saturday, June 14th. Crazy, eh?

Knowing I was jet-lagged, Zach challenged me to some one on one basketball thinking this was the only way he could beat me. The first game went badly for the good guy, but the second game was a tight battle of behemoths. He did not respect my jumper so I drained a few. When he challenged, I burned his ass on my way for a layup or drained a J in his face. I was on fire!

I lost.

The three of us ate at a nice Italian place that night, recounting glorious stories of Northeastern past, all which Monica already knew. The news has already hit New Zealand -- I was a loser in college who did not think twice about watching 15 Sopranos episodes in one day.

From there we went to a bar called The Terrace. This place will always hold a special place in my heart, but not because of that night. The big to-do in all New Zealand that night was the big All-Blacks vs. England rugby test. It was crowded and rowdy -- think a Boston bar during a Patriots playoff game. The All-Blacks won easy and everyone went home happy, but by the closing minutes I was ready to pass out. We cut the night a bit short and I slept like a rock.

In Part II of the Chronicles of Mordor ... Does Steve remember he lost his passport? Will Zach torture his friends with insufferable Morrissey music? Will Jack Bauer find the bomb? Tune in and please visit us again at the Rhode Island Mall of Social Networking Websites.

Kill Rabbit

2011-02-05T18:15:00.000-08:00

Harry Angstrom is a scumbag.

If you don't know who that is, you've never read "Rabbit, Run" by John Updike. I just finished it, and it motivated me enough to vent in this forlorn space of Internet about the main character.

Never before have I detested a protagonist in a book quite like Rabbit. Let's begin with a spoiler warning -- if you plan on ever reading this book, then read no further. We're venturing into spoiler waters.

In 2011, the theme of dull suburban stasis slowly suffocating life has been duly established again and again and again. This novel was published in 1960, when the topic was still fresh. It chronicles young Mr. Angstrom, a former high school basketball star with a young son and pregnant wife. He hates his job and his marriage and one night tries to drive off in the middle of the night.

He wants to run away from his life, but he has no idea what to run toward. However, this isn't a discussion of the themes in this book. Let me just list all the douchey things this character does throughout the book.

Sent to pick up his son, he instead takes his car south in an effort to abscond from all his responsibilities literally in the middle of the night. And he can't even do that right, getting lost in West Virginia and driving back to Pennsylvania.

He refuses to even contact his wife or parents and instead goes to his former basketball coach. Through the coach he meets a part-time prostitute. Mindful of my own 21st century sensibilities, I tried to overlook his caveman-ish treatment of this new woman he meets. Rabbit orders her around from the first second, and this being the 50s, the woman (named Ruth) only fights back slightly

He gets angry when he finds out she's slept with a former high school teammate of his. She's a prostitute. It comes with the territory.

Their first night together, he orders her to clean the make-up off her face. She doesn't do it enough to his satisfaction so he wipes it off for her.

He gets angry that she wants to use contraception.

He befriends an Episcopal minister, Jack Eccles. His first time in the house of man of God, he slaps the man's wife on the ass. She doesn't slap him in the face. She acts surprised, almost flattered. Oh, the 50s must have been fun.

So Rabbit has left his wife to take care of their young son. This would be embarrassing enough in 1958. But he doesn't even have the decency to run away to Florida or Minnesota. He stays right in town, living with a prostitute and cavorting around town. Intentionally or not, he rubs it in his wife's face and brings a heaping pile of shame on her and her family.

In a rage that his prostitute girlfriend has slept with other men, he forces her to fellate him, coaxing and prodding her like a five-year-old who wants candy in a supermarket. He gets his way.

His pregnant wife goes into labor. So our main character undergoes a revelation. He wants to be back with his wife. So he leaves Ruth in the middle of the night without a word. Oh, and she's pregnant, too.

Just days after the birth of his infant daughter, he's still preening at the minister's wife and hitting on her.

Again, just days after his wife has given birth, he desperately wants sex. She's not quite in the mood. He urges her to drink whiskey, saying it would help lessen her stress while in reality he just wants her drunk so she'd be more open to sex. Did I forget to mention his wife has a drinking problem?

He's lying in bed with his wife trying to make his moves. She resists. So while she's got his back to him, he tries some sodomy. She rightfully objects. He runs away, comes back and now wants sex right after birth? After months of cheating on her and rubbing it in her face? Of course, he doesn't like a woman talking to him like this. So what does he do? He walks out in the middle of the night and doesn't come home.

So now he's left his wife twice, and this time with a young son and an infant daughter, knowing the wife has a drinking problem. He never comes home that night, so the wife goes nutty. She has a few too many and ends up drowning the baby.

We find Rabbit was trying to get back with Ruth that night, but could not find her. So he just farts around all night. He finds out from Eccles what's happened. So he comes back, rightfully chastened.

If I was the wife's father, I'd fucking kill him. Instead, the family welcomes him to their home. He's heartbroken and feeling guilty. As he should. He accepts blame ...

... Until the actual burial. Out of nowhere, he tells the gathered mourners that it's not his fault. He wasn't there. It was an accident and he knows his wife didn't mean it. Of course the wife is the one who killed the child, but he set her on the course. Anyway, he just starts running away from the funeral into the woods by the cemetery.

He shows up at Ruth's and tries to get back with her. She actually cusses him out real good, but even she allows an opening for them to get together if he divorces his wife. He says he will and tells her he'll go to the deli and get her a sandwich. What does he do instead? He runs away. Book ends.

I don't know if Updike wanted the reader to like Rabbit. He doesn't shy from showing how his actions affect others around him, but throughout the novel, Harry Angstrom's inner dreams and desire for freedom, for an elusive liberation, are fostered upon us. In most novels, the reader should empathize with the protagonist in some way.

Many literary critics hail this character as a fighter against the sterility of modern life. As a man of inspiration, courageous enough to chase a true, fulfilling life.

But any logical reading of this character's actions should only include the words "world-class asshole" and "piece of rodent excrement."

I really hated him. The indignant way he hoists himself upon everyone. His narcissism. He self-centered-ness. His complete, earth-consuming cowardice. I hate him so much I blogged about a book written 50 years ago. He's not fighting suburbia. Unless you're a single billionaire, you will lead a rather monotonous life. That's how it goes. You will do tomorrow what you did yesterday, for the most part. Your "new and improved" life will grow to resemble your old one, and then what happens? Run away again and start the whole process again?

And I'm supposed to root this guy on? He shamed his wife, abandoned his son and infant daughter, abandoned his new girlfriend, abandoned his wife again and played a big hand in the death of a child. A protagonist for sure. A hero, not a chance.

There are more books in the Rabbit series. The second one is "Rabbit Redux." I probably won't read it. Tough to read a series on a man of no redeeming value whatsoever. I can't even hate him as a great villain because he's not written in that manner. But in a perfect world, the series would have ended at book No. 2 -- "Rabbit, Run Over by a Car."

Steve's Peeves: Stranger in a strange land

2011-01-31T16:07:00.000-08:00

I came home today exhausted, like I usually am on Mondays. My body and 4 am do not get along.

Like the 80-year-old man I am, I napped ... for about two hours. And man, my subconscious was in overdrive. Vivid dreams pulsated in my sleepy projector brain. I dreamed about dreaming about losing my teeth. And I was losing my teeth to some sort of Smoke Monster-esque evil force that caused my teeth to jar loose. It only had power over me if I allowed it by ending my dream's dream. So when I decided to ignore the evil force, my teeth came back.

To summarize, my dream self dreamed about losing teeth to an evil, shadowy force. The dream self inside my dream self knew I had to get up from this dream within a dream where my teeth were becoming loose.

Yeah, intense.

Also, I dreamed about stuffed reindeer that walked upright and I could not tell between two identical ones -- one an enemy and one a friend.

I unfurl this belabored lede in a roundabout manner to explain my brain's proclivity for overreaction this afternoon. My old enemy had reared its fangs once again. This enemy has haunted me since I first came onto this earth.

People.

More specifically, strangers.

Below I will list some strange encounters I've had with strange strangers who have weirded me out strangely.

First, back in December before my trip back to Rhode Island, I exited a pet store with a Christmas present for Jelly. A black van stopped by me in a darkened parking lot. A guy came out of the passenger side door and offered me an entertainment system.

Naturally skeptical of this stranger in a black van offering me goodies, I declined. He persisted. I persisted in my rejection. So I walked on to my car and the van followed me.

"C'mon, man. It's right in the back. Great set. I'm just trying to be nice."

"Thanks," I said firmly and politely. "But I'm good."

"It's right in the back."

"No thanks." This time with force. Perhaps it was the inflection of my authoritative voice or my intimidating physique, but the black van drove off at last, most likely to find another victim to cut into tiny pieces and eat for breakfast.

Second incident. Just last week I was walking along a busy street on a beautiful, absolutely perfect Florida afternoon. Suddenly, another car slowed down to my left and a man with spikey hair, probably late 20s, leaned out the window and hooted and hollered like a construction worker watching Jessica Alba stroll by. He wasn't alone. Whoever else accompanied him in that car also whistled. I think the guy even puckered his lips. It happened pretty fast. The car drove on, unable to stop in heavy traffic.

At least when a woman is objectified in such a manner, she can think to herself, "The opposite sex finds me so attractive they can't contain their urges." I can only credit myself for a.) inspiring a car-full of mischievous heterosexual hoodlums into a joke or b.) inspiring a car-full of roving homosexual hoodlums into cat-calls.

Either scenario is not uplifting.

The third incident. I'm driving in Boca Raton and I stop at a red light. A car full of youths ask me where Wakefield plaza is. Plazas are a dime-a-dozen in South Florida. So I told them I had no idea. They weren't done.

"Hey, man. You do drugs?"

"Uh, no."

"You want any?"

I just told you I don't do drugs, idiot. "No thanks." I then stare straight ahead like a mannequin, the red light refusing to change colors.

"I've got a whole bunch of shit here." He then listed a bunch of drugs I'd never heard before. Mind you, this took place in broad daylight. I continued to stare straight ahead. A passer-by on a bike distracted them long enough until the light turned green and I turned into Paul Walker from "Fast & Furious: Part IV: Speed Kills."

The last, and most minor incident also occurred in Boca. I was going to the most fancy movie theater I've been to in years to see "The Kings' Speech." This theater had valet parking. It also had a cheap matinee ticket. So as I'm walking up to the outdoor booth to purchase my admittance, a portly teenager in glasses stared me down the whole way. I grew suspicious of him just feet away from my car.

He kept staring at I kept walking toward him. I walked past him and he turned and gave me a dumb-ass glare, like I was only dressed in orange underwear. On that day, I wasn't. I happened to be wearing my Jim James band t-shirt. Perhaps he was so astounded to see someone in that shirt he couldn't speak.

I waited in line and he continued to stare. I summoned all my powers pretending to ignore him from that point on. Once I had my ticket, I speed-walked into the theater. Watching previews of that horrible looking Matthew Perry show sure beat this weird kid.

I ask, "What in the name of Rachel Maddow is going on with people?"

When you sit back and wonder at the origins of my stranger-phobia, don't forget these stories.

A happy blog ... Siriusly

2011-01-28T17:18:00.000-08:00

I am a customer of satellite radio.

Yay!!!

Just a couple of weeks ago I splurged on Sirius XM radio, and my review is in .... FOUR STARS.

Instead of listening to the same CD on an endless loop to avoid the horrid terrestrial radio down here, I can enjoy Lithium - otherwise known as Satellite WBRU.

I broadened my musical horizons, going from classic rock all the way to independent rock. I can listen to Michael Kay or Jason Ellis. I can listen to gospel or 50's hits. There's even a Pearl Jam station, which mostly plays live stuff, but still. All Pearl Jam, all the time.

They even provide me with with the syringe of liberal propaganda I can shoot into my death-tax loving veins with America Left. And the dulcet tones of NPR if I ever need to fall asleep while driving.

I often find myself angry when I arrive at my destination now because a song I like is coming on. That NEVER happened before.

In addition, it brings back a few memories with some of their out-of-left-field selections. A few days ago, one station played "Fit But You Know It" from The Streets. A call-back from the college years. Maybe if I listen to the Spectrum station long enough, they'll throw up some JJ72.

And when they overplay a song, at least they overplay a good one. For some reason, I've heard "Thirty-three" from Smashing Pumpkins several times. They love that tune. So do I. Beats hearing Beastie Boys for sure.

One thing I worry about is the actual radio itself. I fear it sends a "Steal Me" signal to the local thieves running about in Florida. So I always detach the actual radio and stash it unseen to prying eyes inside my car. Paranoid? Or not enough? I don't know. It's my new puppy and I don't want anything bad to happen to it.

Anyway, just wanted to let y'all know how much I love having satellite radio. I needed to write a happy, uplifting blog entry anyway.

Social distortion

2011-01-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

*Socially awkward penguin!

In the course of human events, sometimes I have to interact with other humans.

It's not an ideal situation. When I could be rewatching a Season 2 episode of 30 Rock for the third time, often I have to actually exchange words with another sentient being. This often requires me to nurse light alcoholic beverages while informing someone pretending to be interested in what I have to say that, no, I don't get tickets to the Super Bowl because I work for a sports website.

While it may surprise you, I've been in many social situations the past month or so. I just attended a birthday barbecue in Coral Gables. I fret over such events. I contemplated which kind of alcohol to bring for almost 20 minutes. I considered Becks or Heineken and then remembered the family is Jewish. So I went in a different direction. I need to think of everything because my instincts in this field are world-class terrible.

At least these experiences provide an opportunity to self-scout my ability to interact with other people. And the scouting report says I have plenty to work on. Mel Kiper Jr. doesn't like my measurables at all. But I think his hair is stupid, so take that. He says I should stay inside all day, every day.

I'm trying.

Anyway, here are a few things the report would say:

1. Bad first step: When reacquainting with someone he has already met and conversed with several times, the Sears still says, 'Nice to meet you.' Concerning. At the Sunday BBQ, the Sears unfurled this beauty on the wife of his co-worker, a woman he had 'met' several times now. Why does he do this? We don't have a freaking clue. He might be better off saying, "Hi. My name is Steve. I'm a registered sex offender." Other preferable options: punching her in the stomach or giving her a copy of "The Card Cabal."

Word is, he's done this more than a few times. Watching the Sears perform this social stink bomb is like watching Tony Allen dribble ... sooner or later someone is going to get hurt.

2. Failure to engage: These South Florida women are different than others. A simple wave hello or soft handshake is not enough. They lean forward and this sets the Sears in panic mode. A female is getting too close. Abort! Abort! Sadly, running away is rarely an option so he must clumsily partake in this formal practice. Does each person kiss the other's cheek? Or is it just the guy? Or the girl? The Sears has no idea. He is just happy that he has yet to headbutt anyone doing this, but his discomfort is evident. A polar bear in the rain forest. A black guy at Fenway Park. Just out of place.

3. Terrible coordination: The 2004 Red Sox had handshakes more complicated than most missile systems. If the Sears were on that team, he would not have fit in very well. First, his 0.00 batting average would be an impediment, as well as his terrible fielding, threat to catchers, awful instincts, Jack Skellington frame, paper meche bones and insistence on Coldplay as locker room music. Also, this is a guy who chokes in mini-golf. Imagine Yankee Stadium in October?? Besides those very few faults, the Sears would have been completely helpless when it came to the Manny-Pedro-Papi coordinated handshakes.

The Sears can win an English award, write an enormously popular college column, graduate with a prestigious degree from a Top 100 university, operate a Toyota, and photograph street signs, but he can't pull off anything other than a simple handshake. Anything - ANYTHING -more than that goes over like anti-Obama joke on Real Time. A lobotomized high school dropout who watches Two-and-a-half Men can breeze through this ritualistic male greeting call.

The Sears has only one go-to move. A handshake with all the power and affirmation of an 80-year-old grandmother greeting a councilman after a zoning board hearing. That's it. Perhaps he should study this.

Many a time has an unsuspecting dude attempted such uncomplicated maneuvers only to find the Sears totally incapable of following along. This male will usually stop the complicated stuff and revert to a normal handshake, disgusted and befuddled while asking himself, "Is this guy gay or something?"

Yeah, I'm guilty of all these things. What can I say, other than "Nice to meet you?"

I'll see you inside with the shades drawn. My comfort zone.

Surveying the wreckage

2011-01-17T14:46:00.000-08:00

Nightmares can come true!

Exactly what I feared came to pass. The Patriots turned it over. They started slow. Things began to snowball. The crowd grew quiet and the Jets fed on it.

More sloppy play. Momentum clearly on Jets side. Dumb mistakes, curious calls, physical errors, lapses in judgment. New England did the veritable Dick Van Dyke routine, slipping over the Ottoman, clashing into the china cupboard, and accidentally falling into the same bed as his wife.

And then the Jets preened around Foxborough, just as I imagined they would. Bart Scott, a flea to Tom Brady's St. Bernard, mouthing off like The Rock on Monday Nights. Braylon Edwards doing a full back-flip at midfield. I don't even want to imagine LaDainian Tomlinson's smug smile.

A complete bomb.

Rehashing this game in my head as I drove back home from where I watched the game in Coral Gables through half-heartedly following the Golden Globes, one word keep repeating in my head: baffled.

I was, and remain, baffled at what I saw yesterday. Credit the Jets for playing well and avoiding mistakes, but this Patriots team did not slink by in the regular season at 9-7 and tip-toe into the playoffs. In that case, a performance like yesterday's would make sense. This team went 14-2, beat every playoff team it faced and scored the most points in the league by a wide margin.

In this case, being stuck with 11 points as the clock ran down in the fourth quarter was preposterous. Let's start with the Tom Brady interception. Awful pass of course, but the Jets did not score. Disaster averted, right? Then Alge Crumpler drops a touchdown. What could have been 14-0 was 3-0.

Then the Jets went to work against a defense that played well, but when the time came to absolutely make a play, they couldn't. A troubling pattern since 2006. Fast forward to the last quarter and it's 14-11. Pats finally have some momentum. Stop the Jets and they might just eke the game out. Instead, they allowed Cotchery to turn a simple crossing route into a 58-yard gain.

Shockingly easy and utterly deflating. And over course, they gave up the fade route in the end zone. Opposing teams have an Albert-Pujols-against-the-Sears-fastball average against the Patriots with that play.

On third down, they give up 6 to Edwards. Subsequently, the inexplicable Drive to Nowhere begins. I think the Pats were so used to running out the clock in the fourth they reverted to an old habit. I can't comprehend what they were possibly thinking. Let's move on.

It typified the whole game offensively. Something was off. They were out of sorts. Brady kept throwing passes to receivers who weren't even looking for the ball. He flinched in the pocket when there wasn't any pressure. And sometimes, he had enough time to watch the Shoah documentary and still could not complete a pass.

I still don't get it. This wasn't the team I watched this season.

If this loss does one thing, it wipes away that aura of certainty we as Pats fans have taken for granted. Bill Belichick will have a great game plan. The Pats won't shoot themselves in the foot. They'll play situational football. And, if need be, Brady will make the plays in the end to win the game.

The past three playoff games have kicked these assumptions straight in the balls.

I'm done waiting for that magic to reappear. Those players, McGinest, Bruschi, Harrison, Vrabel, Brown, et al are gone. Most of the current Patriots don't have any rings.

So enough with the invincibility train. Enough with the 10-point lines. This is just another team trying to make a name for itself in the postseason. That 'championship intangible' does not reside in Foxborough at the moment.

It's not all bad. They did go 14-2. They aren't the Bills. They have a young core on defense, plenty of draft picks, and the all-time coach-QB combo. Maybe -- and I've been praying for one for years -- they'll get a pass rusher. Maybe they will fortify their offensive line or find another threat on offense.

Then we could be here 12 months from now.

But I won't be counting on some Patriot mystique to take over in January 2012. No more "We have Brady and Belichick, so we win" proclamations.

Three straight postseason losses to Eli Manning, Joe Flacco and Mark Sanchez make that a stone-cold certainty.

I have a nightmare

2011-01-15T17:48:00.000-08:00

I'm having nightmares.

Rex Ryan beating his chest like a gorilla in mating season. Mark Sanchez running off the Gillette Stadium field wagging his finger Joe Namath style. LaDainian Tomlinson and Antonio Cromartie and Braylon Edwards hooting and hollering in front of the few Jets fans who have moved to the front row in place of departing Patriots fans.

"The Jets are going to the AFC title game!"

And then comes the media hype. The sickening celebrations. The New York media gnawing at the New England carcass non-stop for weeks. Rex Ryan is the greatest coach of all time. Mark Sanchez is the next big star in New York. LaDainian Tomlinson for Pope. Antonio Cromartie starring in Tyler Perry's Full House remake.

This Armageddon scenario has dominated my mind since the Jets beat the Colts last Saturday. And after a week of constant sniping, most of it coming from New York, the game is finally here. And whatever happens, at least this haunting uncertainty that is slowly driving me batty will disappear.

Rational Steve knows a few things. The Patriots are better. They have a better quarterback. They have a better head coach. They have receivers who don't drop five balls a game. They're playing at home. They went 14-2 and beat every playoff team they faced in the regular season.

And, duh, they savaged the Jets 45-3 a month ago.

The facts are clear. New England should win. Odds are, it will. But the mere possibility the Patriots could lose to this team -- of all teams -- makes me physically ill. Who knows? A freaky turnover or two. An injury. A helmet catch. Weird stuff can go down. And if it does, I will have to avoid the Internet and TV for a while.

Which is tough when you work for a sports website.

I used to be supremely confident in the Patriots in the playoffs. And while I know how lucky all us Flying Elvis fans are to have witnessed this dynasty, the past several years have ended in every agonizing way the football deities could envision.

That sloppy loss in Denver. The collapse in Indianapolis. The game in Phoenix I still have problems dealing with. And last year's pathetic effort against Baltimore.

There are some playoff yips to be exorcised here, is all I'm saying.

Losing this game would feel worse than winning it would feel good. And winning would feel damn good. Losing ... that's what brings the demons at night.

So Patriots, if any of you are reading this right now -- Tully, you're my man -- don't screw around. I want 75-0. If it's 27-26, I'll take it, but you'll have to pay the hospital bills. Just, please, for the sake of us and the rest of the world not having to listen to the Jets anymore, beat these clowns.

You just CAN'T lose this game. You can't.

Goodbye, Dodger

2011-01-11T17:24:00.000-08:00

I'm going to spare you a lullaby to the early 90s, when the kids of Byron Street frolicked outside while partaking in four squares and manhunt as parents sipped lemonade and talked about Ross Perot. My home street glowed with the warm sunshine of good times.

Now it is a dark and dreary cave of living room dwellers who don't know each other and allow their grass to grow taller than Andre the Giant.

I'll spare you that rant as I tell you that my mom's car was stolen last weekend. Swiped right from the driveway in the middle of the night.

A fifteen-year-old Dodge Caravan ... poof. The fact it was taken right from the house has my mom questioning the safety of the old neighborhood for the first time. She's lived there since about 1985.

Steve flashback: This story should remind you of another similar crime perpetrated against the Sears clan.

Yeah, the world is going to hell in a Chinese-made basket. Blah blah. There are two important things I want to relay at this moment. First, bad dog. Bad dog!

The family pet, Jelly Ignatius Mother Hubbard Queen Latifah Sears, did not notice a thing. She will bark if a squirrel sneezes twenty yards away from the house. But if a pack of thieves pilfer the family van parked right outside the window, she doesn't notice a thing. She growls at me if I simply walk by, yet the thieves escape clean.

And don't tell me she was deep in slumber. That little treasures sleeps with one eye open, just in case she catches you doing something that pisses her off.

Second, I'm gonna miss that ol' van. I learned to drive in that thing. I took many a trip back and forth to school while listening to 92 Pro FM in that thing. I took many a trip to Boston in that thing, to move to college in September, 2001 and back to Cranston in utter shame and humiliation in August, 2006.

The Dodge Caravan took us to Virginia and Maine, Pawtucket and Seekonk. It was my Rhode Island car on trips back home.

But like a family pet, it started to lose its faculties as the years fluttered by. The radio went. The brakes weakened. The heat vacillated. But gosh darn did it always get you where you needed to go. And with plenty of space to help four kids move in and out of dorms for nearly ten years.

So forgive me if I mourn the passing of a big part of the Sears family. Like my basketball rim with the 'S' painted on the plywood backboard. I cherished that old hoop. Like the four-foot high removable pool that made 31 Byron the place to be for the neighborhood kids. These objects, while irrelevant in the big picture, constitute the memories of a family and a time long passed.

And the Dodge Caravan was a part of that, and it left us too soon. Right now, it's probably in a million bitty pieces in some West Warwick chop shop, but it will be always be whole where it matters most -- my heart.

No tix for you

2011-01-08T17:12:00.000-08:00

I'm known for my performance under pressure. Calm eyes and what not. But my heart was racing this morning.

Mr. Dave Doyel (or Doyle? Doyal?) will be coming to South Florida for a few spring training games. I was tasked with purchasing the tickets. It was more suspenseful than Paranormal Activity.

First there's the virtual waiting room, an online limbo that could never end ... but you better be on standby or you go to the back of the line.

Then the fun starts.

You have one minute to pick your seats.

I'm hurrying! OK ... Two reserved box seats. Just in time.

Nice try, sucka. We don't have that available. Clock is ticking.

Um ... box seats?

No soup for you! MACGRUBER! (Bomb explodes)

Actually, I was able to pick some bleacher seats for the Red Sox-Marlins on March 12.

Then you have a minute and thirty seconds to remember your password. I have about 10 of those, and I never remember which ones go where.

Then a little over two minutes to fill out your credit card info. I'm racing through my name, address, postal code and I never know where the Doomsday Clock is.

And they even want me to buy ticket insurance. Is everything insured now? Can you buy anything anywhere without someone trying to get you to sign up for this card or buy this insurance or purchase this warranty? Sigh ... society.

MACGRUBER!

But I made it through to the other side. I came up huge in the clutch. Now I know what those Hurt Locker guys were going through. The pressure. Any small mistake could cost you your life ... or a chance to see Marco Scutaro battle Burke Badenhop.

I think this makes up for my Taboo debacle.

At the bah

2010-12-13T16:56:00.000-08:00

While you Northern folk might be cursing your lot in life as it snows and rains and howls at freezing temps, you have one thing on which you can hold:

You don't have to watch the Dolphins.

They really are terrible to watch, but this being the local market, they receive televised priority. This means I need to venture out to this scary place known as "The Outside" where strangers congregate and spread their germs and their tweets if I want to watch the New England Patriots.

So yesterday I ventured over to a Boston-themed Fort Lauderdale seafood place to watch what was supposed to be a dogfight with the Bears. The game was a mismatch. Tom Brady is God. Bill Belichick is Super God. We all know that.

What's more interesting is this little enclave of Bostonians hidden in one of South Florida's lifeless plazas. It's like the Bostontown for South Florida. Burly men decked in tight Brady jerseys. People screaming for "Welkah!" and "BenJahvis!," people you would think came straight out of central casting for a hard-scrabble CBS sitcom set in Dorchestah starring Jimmy O'Doyle and Katelyn McCallister.

Yes, it's like a gift basket of Boston cliches, but it's a slice of home. So when the Patriots aren't on national TV, I go here. And it is here where I realize I need to work on my Boston bona fides.

You'd think I have enough credentials. Sure, I was born in Rhode Island, but to everyone down here Rhode Island and Boston are synonymous. And I do admit to being attracted to Tom Brady in way too many instances for a straight man. He's just that awesome. Like any true Boston fan, I wish Bill Belichick was the Secretary of Defense and I know who Sam Gash is.

But even in this utopia of Southies, I feel out of place.

Perhaps it's my aversion to alcoholic beverage. I just can't put them down like any true Boston man can. I nursed one glass of Guiness like it was a premature baby. And all around me are brash men's men screaming in billowy baritones while I clap like a cheerleader on a Glee.

And my small talk talents are in the Mark Blount range. I happened to sit next to this guy who talked non-stop to me about how sports used to be in the good, old days.

"Remember when pitchers used to throw 506,000 innings a game? And then they killed a moose with a toothpick and pitched another 506,000 the next day? Nowadays, they throw one pitch before they curl up on the mound and suck their thumbs."

"Back in the 60s, there this was one football player named Rock of Gibraltar, and he played every position on the field all at once. That's when men were men, I tell 'ya."

All game .... There was nowhere to go and nothing to do but nod politely. Then he veered into even more interesting territory ... Formula 1 racing history.

Lots of nodding and uh-huhs from me. I thought about taking out my book. (Yes, I brought a book. You never know when you'll need one.)

Then this gentleman, coughing up a storm, veered into movies.

"Everything's a remake these days," was his actual quote. "A few years ago, they remade It's a Wonderful Life. How can you replace Jimmy Stewart?"

"I don't think they ever remade that movie," I say.

"Oh they did. It was terrible."

"I really don't remember that."

A stalemate.

The man did earn some Sears points when John Boehner showed up on the television, and for what must be the 103rd time, he was crying. Boehner just loves to cry. Imagine if a Democrat cried as much as this guy?

Apparently, this guy was thinking the same thing.

"What's he crying about this time? I'll give him something to cry about, that asshole."

That's more like it!

For the most part, I sat in my corner like a good little boy while we cheered for our suddenly dominant patriots. Fun times for all. Meanwhile, the guy next to me ate a lobster, and the lobster's eyes stared me down, pleading for mercy, yet I could do nothing. I could never eat anything with its eyes staring at me.

Another line in my girly-man resume.

While the game got out of hand, the real men started arguing about the Celtics. One big guy in a beard basically said Ray Allen sucks. A younger Boston fan was challenging him on it. I felt like chiming in, but I would probably have come across like Milton in Office Space.

The game ended and we all stayed to watch the Dolphins beat the Training Camp Super Bowl Champion Jets. We took extra glee in New York's loss and then we parted ways. The working class men who chug down beer like I consume coffee milk, unafraid to speak their minds and speak it to anyone within a five-mile radius, slapped backs and said their goodbyes. They have their Ben Coats and Andre Tippett jerseys. They don't know 'r' is a letter in the alphabet, and they don't care.

I had my Northeastern shirt and my book as I slithered out anonymously, because that's how I do.

Clearing the (hot) air

2010-11-29T17:32:00.000-08:00

It's well past time to clear out the desk drawer, clean out the cupboard, empty the trash can, etc. etc. etc.

*I took a trip to up to Orlando to visit my half-sister for my Saturday after Thanksgiving Thanskgiving. First of all, I'd like to thank Arcade Fire for making my three-hour trip go by rather smoothly. I'm not good at long car drives. My back gets tight, as does my neck. My leg grows numb and uncomfortable, my throat gets dry, but that band made it all disappear.

*Signs that I'm no longer in librul South Florida. One: Signs off the road promoting Gator Jerky. Tempting, but no. I hear it is high in sodium. Two: Vultures. Real vultures devouring some carcass. Truly spooky. Three: Bumper stickers attacking the socialist dictator that is Barack Obama.

*My sister Karen is big into genealogy. She's tracked my family back to my great-grandparents on my father's side, almost getting to the Civil War era. Unfortunately, those rubes in the Azores and Ireland did not keep great records so that's where the search has stopped.

My dad's father, Harry Soares/Sears worked in construction in Providence and had two wives (who both died in child birth) before meeting my grandmother, Della Joyce. Having seen photos of my paternal grandmother, I was not surprised to learn she was popular with the men back in the day. She had five kids with Harry, my dad being the last one in 1932. My grandfather died a little more than a year after my dad war born.

Della Joyce died in 1984. I had no idea she was alive when I was born. My parents never talk about her. Apparently, she was a tough, Catholic woman who grew up in foster care, which back then was ten times worse than it is now.

*On the topic of grandparents, I remember my elementary school making us write essays about our grandparents every year. I also recall hating this because I never knew any of my grandparents and had to choose another random relative. So I was born in 1982. In 1984, my dad's mother died at age 83. The next year, my maternal grandfather died suddenly on Christmas Eve. My mom was pregnant at the time and gave birth two days later. In 1987, my mom's mother died on Christmas day, two months after my sister LeeAnne was born.

Obviously, I have little-to-hazy memories of my grandparents. Though some of my first memories is of the chaos surrounding my grandmother's death on Christmas. I may have been at the funeral. Very hazy. Still, years later, I hate my school for that grandparents' essay circus.

*My mother's family has Nova Scotia roots, so I'm a bit Canadian. Explains my adoration for Kiefer Sutherland.

*On Saturday I wanted to watch the entire Oklahoma-Oklahoma State game. I've gotten into college football this year more than in years past. The atmospheres at those games, even on TV, drip with intensity and/or insanity. Unfortunately, my evolution into an 80-year-old man is moving steadily along. I could not stay up past 9 p.m., and it was not the turkey. My work schedule has me going to bed before most grandparents.

*On the 'I'm secretly and 80-year-old man' topic, I'm noticing more muscle aches than ever before. I need to stretch before any sort of physical activity. Before playing basketball now, I feel the urge to put on 1980s shorts while wearing puffy white wrist bands and bad-ass goggles.

*It's one month before Christmas and I have no idea what to ask for. Something with Tom Brady's name on it? A blow-up doll? I need some ideas.

*Here's one. The lone rock radio station is no more. I turned to 93.1 the other day expecting some Nickleback and "52 minutes of rock" that somehow was always - and I mean ALWAYS - at commercial anytime I clicked in, only to find "White Christmas." In its place is a 24-hour Christmas song station. Station manager Jeff Schaible could not be reached for comment.

*Here in diverse, heavily over-populated South Florida, there is not ONE rock radio station on the FM dial. Very sad. I really do need to look into satellite radio.

*Speaking of my Thanksgiving, it was rather pathetic. I worked with one other guy for the most part in an empty, eerie office. If you watched the Pats-Lions game, you saw some of my handiwork. When they told you to vote for the Phil Simms' Iron Man of the game, I was the one who did the poll. Also, when they pointed you to our website to watch the Chris Henry feature (which was legitimately good), I was the one who created the package. I hope you noticed, but you were all probably watching Cranston East once again beat Cranston West. It's like Ohio State-Michigan now, in importance and in competition (or lackthereof).

*Then I went home and ate frozen pizza before taking a jog in a retirement community. A dream Thanksgiving if you ask me.

*Rolling Stone has been sending me their magazine for some reason. I did not subscribe, but I won't complain. They keep sending me warnings. This is your last issue! Then I receive the next one. OK, this is the last issue. Then another one. We really mean it this time! It's quite a game of chicken. Sooner or later, I will lose.

*Quality magazine. Matt Taibi is great. But are they contractually obligated to write glowing features on Robert Plant and Bruce Springsteen every issue? From reading this magazine, one would think these guys come out with an album a month. And Bruce could burp into a microphone and read a script from Outsourced and RS will call it the greatest rumination of American desolation and hopelessness since John Updike put pen to paper.

*Lastly, am I bad person if I look down upon people for the TV they watch? If you prefer Outsourced to 30 Rock, I'm sorry, but I will judge you for it. If you laugh uproariously to Mike & Molly but think Curb Your Enthusiasm sucks, then I will give you the credulous Sears squint of dissatisfaction. We all like a certain trashy TV show or two (I watched the entire first season of Joe Millionaire), but if all you watch is reality crap or staid sitcoms, my tortured, creative side will rain judgement down upon you.

It's a serious character flaw.

Emo warning

2010-11-06T18:26:00.000-07:00

If the dating life of Steve Sears was a television show, it would be funnier than Outsourced, canceled faster than Lone Star and match the disappointment level of The Office.

(Seriously, that last episode of the Office was one of the worst they have ever had. I don't think I laughed once. I hate when Jim and Pam are clueless. And I HATE HATE HATE how they always bring Michael out of the Dunder Mifflin office so he can do something excruciatingly stupid in front of a lot of strangers. That whole deal in the bus was predictable and deliriously unfunny. And after an all-time classic that was the Halloween episode, this was just sad.)

Don't fret. I'm not here to rage an emo, Simple Plan diatribe on the tragedies of heterosexual interplay. But I am here to make a Bill Simmons style athletic comparison, which will come at the conclusion.

Let's start with Lady No. 1. Around the beginning of September she contacts me online. We email back and forth for a few days. Then she disappears. This has happened to me a zillion times, so I was completely immune to such abandonment.

A week or so later, she emails back with the ol' 'it's been crazy' excuse. Whatever. She gave me her cell phone number. I sent her a text the next morning. Little did I know what I had just started.

Mr. Z.C. Hoss-man was visiting from out of town, so for the first time in a long time, I was going to be busy. So Lady No. 1 embarks on a torrid texting binge. "What's up?" every morning. Asking for status updates every two hours.

I played along as much as I could, considering I still had a flip cell phone and T9 texting. It takes ten minutes to say "hello" on those things. (I've since upgraded.) I told her as much, while also explaining I had a friend in town so it might take me a while to answer back. By 'a while,' I meant several hours. Keep in mind, I've been forced to wait days and weeks for responses. She apologized but didn't stop the mass deluge.

When I did respond, I'd get passive-aggressive answers, like "Nice to hear from you. Been a while."

Anyway, once the visitor left this humble state, Lady No. 1 and I set up a meeting in Boca Raton on a Monday. Time and place were all agreed upon the Saturday before. So I did not message her from that Saturday night through Monday. I drove up to Boca, found the bar and watched Saints-49ers alone while I waited.

Thirty minutes late and still alone, I texted her to see what was up. She answered back, "You didn't message me at all today so I figured you blew me off." I read it, smirked a defeated smirk, and immediately deleted her from my phone.

To recap, I blew her off by not keeping contact over the span of two days and not confirming something we had already confirmed. But she ignored me for seven says and that's OK. I'm a terrible person for not responding to 25 texts within minutes, she can wait a week.

Now on to Lady No. 2, which is a much more recent tale of woe. We started talking in late September. Same song-and-dance for a few days until -- POOF! -- she disappeared. I'm like Harry Houdini in this shit. I'm a paper shredder and they are ENRON financial documents. (Timely reference.)

Right before I'm to leave for my sister's wedding, she emails me. "Sorry it's been a wild week. I wasn't ignoring you ." OK, I'm forgiving (and not exactly full with other options.) So we message intermittently and set up a date for a Sunday, conveniently during the Pats bye week. What happens? She cancels the morning of.

Then I don't hear back from her for more than a week. I wonder what I possibly could have done the entire time. I didn't even get the chance to un-impress her in person. So, a few Saturdays ago I message her out of the blue just wondering what's up and actually get a response. We end up setting up another date, which she cancels again.

By this point, I'm getting the message, but I forge ahead anyway because I'm a putz. We try a third time, she cancels a third time. Then uncancels. We finally get together last Wednesday. It goes pretty well, but as I've learned the past two years, what I think means squat. It always takes me a while to get comfortable with people, so I don't expect some lame Jennifer Lopez movie moment when the leads lock eyes, the camera turns into a cloudy dream and soothing musics soars through the speakers. So yeah, I have a little wall around me when it comes to strangers. That's just how I am and have always been. I pretty much refused to talk at first to the kid who would become one of my best friend in Cranston. My two longtime college roommates can tell you their first impressions of me weren't great.

Having such a problem in the dating world is like a batter going to the majors who can't hit any pitches over 70 miles per hour and can't touch a curveball. Not good. The conversation goes pretty well, but not without some momentary awkward silences. Mind you, I had another date that went for four hours of almost non-stop spirted talk, and she still told me to take a hike a few days later. Anyway, it went pretty good. I waiting two days, called, left a message and hung up the phone knowing the battle was lost.

Again, I read the tea leaves a while back and still went through the motions. You never know, but it's been more than 24 hours without a response. I let her dick me around for four weeks and for what? Some sushi in Boca. The thing is, I always knew it was ending this way. After cancellation No. 2 I should have just scrapped the whole thing. I just KNEW the ending would suck, like any Mets fan feels in April.

If there was a scouting report on me for these first meet-ups, I don't know what it would say. At this point, I can't think about these nights rationally. I do know the first few days after these dates where I spend most of my waking hours thinking how I screwed this or that up are no fun at all. It's like being on Death Row. You know the end is near and you just want it to come already, and in the meantime you have nothing to think about besides your mistakes.

This brings me to my Bill Simmons moment. If I were a terrible Red Sox shortstop, who would I be? Nick A. Green? Nah, he had his moments. Edgar Renteria? He was awful in Boston, but obviously remembers how to play when he's on other teams. Julio Lugo? He was an affront to baseball, but he also has a ring. He'd be like Turtle from Entourage, who gets women only because he knows Vincent Chase.

So the only conclusion ... Cesar Crespo. A second baseman by nature, he played some shortstop in his Red Sox days. He batted a sparkling .165 in 52 games in the early part of 2004. An absolute black hole in the lineup. A testament to futility. (He also got a ring in 2004, but then again, who didn't?)

It's all fitting. Crespo is one of my favorite random Red Sox players of all time, along with Arquimedez Pozo, Reggie Jefferson, Jeff Frye, Tim Naehring and Jim Corsi. Quality company, I would say.

And I would take some serious 'roids if it meant I could hit .165.

The Grinch

2010-11-01T19:05:00.000-07:00

It should be well known I am a Halloween Grinch. I don't like dressing up. I did it as a kid because that is what society expected of me. And also, I wanted free candy.

Now I am an adult with a salary in the multiples of thousands and can purchase candy of my own volition.

Still, I don't want to deprive the little children out there some candy from a stranger. So it was with great shame that I had to ignore the knocks on my apartment door this Halloween.

Let me explain.

I've purchased candy a couple years here and never got one - not one - trick-or-treater. As a result, my abode was bereft of candy. Of course, precocious little children had to knock on my door this time, all excited to get some treats.

Me? I had to sit inside, mute the TV and sit in shame. Also, I had to root for the Pats silently on their final, game-winning drive. It was quite sad. Not cry sad, pathetic sad.

Thankfully, the apartment across the hall helped me out by graciously handing out some goodies.

All the while, the Halloween Grinch sat silent in his little cave.

P.S. Who told you the Giants were going to win the World Series??? I think you know the answer.

Watch it burn

2010-10-30T18:18:00.000-07:00

A ten-minute drive, if that. Sixty seconds in line. Two minutes waiting for the print-out. Ten minutes to fulfill my civic duty. Another minute to register my civic duty. A second to put on a sticker.

That was it. Something easy. Something simple. Something barely 50 percent of our country bothers to do - vote.

Florida has early voting for a two-week period and I took advantage of it Friday to vote for Alex Sink, Charlie Crist and some school board people I know nothing about.

I'm no civic servant hero. I don't phone bank. I don't Get Out the Vote partly because of my lack of charm and my fear that some ignorant statement from an uninformed citizen would set me off. And I'm not the busiest person in the world.

Still, it takes 10 minutes. There is no excuse not to vote.

This ain't no haughty public service announcement starring John Legend, Susan Sarandon and other "librulz." It's just a simple fact. We aren't asked to do much as American citizens. Many other countries, like Israel and South Korea, have mandated military service. In the U.S., men register for the selective service, but we are nowhere close to a draft.

Just once every two years we are asked to vote. And unless you are a single parent with five kids and two jobs, you aren't too busy to vote. You have to work all Tuesday? Then vote early. Can't vote early? Then fill in an absentee ballot. Again, not difficult.

Yet less than 50 percent will end up voting in the midterm elections. The stay-at-home people will still complain, as if taking their ball and going home will give our nation better leaders. They must stare at a fire, shrug or cuss, go home and expect it to be over by the next morning.

My age group is the worst of all. Most numbers say a third of us 18-34'ers will vote. No, we're not too busy. We just don't care. We don't feel it will have an effect. The politicians don't care about us.

That's right. They don't. Why should they? Does the CW worry about how to reach grandmothers who love JAG reruns? They will not bother with an age group that doesn't vote. You have to go to them. They will not come to you. This is the same group that had to be dragged kicking and screaming to allow women the right to vote, to abolish slavery, to end Jim Crowe, to pass worker protections and food safety regulations. They are always years behind the populace, and they're just fine with that backward position if they are never called out on it.

The youth came out for Obama, didn't get 100 percent of what they wanted, and are disillusioned. Things were supposed to be fixed in two years. Little do they know that the NAACP and black Americans fought for decades until the first Civil Rights legislation was passed in the 50s. With today's attitude, they would have quit in the 30s and sat home so Strom Thurmond could be voted president.

That's basically what liberals are doing now. We didn't get everything we wanted. Obama has compromised too much. He's been excruciatingly slow on gay rights, closing Guantanamo, ending the wars, bringing down unemployment, etc. Much of this is true.

He's also the most successful progressive president since Lyndon Johnson and has done more for the liberal cause in two years than Bill Clinton was able to do in eight. Health care reform. Wall Street reform. He saved a million jobs by rescuing the American auto industry. He's invested more in green energy than any president ever has. He staved off a depression. He made America likable again to the rest of the world. He instituted the Consumer Protection Agency. He kicked private banks out of the student lending industry and invested millions back into government grants.

There a plenty of things to complain about, but for progressive/liberals/communists/potheads, this president is the best you're gonna get. Want the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Then push him from the left with all you have. He'll be more amenable to your position than a President McCain would, or a President Palin, or a President Romney.

Instead, progressives and liberals are doing what they do best, sniping and giving in. They will take a courageous stand by staying home so Sharron Angle can go to the Senate and John Boehner can be third in line for the presidency. What good does that do for their cause?

None.

So Democrats are prepared to sit outside on the lawns and watch the fire. Almost half of America will let an extreme right wing movement take over D.C. - the same people who burned down everything from 2000-2008 - because these ordinary citizens don't want to take 30 minutes out of their day to vote.

And that's how they expect things to get better.

Since when do fires put themselves out?

Some sporting thoughts

2010-10-24T16:57:00.000-07:00

My heart is back to its normal rate and I'm no longer shaking.

Just like the infamous goal-line stand from 2003 against the Colts, the Pats let slip a sizable lead on the road to a rival, only to escape at the last second with a win. Like those old Pats teams, they were extremely opportunistic on defense and rudimentary on offense.

They infuriated. They frustrated. They excited. They gave me a near heart attack.

And they won.

There's a ton to criticize after this one. The offense needs to pick it up in the first half. Matt Light needs to take off his roller blades. The hands team should have been on the field for the onside kick. Brandon Tate needs to make an impact.

We Pats fans have been spoiled the past few years with 38-14 blowouts. We've been used to Brady-to-Moss for 50-yard touchdowns. Now that those days are gone, we hearken back to the Super Bowl years with rose-colored glasses.

Those teams blew leads. They missed tackles. They struggled to get going on offense. We tend to forget this looking back on it. Those teams did make just enough plays to win. It's trite. It's a cliche, but it's true.

This year's edition was alert enough to pounce on the ball after that Chargers receiver just dropped it on the ground thinking the play was over. This edition made a heads-up play picking up the ball after the lateral by Philip Rivers while the Chargers just stood around thinking about what dance they were going to try after their next touchdown.

When your offense is gaining 30 yards in a half like the Pats, these are the types of plays (and breaks) you need.

And for the Chargers, who talk trash like they are the Miami Hurricanes of the 80s but play like the 'Cane from today, this loss must eat at them. They're a flashy, talented team. They're also sloppy and play terrible situational football. Frankly, they play like your average Cranston West dropout. The Pats of this season play like Cranston East honor roll students (for the most part. The 15-yard cushions on 3rd and longs are driving me crazy.)

***

Oh no! The Rangers and Giants are in the World Series. How boring! The ratings will be terrible! Baseball is dead!

Hog wash. Even speaking as a Red Sox fan, not every World Series needs Boston, New York or Philly to be interesting. Many always complain that its the same teams in contention every year in baseball. Now we have a team that's never been to the Fall Classic in the Rangers and a team that has the second longest championship drought. (You know who's No. 1 there.)

And who cares about the ratings, besides Fox TV executives? Sure, they're not doing jumping jacks. It's not Yankees-Phillies, but I don't remember last year's breaking records. People will watch a competitive World Series, no matter who's in it. Angels-Giants was great. Marlins-Indians was an all-time classic. Non-Northeastern teams can play great series as well. And there are plenty of interesting players involved in this one.

Cliff Lee vs. Tim Lincecum in Game 1. Josh Hamilton, who put a David Ortiz-like fear of God in the Yankees. Nelson Cruz, who hit the home run that ended New York's season. Elvis Andrus, who ran the Yankees crazy and was ten times better than Derek Jeter. Neftali Feliz, an electrifying rookie closer. Buster Posey, one of the best young catchers to come along in a while. Matt Cain, a criminally underrated pitcher. Brian Wilson and his fake beard. The ballpark formally known as Pac-Bell, for my money the best field in the country not located on Yawkey Way.

So if fans don't watch this series, they can never complain again about East Coast bias or Yankee over-saturation. The storylines, players, angles and hungry fans are there for the taking. Take a week off from Dancing with Bed Bugs and Iron Urologist and watch this series.

***

As for my pick? The Rangers have the better lineup. They have more power and better base-runners. They play superior defense and they have the best postseason pitcher going right now in Cliff Lee.

So of course I'm picking the Giants.

I'm going against my brain here, but this San Francisco club has all the ... intangibles. I can't believe I'm saying this. I swear Joe Morgan hasn't overtaken my blog. But they've proven they can win one-run games. They don't rely on any one player, mostly because they don't have one who is good enough to rely on. They've been in playoff mode since early September.

And their pitching has been phenomenal. Lincecum, Cain and Sanchez are better than Lee, Wilson and Lewis all together. And the Giants bullpen might be even better than the starting staff. Old friend Javy Lopez, who loved to come in against a lefty while playing for the Red Sox, only to promptly issue a four-pitch walk, has been dominant. Santiago Casilla, Jeremy Affeldt, Guillermo Mota, former Boston great Ramon Ramirez and, of course, heart attack closer Brian Wilson comprise the best bullpen of any playoff team has this October.

A good bullpen is essential in this era of six-inning starts and La Russa-style specialization. The Giants are well equipped with versatile arms. The Rangers will not abuse this pitching staff like they did the Yankees.

And Bruce Bochy just played around with good ol' boy Charlie Manuel in the NLCS. Then again, Manuel is a terrible tactician. He went to the Jimy Williams/Grady Little school of southern drawl, go-with-the-gut managing. Ron Washington is a fine skipper, but Bochy is better. And he has the Dave Doyle charm going for him, which means only good things can happen.

With home field and the gods of baseball on their side, the Giants take a seven-game classic to win their first title in the beautiful City by the Bay.

This century's OK Computer

2010-10-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

There's a CD that is getting the Hot Fuss treatment, which means I've been playing it non-stop for weeks. This new album is the closest thing to "OK Computer" I've heard.

Can you guess what disc I'm talking about?

I think that hint gives it away. It's Arcade Fire's "The Suburbs." The Montreal band, consisting of nearly 321 members, has produced a masterpiece, plain and simple. This album is the best one I've heard since I was recuperating from surgery and listening to the Killers' debut effort way back in 2004.

Highly produced, extremely atmospheric and loaded with ambition, this collection of 16 tracks wades through a familiar topic -- American suburbia with all its traps, false hopes, distant memories and trashed dreams. While this motif could be boring in a less-talented band's hand, this band hits the sweet spot. Win Butler's lyrics turn the simple streets of Houston into a Blade Runner-esque dystopia, and he does it with a sincere passion.

Since I'm far from a musician, I can't act like an expert on the sound, but I find it fascinating. Every song fits in with the others to serve the album's larger theme, ala Radiohead's "OK Computer." No one song really sticks out head and shoulders above the rest, but no song is wasted. Every guitar rift, drum beat, string instrument, every backup vocal is handled with care. Let's start at the beginning ...

1. The Suburbs (7/10) -- A jaunty opener, this song sets the stage for the motifs that will pop up through through the album -- suburban war and decay, boredom and moving on from one's roots. Like most Arcade Fire songs, several instruments and melodies conflate here, but the accompanying piano rift and the high-pitched chorus burst through most prominently.

2. Ready to Start (9/10) -- The most radio-friendly tune with a tremendous intro featuring a steady drum beats and distorted guitar. "If the businessmen drink my blood / like the kids in art school said they would." That should give you an idea what Butler is going for with this one as he attempts to escape his suburban home with his music. I think he succeeded. Even though it's a single, the song isn't simply verse-chorus-verse like most rock songs you hear over the airwaves, which is why this album just gets better the more you listen to it. The songs veer into unpredictable paths.

3. Modern Man (7/10) -- A clean, guitar driven song that features Butler pondering the emptiness of being a ... modern man. Self-explanatory. Not the best, but solid.

4. Rococo (9/10) -- Now this is classic Arcade Fire. No other band I've heard sounds quiet like this -- a haunting orchestra with a sly, creeps-under-your-skin melody. "They seem wild but they are so tame / They're moving towards you with their colors all the same," Butler warns of today's poseur, conformist teenagers. The song's title refers to an art form from 18th century Europe. This is an ambitious group and they won't be singing about pot or girls. Great, great song.

5. Empty Room (8/10) -- Regine Chassagne, Win Butler's wife, makes her first appearance as lead singer in this orchestral/punk romp with great work by the band's violinists. "When I'm by myself / I can be myself" she yelps. One of the album's shorter tunes, it injects some life after the dreary Rococo.

6. City With No Children (9/10) -- Empty Room segues into this catchy, radio-enticing songs with the album's most memorable guitar rift. Butler brings up his hometown of Houston directly as he dreams of driving back home in an underground highway and listening to the engine failing. The guy writes great lyrics. Reminds me of when I go back home to Cranston and look at the empty streets of my old neighborhood, streets that used to teem with children playing kickball or manhunt. And then I cleanse my dentures.

7. Half Light I (7/10) -- Chassagne and Butler team up on the vocals in this captivating song that pours out the melancholy and revels in mystery. It's not a song you will hear as a single, but it's a song that keeps you listening for the chance you might discover something new even on the tenth listen.

8. Half Light II (No Celebration) (8/10) -- I know I've used the word "haunting" before, but it's what I think of most. Like OK Computer, this album never lets up. While not as downright depressing, its melancholy is thick and unforgettable. Butler sings of the markets crashing and going back home to a town he doesn't know anymore, backed up by a wall-of-sound effect where all of Arcade Fire's instruments mesh into a techno rhythm. "Though we knew this day would come / Still it took us by surprise / In the town where I was born / I now see through a dead man's eyes." Katy Perry this is not.

9. Suburban War (10/10) -- Where Butler sounds a bit excited by going back home in "The Suburbs," he also laments in this coupling of a song that refers to some of the same exact lyrics of earlier tunes. A wavy guitar drags down the mood even as the keyboards try to lift it up. "All my old friends, they don't know me know." Simply fascinating and enticing, I just can't help but throw myself into this song every time. It's a Pink Floyd experience.

10. Month of May (8/10) -- The pace picks up with this Ramones tribute. When they want to, Arcade Fire can produce a toe-tapping rocker like the best of them. Butler refers to his stoic teenage fans with their arms crossed tight in a pain too much for someone so young.

11. Wasted Hours (6/10) -- Not one of my favorites, but a good song on any normal album. This is as acoustic as these ambitious arena rockers get.

12. Deep Blue (7/10) -- Butler remembers his first forays into the music world in this dirge mid-tempo offering where he urges suburbanites to put down the laptops and cell phones and find the wild in the night. Sometimes I forget this song is here, but I'm always pleasantly surprised.

13. We Used to Wait (10/10) -- Enigmatic lyrically, but a home run musically. This is my favorite song on the album, just a hair above "Suburban War." The piano bass line is the kicker. I love it. The chorus is a gem as well. Over five minutes long, this song weaves it way from the opening piano to an anthemic chorus made for sing-alongs at concerts. This goes up there with "Wake Up" and "Keep the Car Running" among Arcade Fire's best.

14. Sprawl I (Flatland) (6/10) -- Haunting, there's that word again. Butler recounts driving in his old neighborhood, looking for his former house and the places in which he used to play and feeling out of place, like he's traversing through a dead town. I can certainly relate to that. While the music itself isn't memorable, the lyrics are.

15. Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains) (9/10) -- This sounds more like Blondie than Arcade Fire, but I really like it. Backed by a synthesizer, the charming Chassagne sings of being ostracized in a sprawling suburb of conformity. "Dead shopping mall rise like mountains beyond mountains." This is a unique offering in their catalogue and a nice change-of-pace. It's also the catchiest song on the entire album.

16. The Suburbs (continued) (5/10) -- Bands always do this, ending albums with a whimper instead of bang. They finish with some 10 minute meandering mess or a tiny one-minute throw-away. Why not end with something great? Anyway, Arcade Fire reprises the opening song. It's not really a stand-along song, so I guess it's unfair to say it's the worst. Basically, the true ending to this collection is Sprawl II and this is just a coda.

Whew. That took a while, but I had to do it. This album has been on an endless loops in my car for nearly two weeks. I can't stop listening to it. "The Suburbs" is that damn good. Listen to it. Now!

A weekend at Sears

2010-10-04T18:31:00.000-07:00

Usually when the Sears clan gets together, it's because someone has died. This past weekend, we reconvened for the wedding of my sister Lauren.

I arrived in Rhode Island on Thursday to find the good ol' gloomy weather I knew from my formative years. I always enjoy the ride home from the airport, where I get to soak in the sights of my home state. The Dunkin' Donuts stores on every street corner. The new CVS or Wallgreens that pop up like insects in summer. The sheer lack of fancy sports cars I've grown used to cussing under my breath in Florida.

And of course my reunion with the queen of the Sears family, Jelly herself.

I attended my brother-in-law's bachelor party at Dave's Bar & Grill Thursday night. The music was terrible. Every successive song hurt more than the previous one. There was lots of pool. A typical Rhode Island run in with the mother of fellow Thunderbolt and Husky I knew. In the end, it made the bachelor party of one Jeff A.J. Burnett Schaible look like a scene from the Hangover.

On Friday came the wedding rehearsal. This is where I reunited with the priest officiating my sister's wedding -- Father Joe Upton. Seeing Joe, who used to clown around a ton in high school, decked out in priestly attire and coolly running the rehearsal was something to see. And more proof of how old I am getting.

From there we went to the rehearsal dinner at Pinielli's off Route 2. I ordered the seafood risotto instead of the chicken parm because I'm a risk taker and an adventurous eater. The best part of the night came when the waiters served the plates of chicken parm -- the biggest pieces of chicken I've ever seen.

At first, I mistook them for super chickens, the one Peter Griffin has battled a few times. Take your large dinner plate and imagine a piece of breaded chicken stretching from one end to the other. It was gigantic. If only Jeff Schaible could have seen it. He would have taken it home and framed it.

The day of the actual wedding saw picture perfect weather after non-stop clouds. We in the groom's party did what men usually do one wedding days -- wait. An SUV limo escorted us to the family parish just five minutes from my parents' house and dropped us off in order to pick up the girls. We waited in the church for over an hour.

It did amuse me that before the mass as the church was holding a pet blessing. Parishioners stood in a circle on the church lawn with their oblivious dogs and cats as the priest read prayers. I found it hilarious. I'm sure the dogs are thinking 'What is life?' and 'Is there a God?'

The traditional Catholic ceremony was very nice. Father Upton runs a tight ship in what was his first wedding as a priest. From the church we rode the limo all the way down to Narragansett for the reception at The Towers, a medieval-looking place right off the beach. It's a popular venue and now I see why.

My two sisters gave the maid of honor toast, but erred when calling Lauren the favorite. I'm the favorite. And if I'm not the favorite, then it's Jelly. The best man speech was heart-felt, given by the groom's brother. Of course it wasn't good as mine, but that's a lofty standard.

Now, a wedding reception is always a dicey minefield for singles. Young and old, there were lots of intersexual mingling and forlorn faces on the lonely throughout the night. It was heart-wrenching to see my aunt's face during the anniversary dance. She was having trouble keeping it together because she had lost her husband a couple years ago.

My sisters were urging me to talk to my sister's former boss, an attractive woman who was certainly enjoying herself on the dance floor. First of all, I hate dancing. Hate it. It's just uncomfortable to me. Now, if the wedding party broke into a game of pick-up basketball or 24 trivia, I'd be in my element. And it's weird to have my sisters and mom urging me on like that.

Anyway, by the time I worked up the courage, my cousin Matt stepped in. He was all over her, dancing with a drink in his hand, going all Jersey Shore on her. And when I say all over her, I mean it. He was in her ear for the rest of the night.

I finally found a chance to display the Sears charm toward the end of the reception where we went through the usual pleasantries. It's tough to hold a conversation over blasting music. I don't know how people do it. And in the confusion and hustle and bustle at the end, she went off to her hotel and that was that.

Either way, I was heading back to Florida the next day so it felt useless to meet new people. When would I be seeing this girl again anyway? I felt the same way with the groom's family. Nothing against them, but I float in like a guest star in Friends during sweeps, coming to town during Christmas and sundry other occasions. So the impetus to get to know people wasn't there.

And I'm not know for being a chatty gadfly, am I?

I flew out the next day. Months before I started my new 5 a.m. shift, I scheduled this flight a tad late in the evening. A three hour trip turned into eight, a magic trick airlines perform with great skill. A layover in Philly was delayed an hour, the flight was so bumpy there was screaming on the plane, and a middle-aged mother had to ask me if I was alright as I gripped the armrests with my face an ashen white.

It also took me a half-hour to exit the economy parking lot at the airport and I got home at 12:30. I ended up sleeping just three hours before I had to roll into work. Thanks to a medium iced coffee I made it.

But who cares about my travails. My sister is on her honeymoon. Congrats, Lauren and Derek! Welcome to the family, brother-in-law!

My search for steroids

2010-09-25T06:54:00.000-07:00

Four o'clock in the morning is a desolate time of darkness and disrepute.

The streets are empty. The world is still in slumber. And I would be joining the world if it weren't for the pesky fact I need a job to pay for all my addictions.

Sometimes I'm so damn tired it hurts. I'll be sitting at my desk banging my head against any hard surface I'll find. I'll slap myself awake, rub my eyes like I'm scrubbing a bathtub. This isn't every morning, but it happens enough.

The cure for this? Well, caffeine, right? It's the steroids, the performance enhancing drug for the working stiff. If caffeine disappeared, our whole society would collapse. Besides soda, I don't tend to drink caffeine-enriched beverages. And drinking soda that early is not an option for me. Another complication: I just don't like coffee.

So where do I get my steroids?

My first experiment was Red Bull. It doesn't taste great, but I can deal with it. It worked those first few days, but then my body began to reject that stuff like Dikembe Mutombo. More than a few times a feeling of pretty intense chest-tightness attacks bombarded me hours after imbibing the liquid crack. I felt like my heart was about to shoot out of my chest. It was scary.

So I stopped my Red Bull affair.

For the next two weeks or so I just willed myself awake when those moments of tempting slumber beckoned me. My world famous Sears will, just the power of my mind. That's all I had.

Then ol' pal Z.C. Hossem came to town. While he has many talents, the one thing he strikes out on is recommending drinks for me. From the pure piss that was Speckled Hen to the rum-and-coke and the Bloddy Mary, he's been like that buddy in the romantic comedy who gives terrible girl advice to the moping male hero and laughs at the disaster sure to come.

He vowed to take me to Starbucks and introduce me to a coffee that could add some zip in the mornings. He ordered a venti hazelnut something and added a bunch of other stuff to it. It wasn't too bad, to tell you the truth.

My quest for caffeine was over.

Then after I dropped him off at the airport that day, I had another ... incident while driving back home. The closest thing I could describe it as is a panic attack, which I've had. Chest tightness, my heart acting wild and a kind of caged energy that turned my limbs tingly and a little numb. If not for the traffic on US-1 I would have had to pull over. It lasted almost a half-hour and lingered the rest of the night.

Thankfully, Zach's attempt on my life failed.

This was the final straw. I had to see the doctor about this. I figured it had something to do with what I was drinking, but I needed to be sure.

My hypothesis was correct. The doctors ran tests, even an EKG, and everything was normal. It was the caffeine. Had to be. The day I went to the doctor, I tried a small Dunkin' Donuts iced coffee and I was shaking like a kid on a sugar high.

"You need to drink decaf," the doctor told me.

Yes, I guess I do.

What she didn't tell me but what I know to be the truth now?

"You should've stayed with coffee milk."

The Visitor

2010-09-18T15:50:00.000-07:00

With not much to do, former NBA superstar Vlad Radmonovic decided to give me a visit in my Southern Florida habitat.

I will recount our adventures in cleverly titled sections because I know that's how Americans like to read when they decide to read at all.

The Part Where I Forget How to Drive

One of my best qualities is my perfect driving record. Have I been spotless? No. Ask Jeff Schaible about my thrilling U-turn of death. But I have no tickets at all and I can usually work myself around an area in which I've spent nearly four years.

But anytime former Lakers lazy man Radmonovic comes to town, I turn into an 80-year-old Alzheimers patients hunched over the wheel swerving into Farmer's Markets.

First, I get lost driving back to my apartment from the airport. A drive I've done dozens of times with no problem and suddenly we're on our way to Naples.

And I couldn't find an Outback Steakhouse. That took us an hour. I couldn't find a Boston bar where we could watch the Patriots game. We even missed the first touchdown of the season.

I also got sidetracked again while driving to Hollywood, having to circle around the airport to get back to I-95.

All this is made worse because you could drop Radmonovic in Siberia and he'd find the closest Siberian Shawarma within 20 minutes with only a dogsled and a map of Mordor.

Sigh.

Where No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

After the 1-15 Patriots cheated their way past the Bengals, Vlad and I took to the sandy courts nestled next to beautiful Fort Lauderdale beach. Of course I lost, but it was 12-10. Respectable. After a soul-searching swim in the warmest beach water I have encountered, we were headed home when I found part of a man's wallet in the parking lot.

I had his social security card, voter registration form and the works. Did I sell it on the black market? Did I steal his life savings? No. I called him and told the man I'd wait for him at the beach and hand him his wallet back.

While we waited, I got a parking ticket. Now, while we were paying at the beginning, a man came up to us and handed us his slip, which had few more hours on it. Great! So I displayed the slip but in my haste it flipped upside down, leaving only an old one face up for the parking inspectors.

Another mindless Sears moment for me. But since I still had the good parking slip, I vowed to fight the good fight the next morning and get the ticket rescinded. Finally, a Sears victory against the Man! Instead of being the lovable lout of loserdom, the sweet nectar of victory was close at hand.

So I waltz into the bureaucratic crypt the next day confident of victory.

"Can I see your Fort Lauderdale resident card?"

Wah wah wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I glanced at the ticket and lo and behold, "Fort Lauderdale resident" glowed up at me. They get discounted parking rates, the rest of us don't. Bye, bye, 25 bucks.

To recap, one man's nice gesture prevented us from just paying for the slip ourselves. And my decision to stop, pick up the wallet and wait meant my car sat in the parking lot 20 minutes late. So two acts of kindness = $25 parking ticket.

And you wonder why I'm a misanthrope.

No Life at Sun Life

I still remember my first trip to Fenway Park in 1995 in a game against the Brewers. The gigantic Green Monster. The smell of the impeccably green grass. The Citgo Sign. The wide, finely raked infield. The stuff that gets Bob Costas in the mood.

So with that in mind, I hoped to give the hulking bear that is Vlad Radmonovic a similar experience at beautiful Sun Life Stadium for an NL East slobberknocker between the Marlins and the Phillies.

It was an eye-opener, all right. Vlad could not believe the Rhode Island-mall type atmosphere for the game. The empty concourse. The endless expanse of empty orange seats. The ability to freely pick where we wanted to watch the game from center field.

An audience you'd expect at the Division 5B Rhode Island Sectional Semifinals between Scituate and Cumberland, not a major league baseball game with the two-time defending NL champions.

Only a short baseball throw from rightfielders Jayson Werth and Mike Stanton, we watched the Phillies fool around with the disinterested Marlins. Both of us were on TV for just a second on Logan Morrison's solo bomb to center. Only an obnoxious, foul-mouthed teenage girl added any spice to the proceeding.

"I F'n love F'n Jayson Werth! World F'n Champs!"

Damn kids these days.

The Lost Winter of 2005 Part II

Back in December of 2005, Vlad and I watched more than a few seasons of the Sopranos. Worse, I was watching those episodes for the second time. It's like we went on a huge meth kick and loss a month of our lives strung out in some dilapidated shack. Only with more gabbagool.

After several expensive meals (including a delicious $11 margarita for yours truly) and a salacious A/C controversy that cost me a yet-to-be determined amount of money, we decided to revert to cheap college student mode and watch The Wire, otherwise known as the greatest TV show of all time.

Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttttttttttttttt!!!

Again, I was watching these episodes for the second time. In my defense, you have to watch that show more than once. It is that deep. We zipped through an entire 10 episode season in about two days, but what a glorious, "life is futile and we're all cogs in an evil machine" two days they were!

Vlad has since gone back to New Jersey, but that doesn't mean I stop having fun. Yesterday, I saw the Kings of Leon perform. They put on a solid set. Nothing fancy. They just got up there, played their songs skillfully and left. They played all the songs I wanted to hear so I was happy.

And I got a $30 t-shirt out of it.

Steve at the Emmys

2010-08-28T17:09:00.001-07:00

I'm reporting to you LIVE! from Hollywood ... Florida.

Actually, I'm 20 minutes north of Hollywood ... Florida, but I should be in Hollywood, California. We all know I am Mr. TV. I am more qualified to vote on the Emmys than most of the real voters are. Emmy voters decide on submitted episodes, not an entire season, which is dumb. Imagine Oscar voters deciding on Best Picture based on a ten-minute clip.

Dumb.

So with the annual television awards set for tomorrow, it's time to for me to make the final word on who will win and who should win.

Best Actor in a Comedy Series

Who Will Win: Jim Parsons, Big Bang Theory. As a CBS employee I am contractually obligated to choose this hilarious actor.

Who Should Win: Larry David. C'mon. Just give him this one. He's willing to milk his real-life divorce for comedy. People like Parson's snobby nerd character, and he provides some new blood, so I think he takes it. Alec Baldwin and Steve Carell didn't have very memorable seasons.

Best Lead Actress in a Comedy Series

Who will win: Tina Fey, 30 Rock. Once the Emmy voters take a liking to someone, they never stop. Kinda like stalkers that way.

Who should win: Tina Fey, 30 Rock. I must admit, I really don't have a vested interest in this one. Edie Falco in Nurse Jackie? Never seen it, don't want to. Glee? Yeah right. Maybe Amy Poehler can pull this one out, but who watches Parks and Recreation?

Best Comedy Series

What will win: Glee. The buzz around this show is enormous. They sing! They dance! There's a love square! The Emmy voters won't be able to resist, not when 30 Rock had a bit of a down year.

What should win: Curb Your Enthusiasm. 30 Rock was good, not great. The Office was mediocre at best. And I don't care about the other shows, so this one is easy. Curb gave us a Seinfeld reunion we've all been waiting for as well as an alternative ending to the series. It worked brilliantly.

Lead Actor in a Drama Series

Who will win: Michael C. Hall, Dexter. He's won all the other awards and I think he continues to do so here in what is an absolutely stacked category. Dexter had a phenomenal season and to honor Hall for the classic character he's created would not be a crime.

Who should win: Jon Hamm, Mad Men. This was a tough, tough one to pick. Matthew Fox turned Jack Shepherd into a lovable martyr. Bryan Cranston took Walter White on his final steps into full Heisenberg mode and continues to amaze the hell out of me. He also has a great last name and has won the past two awards in this category. Kyle Chandler makes me wish I played football for Coach Taylor. Hall fools you into liking a serial killer. But Jon Hamm gets the all-important Sears nod for finally bringing the iconic shadow that is Don Draper into the sunlight last season. His work in The Gypsy and the Hobo cinches the trophy for me.

Lead Actress in a Comedy Series

Who will win: Juliana Margulies, The Good Wife. Have never seen a second of this show. Just going with the conventional wisdom here. January Jones gets undue flack for her acting. She does a good job with a character,but that good job is with a character who Mad Men could do without, so I don't see her winning. Glenn Close has a chance because she's an Emmy favorite, but Damages is on the back-burner for most people, unfortunately.

Who should win: Connie Britton, Friday Night Lights. It's about time she gets recognition for what is the most realistic depiction of a married woman, mother and teacher you'll ever find on TV. She doesn't need to chew scenery. She's just unflinchingly authentic in every scene. She has almost zero chance of winning, but I would love to hear her name called Sunday night. I'm rooting for her.

Best Drama Series

What will win: Mad Men. Like with the West Wing and James Spader, once the Emmy voters give you one award, it's like they feel obligated to keep it going. Mad Men is tough to resist. Impeccably acted and amazingly evocative of an America on the precipice of colossal societal change, it couldn't be more award-attracting if it were a old British actress at the Oscars.

What should win: Breaking Bad. While I like Mad Men plenty, season three had a lot of episodes where nothing happened at all. It hit several home runs towards the end, but that can't cover up for some clunkers that came before. Meanwhile, Breaking Bad offered one of the greatest seasons of episodic television in history. One Minute, Half Measures and Full Measure should have plaques in the TV Hall of Fame. Walter White's final descent into the criminal underworld, and the resulting corruption of Jesse Pinkman that can never be taken back, resulted in the best season the show has had and the best season of any show I've watched this year. Frankly, this is not even close. Mad Men will win, but Breaking Bad is much more deserving.

How the other half lives

2010-08-24T15:57:00.000-07:00

I am on the 80-year-old man schedule.

At 4 a.m., with the sun yet to rise, I awake to prepare for the hustle and bustle of another day in the rat fast-walk. With the help of some Red Bull and intestinal fortitude (for which I am famous) I manage to keep my eyes open long enough to last until 2 p.m.

Then I get home and feel like napping the rest of the day. Perhaps, if the will arises, I will watch the beginnings of a sporting event on TV until I decide to call it a night anywhere between 9:30 and 11 p.m.

I have the same routine as my dad. He's 78.

This new life - the life of a regular, sunlight-enjoying worker bee - has been eye opening. I'm like Ryan Atwood staying in the guest house of the well-to-do Cohens. I have no idea how I got here, but I'm thankful for the opportunity. And I'm brooding about my inner-pain.

Look at all the things my release from the night prison has allowed me to do.

First, I was able to attend a Goo Goo Dolls concert. Yes, the Goo Goo Dolls are still rocking the adult alternative charts. Switchfoot even opened for them. There was a guy with a t-shirt that said, "Boobies make me smile." The crowd groaned audibly whenever one of the Goos said the following words: "Here's a new song ..." All those people enjoying themselves on a sweltering Miami evening ... and little ol' me accompanied them. On a Saturday no less!

Then on Sunday, I saw a matinee showing of Inception. I enjoyed all the thought that must have went into that film. And I saw where the ending was going to go in general terms. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was not buried in an avalanche of baseball recaps. Instead, I sat next to a large man with a keg of popcorn. The real life.

I wake up on the weekends and feel the mid-morning sun and realize I have a whole day to waste, instead of just half of one.

And then I relaxed in the sauna that is the 6 p.m. Florida heat and finished the Lisbeth Salander trilogy. I admit I was sad to say goodbye to those quirky, kinky, coffee-swilling Swedes. I felt like they were true friends and when I read the last words I teared up a little, as if I were giving a goodbye hug at an airport.

So there you have it. A honest weekend in South Florida, my first since November of 2006, before Barack Obama ruined the earth with his Islamic socialism and Asante Samuel ruined my dreams with his dropped interception. A full week of semi-normalcy.

Granted, as a result of my early early EARLY bird hours, I am currently drooling all over my Toshiba and my eyelids weigh more than Albert Haynesworth (hey-o!), but it's a price I'm willing to pay.

As long as I have my Red Bull.

The surrender

2010-08-12T00:03:00.001-07:00

I'm a Twitter-er. Sigh.

My overlords at CBS strongly suggested we all join Twitter. It's the future, you know? I need to know the latest BS rumors about baseball trades and I need to see athletes murder the English language day after day, minute after minute. So I gave in after years of Twitter-phobia and joined.

You can find me at Evenflow226.

I've only been on for a few hours and already Twitter is annoying me. Every time I click on something, I get the "Secure Connection" warning, on both my home and work computers. And I'm following MLB so does that mean I have to see every single person's re-tweet or whatever it's called?

Ah, whatever. It's late. I'll look into it more tomorrow after I fall asleep drenched in my tears of shame.

Soundgarden is back. It must be 1994

2010-08-10T23:57:00.000-07:00

I would have paid a lot of money to see Soundgarden at Lollapalooza. Lots of money. Superunknown is firmly ensconced in my top five albums of all-time list. Chris Cornell, in this WBRU-weaned music critic's opinion, had the best voice of any rock singer I've ever heard.

So it was with great interest that I read reports from the band's reunion show at Lollapalooza in Chicago. Of course I was too lazy and cheap to even consider flying out there to see them and when they were still together and touring, I was but a lost little kid who kinda liked classical music and had no interest in "grunge."

The next best thing? Watch clips on YouTube. Like Bill Belichick I've been secretly eying videotape the past few nights to construct a scouting report on one of the best bands of the 1990s. I'll probably never see them live, so this would be the next best thing.

And it's tough to say this ... the guys disappointed me. I understand I can't put too much stock in crappy YouTube clips of a rock concert, but Chris Cornell looked to be going through the motions. Check out this clip of Black Hole Sun. Surely he's not going to prance around stage like Lady Gaga or even Billy Joe Armstrong. That's not his style. And of course most of Soundgarden's songs are about sunny topics like drug abuse, depression, mania and suicide, so he won't be waving his hands in the air like there aren't any repercussions.

It's the way he sung it, like he was racing through the lyrics. Cornell is in his mid-40s. It's going to be tough to bring the same passion to his songs, the same passion I heard in those albums. And just like an quarterback's arm or a sprinter's legs, talents fade over time, like a singer's voice. I heard Cornell live when I saw Audioslave and his voice was scratchy. I've seen Eddie Vedder four times live and he's not anywhere near his Ten or Vs. level.

Good ol' Eddie was never bored, though.

All that KISS BS with fireworks and facepaint is just a cover for bad music. Great bands don't need that fluff and I don't expect it from Soundgarden. Just play the songs hard and with passion. Perhaps I'm just being ornery today. Perhaps work has finally turned me into the bitter old man I'm destined to become. They just didn't sound great.

All this being said, I would have lost my mind when the first chords to Black Hole Sun undulated through Grant Park. And I would have loved the show, just because I actually saw Soundgarden perform live. YouTube just can't do it justice. Even Chris Cornell at 50 percent is better than most.

Kinda like 1984, but different.

2010-08-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

I've hesitated about doing this for a long time, but I figured "Why not?"

While some people like to smoke pot or go to Disneyland for fun, I like to write. Yeah, I find it enjoyable. Sometimes, anyway. In the summer after my senior year of high school I started writing a story that was inspired by my reading of 1984. I basically wanted to do a dystopia-type novel on a draconian future American school. I named it Pennyroyal Tea because the Nirvana song seemed very apporpriate for what I wanted to convey.

Ever since that summer, I've been working on it off and on. I've finished it several times, but then I always go back and change a bunch of things. It's about as finished as it will ever be.

Since it'll probably never see the light of day anyway, I supposed posting some parts of it here can't hurt. Here's the beginning few pages. Enjoy it or if you're Zach, fall asleep to it.

Chapter 1

Just follow 1593.

She lined up behind a short, frumpish girl with braided black hair that stopped short at the shoulders. Now all 1594 had to do was stand behind this girl, mimic 1593’s movements, keep her own head straight up, her shoulders back and her mouth closed.

Half-an-hour earlier during the school orientation, Erica Windon dozed off while a never-ending cadre of school officials approached the central podium and preached whatever it was that they preached. She did not know or care about what they said because a slideshow of her favorite band, Morality, reeled through her mind instead. A pop band comprised of five wholesome, young men, the group sang righteous, melodic tunes about teenage romance, familial bonds and charity towards others. Most of all, they were hot. She fancied Shane in particular - the black-haired, pointy-jawed rebel with a heart of gold - and she paid all her attention to his visage that morning, that body of stone bursting through a skin-tight, black leather jacket, that stubble of facial hair peeking out from his strong chin. All for her and her alone. He looked straight at her – right through her – and he ignored everyone else. She tried to hide her proud smile.

Once the presentations finished, all the freshmen of Expend.com High School stood up and marched with militaristic precision out of the Gopher Industries Memorial Auditorium (GIMA). Erica had no idea where to go so, as she had done all morning, she tailed 1593. Her shepherd, dressed in white dress pants and a white suit jacket like every other freshman, guided Erica to her current location in a lifeless room nestled in the southwest corner of the first floor.

1592, a pale little red-headed boy with a nervous twitch in his left arm, conversed with a man at a rectangular table set up in front of the room, but Erica paid them short shrift. She surveyed her surroundings instead, swashed in a whirlpool of white. To her left sat 50 students dressed exactly alike except with different faces. Even then, the distinctions seemed immaterial. Most sported white skin, white outfits and they sat on bright white chairs which rested on a cloudy white-tiled floor. The table for which she waited dutifully in line was topped with pearl-white plastic and contrasting black computer screens.

1592 finished and walked to his left to another white table where a group of three elderly ladies administered to him. Erica hung her head and stared at the floor, blocking out the booming, masculine voice that shot a shiver through the entire room. She did not have many talents, but she could tune out the outside world almost at a moment’s notice.

A minute passed before 1593 followed in the path of 1592. Her turn had finally come.

“1594?”

Erica nodded. The man’s appearance almost knocked the wind out of her chest. Adorned in black blazer and a yellow dress shirt stretched to its limits by a sizeable gut, he could not have differentiated himself more from the whiteness of the room had he appeared naked or painted his skin red. His gaunt face and balding brown hair were not remarkable, but a mist of hostility seemed to hover about him, like the haze from a bonfire. His creamy brown eyes popped out from his wrinkled skin like a periscope just inching its way past the surface of an ocean. His wavy forehead extended up to the middle of his scalp while thin, smooth bristles of brown hair formed a semicircle around his skull. His lips pursed, he reviewed the screen before him as he scratched his scaly skin, which dangled off his neck like the gullet of a turkey. His face looked like that of a starving man or a lung cancer patient, but his protruding stomach betrayed his eating habits.

“Nice to have you here at Expend.com High School. We don’t hope for your best because we already know we will get it,” he said with a wispy air of satisfaction. His monotone voice unnerved her.

“I…yeah,” was all she could muster.

“Here are your assignments,” the man said, handing her a silver data card no bigger than his thumb while turning his computer screen around so she could read the bold green letters.

ENRICHMENT ORGANIZATIONS
HISPANIC STUDENT ASSOSICATION (HSA)
FEMALE SWIM
REACHOUT BROADCAST SIGNAL (RBS)

She crunched her nose as she read them.

“Excuse me,” she said.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Excuse me. I-”

“Sir,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You will address me as ‘Sir.’ Understand?”

She glanced nervously behind her to all the faces and then back at the man in black and yellow.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Erica said. “I have a question. It says here that I’m in the Hispanic Student Association.” She extended her hand to point to the screen, but he turned it back to his direction and sneered

“I know what it says, 1594. I’m the one in charge of the assignments. Some may prefer the term ‘Latino,’ but we value our traditions.”

“Yes, of course, sir. It’s just that I’m not Hispanic. My great grandmother on my mother’s side was from Portugal, but that’s it.” Holding out her arms, she proclaimed, “As you can see, I’m as white as you can get.” He did not say a word, which jogged her memory. “Sir.”

“You’re Hispanic,” he said.

“I am?”

“Yup.”

“Most of my ancestors are British-”

“Hey, Janine!” he called out. One of the elderly ladies, the one in the middle with an inviting round face and plush cheeks, raised her head to acknowledge him.

“Yes, Mr. Lamond.”

“Do you hear someone talking?”

“Why, no I don’t, sir.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He looked up at her and raised his eyebrows. Gulping, she dropped the subject and waited for new directions.

“Glad to hear you don’t have any other comments. Now head on over to that desk over there and Janine will make sure to set you up very nicely.”

Jaw shivering, she strolled to the desk. Janine did not even bother to look up, instead motioning to the attendant to her right. That elderly woman actually made eye contact and ordered Erica to hand over the data card and look straight ahead. Hiding in the middle of the wall was a glistening camera lens the size of a coaster. She stared straight at it. The woman pushed a button and Erica heard a click and then the humming of a small printer on an adjacent table. It popped out a laminated card, which Janine picked up and handed over along with the data card.

“Here you go, young lady.”

Erica dropped the data card in her pocket, grabbed her Expend.com High School identification card and studied it as she headed back to her seat. The school’s name and insignia, a muscular hand with all five fingers stretched to their capacity, filled up the top of the card. To the right was a small square that stored her face. Her black hair, which she had tied up in a tight bun earlier that morning on her mother’s orders, was barely visible in the box. She saw her blue eyes, high cheekbones, button-like nose and thin lips that appeared to her in the mirror every morning. She saw those features but, they all seemed separated from each other, a hodgepodge of random items with no common purpose.

It was her picture, just a different face.

***

The classroom she needed to find was in Section F. If the giant F’s all over the walls were any indication, she had found the right section. While trekking to her class, she kept replaying her confrontation with the man in black, the Mr. Lamond.

What the hell was that guy’s problem? You’d think, on the first day, they would at least try to be nice.

Students packed the sterile hallways, clapping their new shoes on the green tiles and admiring the advertisements on the walls as they walked to class. They did not talk or joke with each other. The ads did the speaking for them. The ads were the entertainment. Most of them hocked new snacks or fad clothing or teenager movies. Nothing spectacular, except for one ad for Morality’s upcoming record. All five band members mucked for the cameras, for her eyes only. Their new album, titled “Completely For You,” would be coming out in three days and this fact alone almost erased from her mind the humbling experience with Mr. Lamond.

“Welcome to Expend.com High School, class of 2086,” a voice said from above. She looked up to see a speaker hanging indiscreetly from the ceiling. “I’m 711, the host of the award-winning RBS. Before class starts today, everyone should know that Xstacy Soda will be hosting a company orientation after school in the HGBD.net Cafeteria. You can win free Xstacy products while tasting their great new drink, Orange Watermelon!”

Erica passed an escalator that ascended four stories and gazed at it in wonderment. A sturdy male student dressed in a green suit cut in front of her and took the moving stairs. He must be a senior, she thought. She noticed a multitude of merit badges from various sponsors stitched on the lapel of his suit jacket. That kid meant business.

“This announcement was brought to you by the kind folks of Cranston Information Network, tomorrow’s leader in the safety information business-”

She continued on until finally coming upon her room after passing hundreds of doors and even more advertisements. With the same square footage of a mall and just as aggressive on the senses, even the simple task of finding a classroom in the Expend.com High School building required diligence, a trait Erica did not want to exact on her first day of school. Her only goal: survive the day.

The classroom looked exactly as she had imagined. The students sat in ten rows of stadium seating with each personal desk accompanied by a Neo5000 personal laptop. The teacher’s desk, devoid of any personal artifacts, stood squarely in the middle, flanked from behind by a giant projection screen. A soft green carpet and dim lights ushered in a welcoming feeling to any newcomers and made it easier to read the high-definition screens.

After everyone became situated, a slender woman with veins the size of a garden hose snaking their way on her hands appeared from nondescript door at the far end of the room. Dressed in a pinstriped business suit, she stood behind her desk and surveyed the new crop of future CEO’s, future heart surgeons, future data entry specialists. The lights dimmed immediately and the word “Engram” ballooned up on the projection screen.

“Engram…the lifeblood of the American educational system,” said a brisk feminine voice. “In the dark ages of our school system, grammatical mistakes, literary ignorance and the mutilation of the official language of our country were common practice among wayward youth. Today, 95 percent of all students know their language as well as they know their own family.”

Erica surveyed the students around her, who all diligently watched the presentation. Their eyes did not blink as much as hers. Their cheeks were not as red nor eyes quite as furtive.

The feminine voice went on and on about the requirements for the course and the essential importance Engram held in American life. Vital to success. American values. Enrich the mind to enrich yourself. All the keywords the school system had weaned Erica on since her formative years. The same words, the same phrases every year, all presented in a slightly different manner. After the presentation ended, the lights remained dim and a new phrase appeared on the screen.

NECESSARY KNOWLEDGE

“If you learn only one term this class, it must be this one,” the teacher said into a slender cordless microphone. “What we teach you is all you need to know. The rest is just clutter.” Like a theatrical production, the room brightened up, the laptops turned themselves on and the teacher pointed in Erica’s general vicinity.

“What’s your name,” the teacher asked. “The pretty little girl with black hair in the back row. What’s your name?”

Pointing to herself, Erica asked, “Me?”

“Yes.”

“Erica.”

“No, what’s your name?” the teacher asked more forcefully.

“1594.”

“Good. What is ‘A Tale of Two Cities?’ ”

“Um….I have no idea, sir.” Her heart stalled until she corrected herself. “M’am.”

“You have never heard of it?”

“Should I have?”

“No, because it does not matter. It’s useless knowledge.”

“How come it’s useless?” Erica asked.

The teacher glared at her. “You’re asking me a question?” Erica’s mouth opened to respond, but she could not utter a word. A strangling silence infested the room and a burning sensation fulminated underneath her sternum. “Sit down.” Erica plopped down into her seat and bowed her head in shame. From the corner of her eye, a fellow female student with braces sneered at her for a second. Every step she took and every word from her mouth seemed to bring on derision from somebody. Her first day at school was supposed to be some exotic journey of enlightenment and discovery. Right then, it felt more like being burned at the stake. So much for surviving ...

“When the first state-wide tests are administered in four weeks, you will now the ins and outs of every possible question and every imaginable topic,” the teacher continued. “Anything - and I mean anything - that does not pertain to said test does not exist and it doesn’t exist because it doesn’t matter.”

The teacher looked around to make sure her point went through to the blossoming minds before her. Satisfied, she began the lesson.

Morning guy

2010-07-31T22:36:00.000-07:00

Remember how I said I was frazzled beyond repair just a few days ago?

How things can change.

Thanks to some recent upheaval at my place of employment, I, Stephen R. Sears, will be taking over the morning shift.

After years of coming in at 5 p.m. or 7 p.m. and leaving at 2 or 4 in the morning, my new shift calls for me to come in at 5 a.m. Which means I won't be able to sleep until 11 or noon anymore, nor will I get to stay up until 3 a.m. to see a seven-inning Yankees-Red Sox game.

Not to be trite, but my whole life is about to flipped upside down. Our work hours dictate how we live, when we go to bed, when we wake up, when we eat. From working at the Globe to CBS, I've grown accustomed to my late hours, my vampire existence. I'm used to missing most of the day, missing out weeknight activities and generally walking around in a no-man's land surrounded by smug 9-to-5'ers.

I won't exactly be a 9-to-5 person either, but it's the closest I'm going to be in a while.

Of course this will take some time to get used to. I won't be able to stay up and watch Monday Night Football, the Daily Show or World Series games. If I do, I will certainly pay for it the next day. My nightly co-workers, of whom I've grown fond over the past four years or so, could disappear from my life. I'll go from joking around with them every day to nearly never running into them.

But ... I will have weekends off. I will be able to watch most Patriots games in peace. I will leave work and still have hours of sunlight ahead of me. I might be able to do stuff. Going to bed at the grandfatherly time of 10 p.m. will suck at first, but the benefits are enormous.

My colleagues have been congratulating me on my new life. I can tell some of them, even my boss, were wondering why I didn't seem ecstatic. Little do they know I rarely get ecstatic over anything besides sports. When I'm not watching a game, I tend to be very stoic and guarded. People always wonder why I don't seem happy when they give me good news. I am, but my mind just immediately reverts to an assessment phase. (Also, I'm incapable of human emotion.)

I wondered: What does this mean? How am I going to handle this? How can I make sure I don't screw this up?

That's what happened on Friday when I heard the news. This will be such a monumental change, a complete 180 of the last seven or so years of my life, that I'm not jumping up and down. It has yet to sink in. I'm content and very satisfied I will be able to live like a normal human being for however long I have this shift. I know that much.

It's not permanent, but it's a great break. Time to see how the other side operates.

And time to start liking coffee.

Reason No. 324 that I'm getting old

2010-07-30T00:07:00.001-07:00

At Cranston East my freshman year there was an assistant principal who had one big focus. No, it wasn't reading comprehension or healthy lunch food.

Her laser-like focus zeroed in on the length of girls' shorts.

I can't remember her name, except that it began with an 'A,' but I do remember this lady sending girls to change all the time. She made many stand straight up with their arms stretched downward and if their fingertips reached past their shorts or skirts they were forced to change or do whatever. Not sure what happened to the offenders. My shorts were always long enough.

I thought of this as I walked around Coral Springs today. I was in a plaza to buy the last of the Stieg Larsson books and there's a very popular Starbucks right next door along with a new YogurtLand place that was packed with people, mostly high-school aged kids.

I walked tall among these youngsters with my two-day old stubble and my 45-year old Jim James Band t-shirt, knowing I can beat up at least 25 percent of these punks. Still, I could not help but notice the shorts teenage girls wear these days.

They make the ones from my high school days look like nuns. It's kind of shocking. I'm no prude, but c'mon. They were wearing underwear.

Before you think of it, no, I wasn't walking around saying "Sweet statutory!" You would have to be blind not to see what I saw. Where are kids' morals these days? What happened to the days of Bayside High? Those girls had class ... and frizzy hair.

Another thing that made me feel real old tonight was my cell phone. I still have the one I upgraded for after my old phone kicked the bucket in New Zealand. A simple flip-phone, it does not perform cold fusion nor can it launch nuclear bombs like the iPhone 7. Unlike the iPhone 42, it can make calls. Fancy that!

So I'm sitting there texting someone and a huge bout of self-consciousness rushed at me. I should have brought out one of these and called Emily Post to report the hussies all around me.

Then I got to thinking I never even had cell phones during high school and how class would basically have been impossible if everyone had an iPhone back in 1998.

And then I threw out my back.

Frazzled

2010-07-25T22:56:00.000-07:00

This year I've been trying the no-vacation thing. I don't recommend it.

In an effort to pay down my credit card, and because I didn't have any grand plans, I have not traveled at all this year. I hate wasting vacation days here on stay-cations so I haven't taken any since early January.

My boss will throw me a day off here and there, but I haven't had a true vacation in 2010. Mostly by choice. I was able to pay off my credit cards, which was a very proud moment for me. That New Zealand trip, among other things, put me in a hole that I wanted to climb out of. Those zeros in my credit card bills lasted two weeks until my car needed nearly a thousand dollars in repairs.

It wasn't meant to be.

Now with July counting down, the toll is demanding to be paid. Work has been insane, for many reasons which I can't elaborate. Lots of people coming, lots of people going, resulting in radical change and the confusion it creates.

Why don't I just take a week off for myself? Good question. I just can't do it. Wasting valuable vacation days I could use later is an anathema to me. It robs me of the opportunity to complain, and that's not what I'm doing. In a roundabout way, I'm just letting you know what's going on in the world of Steve and why this space is looking like the Rhode Island Mall lately.

(Yeah I love that joke.)

I just feel like a zombie. You would be too if you had to watch Hideki Okajima and Manny DelCarmen everyday.

A mini-vacation does await in early October for my sister's wedding. I look forward to it. In the meantime, I have no idea what I'm gonna write about here since I'm so exhausted when I come home from work. Be warned if updates are scarce from here on out.

My fair lady

2010-07-12T23:03:00.000-07:00

Ask me who my favorite literary characters are and I'd be hard pressed to answer.

I have favorite fiction books, of course. 1984. The Great Gatsby. Jurassic Park. Disclosure. A Time to Kill. All Sears favorites.

But none contains a character whom I really like. Winston Smith? Nah. Ian Malcolm? Nope. Perhaps this can be attributed to the fact that you only get one book with most of these characters. You meet them, then they're gone. With TV shows, I feel like I know Jack Bauer, Omar Little, Walter White, Patty Hewes or C.J. Cregg.

After reading the Swedish thriller "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" I think I've found a keeper.

The over 600-page crime thriller is a worldwide bestseller. I'm not breaking any new ground, nor does the book for that matter. It resembles much of what you'd see in Criminal Minds or CSI:Wherever. Don't get me wrong, though. The book was fantastic. Gripping, intriguing, haunting, disturbing ... I finished it in a few weeks. With as much reading as I do at work, it usually takes me months to finish a book.

What sets the novel apart is the leading heroine, Lisbeth Salander. She lives off the page. I could practically see and hear her while I was reading it. She's a gothic punk super hacker who wears leather jackets, platform boots, close-cropped hair and several rings in her nose, ears and eyebrows. Of course, she also has a giant tattoo of a dragon on her shoulder blade. Having endured some unknown terrors as a child, she's extremely withdrawn and anti-social. She's very fierce and supremely intelligent, able to dig up even the most secretive person's darkest past and connect the dots to the most complicated schemes and conspiracies.

Mostly, it's her memorable attitude. You don't screw around with this one. Several people find that out in the book. She might look like a haggard puppy but if you attack her, she'll bite your head off. And she's far from a stereotype. Paired up with journalist Mickael Blomqvist, her tender side comes out. She's actually quite protective and just wants to know people she can trust.

The author, Stieg Larsson, found a goldmine here. This character lives off the page and leaves a big mark despite the fact she's disappears for huge chunks of time. The book and character are so indelible I just watched the 2 1/2 hour Swedish adaptation. Never did I think I'd be watching a movie in Swedish, but I don't regret it. The film was faithful (for the most part) and the actress fit Salander perfectly, as you can tell from the above photo.

I write this because "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" is one of my favorite books now. If you're looking for a page-turner in the Dan Brown mold, but with interesting characters and without all the symbology, then you should give it a chance. (Be warned, however. It's very twisted and dark.)

You'll grow to love Lisbeth Salander just like I did.

On second thought ...

2010-07-08T23:32:00.000-07:00

By virtue of purchasing Celtics-Heat tickets in 2009, I have received intermittent phone calls from the Miami Heat ticket office, usually at obscene hours like 9 or 10 a.m.

They offered me packages to Heat games and I politely turned them down.

In retrospect, perhaps I made the wrong decision.

Now I'd have to do many unsavory things just to have the privilege of standing outside the arena for Heat-Bobcats in February.

I traveled down to South Beach for drinks with a pal from work, ostensibly for some good social time but we both wanted to be down there on this night. We plopped down at a random bar at the Lincoln Mall (an outdoor strip of posh restaurants, art galleries and bars) and waited as LeBron made out with himself in the mirror on national TV.

This pal is a Heat fan, but also a LeBron hater. He was - and still is - legitimately torn about LeBron James teaming up with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh on his beloved team. For years, this fan has loathed LeBron for what he claimed was James' supreme, preening selfishness. I shrugged him off, thinking he was just bitter because LBJ is more talented than Wade.

(But the past few weeks have proved him right.)

Random beautiful people in designer clothes stopped at TVs all across South Beach as LeBron's head appeared on every single screen I could see. It was like Big Brother. He was EVERYWHERE. Then he said he plans to "take his talents to South Beach" and the fans cheered.

No, they didn't erupt. They didn't act like a massive glob of people in a major European city watching the World Cup. People clapped, yelled, and high-fived for a few minutes then went on their way. They had some priceless art to buy and some homeless people to laugh at.

That said, there was a general excitement in the air and as the announcement rang out through all the speakers, only my LeBron-hating Heat fan and myself stood stoically. If this town can do one thing, it's jump on a bandwagon.

Nine trillion words have been written on LeBron and we're due for a few trillion more in the next few days. I can't say anything that someone else hasn't already come up with. I'm just glad this whole fiasco is finally over. In a few days, perhaps I can go more than 10 or 12 hours without hearing the words "LeBron" and "James."

And after that, perhaps a whole day sans LeBron James.

By that time, unfortunately, I'll still be kicking myself for not buying those tickets when I had the chance. Despise this super Justice League amalgamation in Miami all you want, it would still be great to see in person.

And I let a cheap ticket to witness it all live get away.

Best of the 2000s: Movies

2010-06-26T23:28:00.000-07:00

Isn't this a little late? Yes. Pretend I'm a contractor for the Big Dig. I'll get the job done, but only several months later and with outrageous cost overruns.

It just popped in my head the other day: I forgot to give my loyal audience my top movies of the last decade! For shame!

So here you are.

10. Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan (2006): There were two movies that made it hurt to laugh last decade and this was one of them. Borat's chauvinistic, anti-Semitic, twisted world view dovetails nicely with the seedy underbelly of America. What the movie tells us - through real people - is that plenty of Americans think just like this guy. It felt wrong to laugh at this movie, but laugh I did.

9. Downfall (2004): I've told plenty of people to watch this 2 1/2 hour movie with German subtitles, but no one seems to listen to me. This is far from a popcorn flick, but it contains the best leading role performance of the decade. Bruno Ganz nails Hitler, with his descent into madness, paranoia and depression. His left arm quakes, spittle flies from his mouth and he stalks around his bunker hunched over in physical and mental agony. Little by little, he realizes his dreams for a world empire are crumbling. I saw this movie years ago and his performance still sticks with me.

P.S. If you've ever seen the "Hitler reacts" videos on Youtube, they come from this movie.

8. Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004): Endlessly quotable and irreparably silly, this is the best comedy of the 2000's. It's not as sweet as 40-year-old Virgin, but it is funnier. The non-sequiters, the winking parody of TV news and classic inflated male ego humor of Will Ferrell and the gang produces a laugh a minute. That's a comedy's only job.

7. The Departed (2006): Initially, this Oscar-winner left me a little cold. Terrifically entertaining, but not quite as deep as I had hoped. Jack Nicholson phoned in his performance in this one. He wasn't playing Frank Costello, he was playing Jack Nicholson playing Frank Costello. His villain belonged in a comic book. On the other hand, Leonardo DiCaprio proved to me he was much more than the hear throb from Titanic. He outshined an All-Star cast in this Boston mobster epic. I can't say this about many movies, but this remains very re-watachable.

6. Bowling for Columbine (2002): Michael Moore is kind of a parody of himself these days, but he's famous because he makes damn good movies. This was his coup de gras. Using the Columbine massacre as a springboard, he delves into America's crazy culture of gun fetishization, constant fear, paranoia and violence and how this atmosphere contributes to tragic events like that school shooting. Pick apart a fact here or a fact there all you want, the main thesis of the film is correct. The movie works like a great editorial. It has a point to make and it makes it convincingly and memorably.

5. Brokeback Mountain (2005): The movie is a punchline now. Whenever I say I like this movie, I always hear, "Gay! Gay!" Robbed of the Oscar by the much, much inferior Crash, Brokeback Mountain proved to be more than just an ending for a joke. It's a gut-wrenching tale of a forbidden love that came along in a time when homosexuality was hotly debated in our culture and out politics. Through all the bluster surrounding its release, the movie simply showed how two men dealt with their passion for each other and how it wrecked them from the inside. Heath Ledger proved himself a real actor in this one. The last song and image still haunt me.

4. No Country for Old Men (2007): I'll spare you the fancy film buff talk about deep themes and the human condition. This Cohen Brothers film was by far the most suspenseful movie of the decade. Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh chilled me to the bone as he killed and hunted without one hint of human emotion. Many ripped the ending, and though it was far from perfect, it held true to the movie's purpose. Violence is dealt out in our modern world randomly and unfairly.

3. Kill Bill Vol. 2 (2004): The second in Quentin Tarantino's homage to martial arts films, Kill Bill Vol. 2 is one of those movies that if I happen to find it on a random day, I have to finish it. It has all the Tarantino elements: Random outbursts of violence, long patches of clever dialogue and a diverse cast of morally ambiguous criminals. The scene where Beatrice Kiddo is being buried alive and then calls back to her tutelage under Pai Mai to escape is perfect. Just perfect. This movie has style, sex appeal, violence, witty dialogue, a great revenge plot, Michael Madsen ... what more could you want?

2. Mulholland Drive (2001): Great movies are supposed to be an experience - visceral, emotional, indelible - and this film from surrealist David Lynch put me through one I will never forget. The first time I watched this movie I was with a bunch of friends, who like me were utterly confused and flabbergasted by the ending. I literally had no idea what I had just seen. Usually, I dislike movies that try to be confusing and surreal just for the sake of it, but this one left me feeling more haunted and inquisitive than betrayed or angry. So I read up online about it that night and then watched it again.

I did not get much sleep that evening.

Like a great puzzle, once you solve it, the whole act of putting it together garners more meaning. This is a freakish, burrow-your-soul forray into Hollywood culture. Through all the weirdness - the cowboy, the blue box, the tiny old couple, the monster behind the dumpster, the dwarf in the wheel chair, the Silencio club - Mulholland Drive is a bruised and nostalgic look at how Hollywood seduces and how Hollywood destroys. The final third of this movie still leaves me shivering when I think about it. I usually try not to.

One last thing, Naomi Watts is my favorite actress because of this movie. She pulls off the switch in characters so effortlessly that it amazes me to this day. She's willing to do risque, off-beat roles and Betty/Diane tops them all. Definitely Oscar-worthy. Like this movie. When surreal and ridiculous is done well, it really resonates. Why else would I still remember the very night I first saw it, almost ten years later?

1. The Dark Knight (2008): The 2000s was a decade for the superhero epics, the comic book remakes, the special effects fantasy extravaganzas. Lord of the Rings. Spider-Man, Sin City. Iron Man. The list goes on. None of them could approach the raw brilliance of this gritty look at the Batman saga. This is more than a superhero movie. Much, much more. It's about terrorism. It's about the roots of evil and chaos. It's about how society keeps chaos at bay while also cultivating it. It's about how bad one has to be to actually do some good.

Batman has always been my favorite superhero. He's a film noir symbol who was always seeped in a more realistic, less idolized world than that of Superman or Spider-Man. This sequel from Christopher Nolan maintained a fierce loyalty to this interpretation. Obviously, we know how that was achieved. Heath Ledger as the Joker.

It's probably the most memorable and impactful character performance since Forrest Gump or Frank Slade. Ledger took the Joker from a cackling cartoon to a full-fledged nightmarish psychopath. Every single second he's on screen you can't think of anything else besides: My God! He's nailing this beyond belief! Just take all his scenes and put them together and you probably have the 11th best movie of the decade.

Besides Ledger's Hall of Fame offering, Nolan gives us an excellent, thought-provoking script and some of the best action scenes in film history. The attack on the Harvey Dent convoy in the streets of Chicago is exactly what an action scene should be.

The one flaw I would point out is the Two-Face subplot, which felt rushed. Besides that, nothing in this movie bothered me, not even the Rachel Dawes stuff. The Dark Knight never bores and never stoops to just another comic book rehash that is supposed to make millions and then go away until the next sequel.

It didn't win the Best Picture Oscar. It wasn't even nominated. It may always been seen as an action movie. That's not fair. Look behind the gloss and the special effects and the entertainment value. There's a real movie underneath, a movie that pretentious art-house fanatics such as myself can debate over while wearing berets and eating arugula.

Missed the cut

25th Hour

The Lives of Others

City of God

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

Gladiator

Mystic River

Munich

Memento

Almost Famous

Tune in next week for my best radio programs from the 1940s!

Bring me a pink hat

2010-06-23T22:19:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to come around on soccer.

Yes, I woke up in time for the second half of USA-Algeria in the World Cup. It's tough to admit, but that was some of the best, most intense athletic competition I have seen in a while. Certainly the best soccer game I've had the pleasure of watching.

Team USA had chance after chance after chance to score. My pulse quickened with each missed opportunity as the clock ticked toward 90ish and the end of America's World Cup run.

A 0-0 tie and the United States goes home and soccer is set back another five years after a second disappointing World Cup in a row.

It certainly did not seem to be in the stars for the red, white and blue. One disallowed goal robbed them of a win over Slovenia. Another goal wiped away against Algeria. Tons of missed chances. In my groggy state, I held little hope.

Then Landon Donovan streaked down a huge area of open field, passed it to the middle and found the back of the net off a save and I jumped out of bed yelling. The person upstairs did so as well. I heard the yelling and the felt the ceiling shake a tad.

So ... I am starting to come around on the beautiful game. I still wouldn't watch MLS regular season games or some random European game, but high-stakes, elite soccer is something I can get behind. Does this make me a bandwagon jumper?

Quite simply, yes. But I have no problem confessing this.

Here are the good things about soccer.

1. No commercials: Watching an NFL or NBA game, you're bound to see more erection pill ads than the actual game. Soccer games fly by. You can get five minutes with a commercial break. Biggest factor in its favor.

2. High stakes: I can watch almost any sport if the stakes are high enough. I'll watch the Masters, Wimbledon, Stanley Cup playoff games, etc. You can't find higher stakes than the World Cup.

3. New Zealand tying Italy: Thanks to some obnoxious Facebook people who root for Italy over America even though they were born and lived here their whole lives, I root against the Azzurri. That tie gave me great satisfaction.

It's not all good. The flopping is ridiculous and embarrassing. It's above shameful. And don't even compare it to flopping in basketball. Pau Gasol flops all over the place, but at least he doesn't pretend he got shot in the knee and start writhing on the ground in absolute agony.

The stoppage time doesn't make much sense either. Soccer games just end at a secret time and you're left to guess. Why not just stop the clock during the game, for an "injury" or a goal, instead of adding extra time at the end?

And I still don't get this offsides thing.

Nonetheless, I'm starting to like it as a niche sport. It won't supplant baseball, football and basketball in my mind, but it can carve a nice spot right below them with the occasional golf tournament or big boxing/UFC match. It's just hard not to like the World Cup.

Give me a pink Bayern Munchen hat and a knock-off Messi jersey and I'll be ready to join the hooligans.

But I still refuse to call it football.

The One Where I Make a Very Inappropriate Analogy

2010-06-18T00:04:00.001-07:00

Over the past ten or so years, I've had plenty of practice at what Jeff would call "The Blackout." After agonizing losses by a Boston team, I will avoid any and all media that I possibly can. I don't need the failure of my team rubbed in my face for 48 straight hours.

Unfortunately, I'm also in the worst possible job in which to conduct a true blackout. There are 5,000 TVs at work and all of them are on sports channels.

Needless to say, the Lakers' championship will pounded into all senses of my brain tomorrow and there's absolutely nothing I can do.

But I can control what I watched tonight. Not one second of the celebration. Nope, I watched Valkyrie. There was nothing else on On Demand worth seeing. So I watched a movie about a failed plot to assassinate Hitler starring Tom Cruise with an eye patch.

And this may be the copious amount of Miller Lite I imbibed tonight, but I saw some parallels to the NBA Finals. The Celtics were the Resistance. They tried valiantly to take down Hitler (Lakers) and came really close. They had the lead in the fourth quarter, so to speak, but Hitler rallied and ended up killing them all. The end.

Oh boy. I've really lost it. I know. The Lakers aren't Nazis, but they're still despicable. I'm just admitting what hit my brain while watching the film. Good efforts and good intentions don't always end up with good results.

Screw this. It's time to really let it all out.

THAT F*&%ING SUCKED!!!!!!!!!!

The Celtics shut down Kobe Bryant. He was awful. Couldn't hit anything. No one on the Lakers could. They shot 33 percent. The Celtics had a 13-point lead in the fourth quarter. And the Celtics F$%&ing lost???? They blew a Game 7 about a month after the Bruins blew their Game 7. What's going on???? They got a great game from Rasheed Wallace, too!!

13 POINT-LEAD!!!!!!!!!!!

Sigh.

It's easy to see why in retrospect. They got demolished - DEMOLISHED - on the glass all day. As bad as the Lakers offense was, the Celtics' offense was worse. At the end, it was all isolation plays that went nowhere and resulted in terrible shots. No cutting to the rim. No post play. And sure as hell no free throws.

(The refs did not lose this game or series for Boston. But how did the Lakers have twice as many free throws in every game when they weren't the aggressors? How come they let the teams play in the first three quarters and then call a foul parade in the last? Ugh.)

Frankly, the Lakers had more talent. They actually hit the shots when it counted. They rebounded. They hit free throws at the end. And now they're champions for about the 4,456th time in the past ten years. The bad guys win sometimes. And when the Cavs do a sign and trade with Lakers, shipping LeBron to L.A. for Adam Morrison's mustache, the Lake Show will win a few hundred more.

The 2009-10 Celtics were always an infuriating, yet valiant club. Some days they played like absolute crap, engaging in months of listless basketball. This was why I wasn't expecting anything from this team. But they turned it on in the playoffs.

Still ... the see-saw act continued. They laid an egg in Game 3 vs. Cleveland. They laid an egg in Game 5 vs. Orlando. In the first game of the Finals, they just didn't show up. It was over by the middle of the first quarter. Inexcusable. Same thing for Game 6. This series was going to be tough enough without just handing games away.

For all the no-shows, there were games like tonight where they poured their heart and soul into every minute. Most of the times, their best efforts were enough. Not this time.

And that's how I'll remember this team. They were tough and feisty but also infuriatingly inconsistent. You know how Mets/Yankee fans feel about Darryl Strawberry? He had immense talent and always played hard. When he was on, he was a treat to watch. But every now and then the inevitable relapses came.

The Celtics weren't talented enough to relapse twice in these Finals. So it came down to a wacky Game 7, where their best wasn't enough, either. Like the 2003 Red Sox and the 2006-2007 Patriots, they gave us a bunch of great memories but will always be remembered for the way they lost.

I'm proud of the good, junkyard dog Celtics, frustrated and disappointed at the relapsing Celtics.

Honestly, I don't know what I think of them as a whole right now. The pain of this loss is too close right now. This goes up to No. 4 on my Most Agonizing Boston Loss list.

1. Pats lose to Giants

2. Red Sox lose 2003 ALCS

3. Patriots lose 2006 AFC title game.

4. Celtics lose Game 7

5. Northeastern's loss to BU in the Beanpot final. (We had 'em!)

What I do know for certain is that my hatred of the Lakers is finally in my blood. I've never liked them, but now I hate them. I hate Pau Gasol's Institute of Floptology, Kobe Bryant and his fake family bullshit after the half. I hate their purse poodle fans and their smug coach. I hate Derek Fisher and his BS shots. I despise them now with 100 percent of my being.

And I hope they go 0-82 next year. I mean, Hitler won in Valkyrie, but killed himself nine months later.

So there's that ...

Hit the road, Jack

2010-05-25T18:11:00.001-07:00

Talk about a double whammy. Just under 24 hours from the end of Lost, another ground-breaking drama left our airwaves. If you know me at all, you know this goodbye was especially taxing on my fragile soul.

For nearly a decade, I've watched and re-watched every episode of 24. Nine years ago, in November of 2001, this Fox drama debuted with a pilot episode containing a blown-up passenger jet just weeks after 9/11. Gutsy. As each episode ticked by in real time and the producers raised the ante with each hour, I quickly realized this was no ordinary show.

Unfortunately, they decided to end this series the day after Lost's send off. Both shows were equally revolutionary, but Lost received a hero's goodbye while 24 sort of whimpered away. It's a shame really, and despite the drop in quality in the last few seasons, Jack Bauer and company deserved better.

The two-hour finale did not measure up to Lost's. It did not pack the punch that I was hoping for since it basically served as a set-up for the potential movie. On a murderous rampage the past few weeks, they brought Jack Bauer back to sanity, but not convincingly. About to assassinate the president of Russia, Jack decides against it with help from trusted sidekick Chloe O'Brian. And that was it. The psycho Jack that took the show in a daring new direction disappeared. They took the cheap and easy way out.

The final scene did serve as a fitting tribute to the core relationship of the show the past four seasons - Chloe and Jack. They say goodbye via video camera and Jack wanders off in exile, a bloody and battered mess, hunted by the country he served his whole life. An ending reminiscent to Season 4. Chloe says "shut it down" and the camera flickers off Jack, revealing the famous clock counting down to zero.

The final two hours felt more like a season finale than a series ender, which I should have expected. Nonetheless, it left me wanting. Maybe this is just my form of denial. Maybe I just can't accept the fact that the ticking clock and Bauer's bulging veins will not be on my TV anymore.

But enough about Season 8, a fine, yet unspectacular offering of the JB saga. I admit I watch too much TV, but what it detracts from my social life it adds to my TV expertize. 24, especially its debut season, changed the manner in which I watch and digest television.

From the death of Janet York to the reveal of the mole, the inaugural season just kicked my ass. I did not expect American TV shows to coldly kill innocent characters like 24 did. I could never predict it would turn a heroic character into the season's biggest traitor. It broke every rule I was weaned on watching ER and Law & Order during high school.

Then it ended with Jack discovering his murdered pregnant wife and I still vividly remember the feeling I had watching that moment. A kick to the stomach. I was almost breathless. It still stands as the greatest hour of episodic TV I've seen. From there, Season 2 started with the show's best plot arc, the search for the nuclear bomb. Year after year, 24 dealt with terrorism, torture, action and espionage with a skill and style usually reserved for Jason Bourne movies.

What makes the show stand the test of time is it's unflinching insistence on sacrifice. Good people die. Good people have tragic endings. Bad guys win sometimes. James Bond always gets the girl at the end and only gets a few scratches. Jack Bauer lost his pregnant wife, his relationship with his daughter, several girlfriends, countless partners and colleagues and even his best sidekick in Tony Almaeda.

His story is tragic. Happiness was never in the cards for him. For a network TV show, this is extremely rare. Enormous credit goes to Kiefer Sutherland, who brought a volcanic intensity to this character every hour while also giving him a heart and soul slowly eroded by each and every tragic choice he made in each season. He turned Jack Bauer from a man doing everything to protect his family and his country into a popular culture icon.

It's corny, I know, but I'm going to miss this show. While it wasn't the best acted, best written and while it wasn't the deepest or most thoughtful show of the past 10 years, it's by far the most entertaining. It never lost it's forward momentum. It never got muddled in minutiae like The Sopranos or lost in crazy mythology like Lost or Alias. 24 served at the alter of its kinetic plot and never wavered.

So thank you, 24, for giving us Jack Bauer, Nina Myers, David Palmer (who played Barack Obama way back in 2001), Chloe O'Brian, Sherry Palmer, Charles Logan, Tony Almeida, Michelle Dessler, Aaron Pierce, Stephen Saunders, Renee Walker, Allison Taylor and many other memorable characters. Thanks for the twists, the ticking clock and the Bauer kill count. Thanks most of all for being fun to watch all these years.

I can't believe you're gone (sort of). It's enough to make even a tough, hard-as-nails guy like me shed a tear.

See ya, Jack.

Time to let go

2010-05-23T23:04:00.000-07:00

Closing a TV series is a dicey business. Questions and cliffhangers propel TV shows. A movie dispatches its plot and characters in two hours. Lost sustained its spinning (donkey) wheels for six years.

So when something that is meant to keep going and going finally stops, what do you do?

It had to end somehow, which will surely leave people who invested years into the show feeling empty. There's no way to please them all, but one thing is certain: Lost had to move on, and now its obsessive, manic fan base must follow suit.

If you hadn't heard, Lost came to an end in an epic, 2 1/2-hour orgy of sentimentality and spiritual affirmation. All questions weren't answered. All fates weren't spelled out. However, the finale did give us a satisfactory, intensely emotional conclusion, one that won't have me second-guessing my devotion to this one-of-a-kind series.

It was all worth it.

So where to begin? The highlight has to be the grand, messianic sacrifice of Jack Shephard. Always a divisive character, Jack is the well-meaning leader who proved that hell is indeed paved with good intentions. He tried to bring the castaways together from the very first season and failed. He tried to get everyone off the island and failed. He was divorced, destitute and even suicidal after escaping the island for the first time, proving to himself that his father was right to think very little of him.

Then he saw the light. He came back to the island having converted from a man of science to a man of faith. Jack, the tortured, failed hero found his salvation and ultimate redemption by claiming the protectorship mantle of the island from Jacob, taking down the island's force of evil and ultimately sacrificing himself for the sake of his friends and the world. What he couldn't find in life, he found in death.

The final scene, showing Jack stumbling through the bamboo forest until he collapsed provoked some manly tears. He ends up like we first saw him, lying on his back and gazing skyward. And then old friend Vincent appeared to be with Jack in his last moments. (If you've ever had a dog and did not get emotional when that happened, check your pulse.) Jack spots his friends escaping the island in the Ajira plane and smiles, a grin he earned through six bumpy seasons.

And his eye closed.

Before he died, he appointed Hurley as the new protector in what may be one of the most satisfying, memorable scenes in the show's history. Hurley, always full of self-doubt, bitterly argued that Jack didn't have to die. But he eventually knew what had to be done. (The minute he said, "I'm glad it wasn't me" during the last episode, you knew this might happen tonight.)
I bet the Hurley administration was much cooler than Jacob's.

The redemption carousel wasn't about to stop since Hurley needed a right-hand man, and who better than Ben? A perfect ending for Ben, a character who did more than enough evil things to merit infinite hatred from the fans, but through the sheer force of an all-time performance from Michael Emerson, he was always strangely likable. The fact that he came around to being a decent person really made me smile during that scene. He always wanted to be special on the island, which drove him to do many heinous things. Good ol' Hurley made his dream come true at last, right when Ben deserved it the most.

Off the island, we finally find out that the Sideways universe was actually a purgatory-esque waiting room for heaven. All the characters, dead or alive, lived out their fears/doubts/faults/dreams in this spiritual construct throughout the season. They made peace with their real lives and with those they loved the most. Each awakening, from Charlie/Claire to Sawyer/Juliet did its best to draw some tears and raise some goosebumps. While the mythology was always the most interesting facet of the show, the characters and their relationships were the most important. This episode made sure we understood that.

Many of the Lost-aways gathered in a church and waited for Jack to finally come around and accept his death. His scene with his dead father will be parsed like the Zapruder film for the next few decades as it served as the Rossetta Stone for this final season. Some of the characters died before Jack, like Charlie and Sayid, and some died after, like Hurley and Desmond, but they all died at some point. What we saw on the island did happen. There were no do-overs. No re-set button. They just all needed to come to grips before they could all move on to the heavenly white light that awaited them.

Sawyer got to hold Juliet one last time. Sayid got one last kiss with Shannon. Ben apologized for murdering Locke - my favorite scene from the episode. This was the last duet between Terry O'Quinn and Michael Emerson and I'll be damned if it wasn't fitting. They provided us two of the best and most enduring characters in TV history and I loved that they got closure.

I loved that everyone got closure.

So the phenomenon that was Lost is finally over. Our characters didn't die alone. They all waited for each other in the afterlife because their time together was the most important part of their lives. And meanwhile the island remains, ever mysterious. The "Light" still shines. The wreckage of Oceanic 815 still litters the lonely beach, a memento of the gigantic imprint these people left there on that rock and in our TV-watching lives.

"The End" goes up there with Six Feet Under's finale as the best series closer I've seen. All the debate, all the 25-page Doc Jensen recaps, all the Lostpedia browsing was worth it.

Yeah, I can move on now.

Tardy to the party

2010-05-22T09:55:00.000-07:00

Before we get into this, let me remind you that I was on the Barack Obama train very early.

With that out of the way, I have the uncanny ability to be late on fads or technology or movies or music. I still don't have a smart phone. I just recently bought an HDTV. I don't own a Lady Gaga CD. I'm always tardy to the party.

This struck my mind as I watched the season finale of HBO's "The Ricky Gervais Show." I laughed so much my chest ached and my eyes watered. The show gives an animated interpretation to the podcasts of Ricky Gervais, Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington.

Back in 2006, the Schaibles tried to get me hooked on that show. For a myriad of reasons, I failed to follow the lead. I was very, very travel weary by that time in San Diego and I was in a post-gradution, pre-employment funk. Years later, I realize they were right all along, because this show (which applies to the podcasts) is hilarious.

Some may not like the cartoon aspect, but I think it makes Pilkington's odd statements that much funnier. There's the part where they talk about the ghost of Pilkington getting a rectal exam, haunting a doctor's office. The drawing of said ghost nearly had me cackling on the floor. When Pilkington talks about having a conversation with a worm, the pictorial interpretation cracks me up.

The highlights of this program are plentiful. Karl talking about finding a strange home with a note that had a list of baby items to buy, then on the back it said, "Nevermind. Baby dead." I lost it. The part where they talk about the monkey in space and Ricky asks how the monkey finds the moon and Karl says, "He turns left." Hilarious. The part when Stephen asks how Karl would walk if his head was facing the opposite direction. Would he walk backwards, which would make it forwards for him in that case? No. Karl says he'd walk sideways so no one would notice. I'm not sure that makes any sense, but it's damn funny.

How does one describe Mr. Pilkington. He's not stupid, but he says a lot of stupid things, but these stupid things have some strange logic to them. This logic plays off great with straight-laced Gervais and Merchant. I love when Pilkington says something crazy, meaning every word of it without a hint of irony, and Gervais screams at him, "You're talking absolute bollocks!" I love everything about this show.

Too bad I'm four years late.

That's not all. Last summer I bought "Only by the Night" by Kings of Leon (thanks in large part to the urging of Zach Hossem). The album grew on me quickly. They've been described as the southern Strokes, which is appropriate but not the whole story. They have a gothic, Radiohead sensibility. Finally, I purchased another album from them, "Because of the Times."

I bought it blindly, based on the strength of "Night." Lo and behold, this album gets four stars. The genesis of "Only by the Night" can be heard in this 2007 release. Catchy, moody, fresh, mid-tempo rock. In particular I enjoy "On call," "Arizona," and "Fans."

I bring up the Kings of Leon because I had the chance to see them in concert in June of 2008 and completely whiffed. They were opening for Pearl Jam in West Palm Beach. At that point, I had only heard "Bucket" and wasn't completely awed by it. So my friends and I stayed in the outside area while the Kings played. Note this was the day before my infamous trip to New Zealand.

Now that I know how great this band is, I'm very upset that I twiddled my thumbs while they played their set. Thankfully, they're returning to the area later this year.

So yeah, I'm late with many things in our popular culture. Kings of Leon have been around for years and it took me this long to discover them. Shameful. Same goes for the wonder of the world (and "round-headed buffoon") that is Karl Pilkington.

But ... I knew back in 2004 Obama would be president someday! Never forget that. I'll make sure you don't.

There's a big game tonight

2010-05-13T14:21:00.000-07:00

So, did you know LeBron James is playing tonight?

He is, in what promises to be one of the more intriguing sporting events we've seen in years. The storylines are overflowing, like Rasheed Wallace's pot belly.

If LeBron loses tonight, he's probably on his way out of Cleveland. If he leaves Cleveland, the next 10 or so years of the NBA landscape will change. The balance of power will shift to somewhere, be it New York or Chicago or wherever he might wind up.

There's poor, God-hates-us Cleveland. If the city's hometown icon bolts for a bigger city, the whole place could crumble. That's no joke. It could literally crumble. The Cavs would be relegated to Raptors territory and LeBron would suddenly become Art Modell Jr. The whole psychological makeup would be transformed forever. They've been through hell, but this would be Armageddon.

Oh, there's also another team playing tonight. The Celtics, if they win, could rise from the nursing home everyone sent them to (including me) as they took off January through March. The Big Three are healthy, Rajon Rondo is quickly becoming the most interesting Celtics player since Larry Bird and the whole team is playing better than it has all season. Maybe they were just waiting for the playoffs this whole time.

Win tonight, and suddenly they're a threat to win a second title in three years while also burning a Midwestern city to the ground.

I can't wait to see this game, and I haven't looked forward to a Celtics game this much since the season opener. But something is nagging at me.

Everyone is already packing LeBron's trophies and his Nike puppets, ready to ship them to a media-powered metropolis of his choosing. The post-mortems are ubiquitous. Cleveland fans sound a lot like Boston fans after Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS.

So, what if Cleveland were finally to win a championship? Wouldn't the first come after everyone had already written off its chances?

There's no way LeBron does not play with a Michael Jordan-type intensity tonight. He's just too good to stink up the court like he did Tuesday night. He could drop 40-8-8 in the New Garden and I would not be surprised. The Cavs won more than 60 games for a reason: They're very good and they have the best player in the world.

The problem for them is, if LeBron has an off night in any game, they're toast. If Kobe struggles, Pau Gasol or Lamar Odom can pick up the slack. If Dwight Howard sucks, Rashard Lewis or Jameer Nelson or Vince Carter can come to the rescue. Ditto for the Celtics, since they have four of the best five players in this series. The Cavs cruise when LeBron is playing like LeBron. Only then do their mediocre complimentary pieces (overweight Shaq, soft Antawn Jamison and the valedictorian of the Dan Dickau school of defense in Mo Williams) look like title contenders.

When LeBron is off, they have nothing. No contending team in decades, not even the Bulls of the 90s, has relied so heavily on just one guy. (I don't count the post-Shaq, pre-Gasol Lakers. They were never contenders).

But LeBron can't struggle tonight. There's just too much on the line. Which is why I fear this Game 6, even while I eagerly await it. Too many people are dumping on him. Too many people have penned obits on the Cavs. When this happens, I get weary. Obviously, it has nothing to do with what happens on the court, but it's still scary. I'm just a worry wart.

I hope the Celtics make my consternation look foolish. No matter what, anyone who follows sports has to watch this game.

The stakes are higher than Alyssa Milano.

King Pong

2010-05-02T22:46:00.000-07:00

Brookline, 2005-2006. Parkway Road. Known to house the law firm of Sears, Schaible, Hosseini & Briston. Infamous for its $100 dollar parking spot or the crazy cat lady landlord who tried to have us thrown out or the bat in the kitchen that sent me screaming to my room or the “Lost Winter” of the Sopranos or the fact I spent a good week cleaning up the apartment for the security deposit only to have the cat lady give me the money without even checking the work I had done.

(Whew, talk about a run-on sentence.)

It actually was a fine little place, even though a public toilet in Fallujah would have been the Ritz Carlton compared to that rat-infested basement we occupied in Jamaica Plain.

But this little apartment is best known for its ping pong table. Purchased on a whim by the Hossschaib duo and painted with delicate care by Schaibleangelo in a grandiose Celtics pattern, the ping pong table stood in what was supposed to be a dining room. It housed many a grand ping pong battle. You can guess who lost most of the matches. That damn Hosseini spin still gives me nightmares.

Like a band in a Behind the Music feature, the glorious early rise led to days of drug abuse and sexual diseases. Actually, the table just got covered with mail we were too lazy to open. It was followed by a bitter custody battle straight out of Kramer vs. Kramer and is now rumored to reside in Gansettshire in Rhode Island, burned out on crack but still hoping to relive the glory days.

That was my first real taste of the ping pong bug. I thought it came and went. But then CBSSports.com moved into a new office equipped with a game room. The game room has a ping pong table. Now we play on a daily basis.

You can guess who loses most of his matches. (Do I ever win at anything you might ask? Yes, English awards, Oscar pools and Royal Rumble 1994 tickets.)

One of my co-workers is crazy, Forrest-Gump good at ping pong. A few others just consistently beat me. I do have a usual playing partner, a guy named Neil who is very much like Grimey. (Another story.) Anyway, when we first started playing I beat him consistently with my strategic style. Others tend to describe me as the Jamie Moyer of ping pong.

Let’s just say my game is not known for its speed. Then something bad happened. This Neil guy got very good and now he has turned the tables. Many of our matches are instant classics, but I still end up on the losing end more often than not. He has a wicked backhand winner to go with his lefty style.

My big problem is returning fast serves. I always hit them long. Another problem is my inability to hit the ball hard and accurately. It’s not my spaghetti arms or pre-teen girlish strength. No, any time I try to hit a sharp winner, I hit the ceiling, the net or my opponent’s groin.

Lately, I’ve improved on that, but not enough to put myself in the win column consistently.
All this losing grates on me. I know it’s just a silly little game played with paddles and a small ball, but I want to win. I’m not insanely competitive, but I don’t like losing. I take it well on the outside, but on the inside I’m flailing my arms and screaming, “Not like this!”

During games with better opponents, I’ll hit several good returns and volleys only to have my moves halted. I’ll end up hitting the net or hitting it out of bounds sooner or later. This is when I get outwardly frustrated. I collapse like Eric Gange. If I were a reliever, I’d start balking guys and giving up grand slams. If I’m playing great but someone hits the bare edge of the table, I go into a big funk. I just can’t help it. I’m not cut out for such rigorous athletic competition.

I only hope I can improve to a point where I win every now and then against the big boys. And there are some big boys here. The company is even having a bracket-style ping pong tournament. I wasn’t good enough to make it, so I’m thinking of starting the CBSSports ping pong NIT. Maybe I can be the best of those who suck.

I will get better. I vow to get better, to work on my game, to train like Rocky or Rich Garces. I will become King Pong, if only to honor the Mona Lisa of ping pong tables that decorated our memorable Brookline confines. I’ll never forget you, buddy.

Horror show

2010-04-30T22:29:00.000-07:00

Last year I took on the Draconian institution that was Hugh B. Bain Middle School. You think such a victory would be enough for me, that I should leave on top. But like Brett Favre or Jay Leno or Aerosmith, I don’t know when to quit.

So now I set my eyes on a new enemy. Ladies and gentleman, I present the case against horror movies.

Today "Nightmare on Elm Street 32" came out. It will undoubtedly be the number one movie of the weekend. It’s another in the Freddy Krueger saga, following the Oscar-winning Freddy vs. Jason film.

The American film audience loves horror movies. I know I am swimming against a bloody, howling tide. We love a good scare and we love our violence. And we love it even more if that violence means nothing.

Every horror movie is the same, more or less. They involve young people, in their teens and 20s (though always played by 40-year-olds). It’s not cool to see middle-aged people fleeing slashers and serial killers. These young people are beautiful, vapid, idiotic and just plain boring. We don’t care about them nor should we. The movie doesn’t want us to.

That cute blonde girl running in the woods or the jock checking out the strange noise outside are objects to be destroyed, like the beaten-down cars at a monster truck show. They exist solely to be killed. And these aren’t just henchman who fall like bowling pins in your normal action movie, these are the main characters. These are the stars. Yet their only role is to die.

Every horror movie follows the same formula. There’s a group of six or seven young characters, almost always in a small town or in an isolated area. Jason doesn’t go to Manhattan. Invariably, there’s the sexy young couple who grope each other from the first minute on the screen. They are assured of dying.

There’s always a wise-cracking, frail boy involved. He’s a sissy. He’ll last longer than his sex-crazed buddies, but in the end his sarcasm will be the death of him.

Then you have the black guy. I don’t even need to explain what happens to him.

The best survivor is the lead woman, the Jamie Lee Curtis of the horror movie. The lead female of almost every horror movie I’ve ever seen survives. That goes for the lead male, though his odds aren’t as high. Usually, there’s a sexual tension at the beginning which is put through the wringer of a crazy, scrambled-egg face, fedora-wearing super bad guy wanting to kill them for no reason. After all their friends, maybe even relatives, have been brutally murdered, they’ll at least have each other.

So, for any of you aspiring horror film screenwriters all you need is A.) Headstrong female lead, B.) Brave male hero, C. Hot couple, D. Sarcastic sissy boy, E. Doomed black guy.

Invent some serial killer with a memorable trademark (hockey mask, chainsaw, claws, axe), set him down in a tony suburb or the woods and set up your future victims as having the time of their lives. They’ve just graduated. They’re on summer vacation. They’re young, sexy, happy and filled with boundless optimism. Then pick them off, one by one.

Don’t forget to throw a few chase scenes in the movie. Also required: The chaser must only walk, never run. Even though this person is walking slower than your average Floridian supermarket customer, the young, athletic chase-ee must run like the dickens. Yet he/she will trip about 5,000 times over twigs and messy blades of grass. This will be their downfall.

If the chase isn’t their destiny, then have them inexplicably walk alone into dark, mysterious places even when they know a serial murderer is on the loose.

These scenes are so clichéd that even making fun of them is clichéd. But the criticism still holds.

Once you’re down to the final two, set your climactic battle with the baddie. Have the local sheriff come by to help out, only to be paid for this kindness with an axe to the temple from the 6-foot-7 behemoth who somehow slips into a house undetected. They must use the doggie-doors or chimneys.

The two main characters will win the battle. They’ll cut the guy’s head off, run him over with an 18-wheeler, land a jumbo jet on his headless body and then burn the carcass into ashes. They’ll walk away in an exhausted, yet victorious embrace. Pan over to the bad guy and have his fingers twitch and cut to black. Or pan to the next day with the cops at the scene unable to find the body. Shocking!

By the way, that’s my biggest beef with horror movies. I just sat through two hours of boring characters dying brutal deaths for no reason only to titillate. I endured terrible acting, ear-ringing screams and an unending loop of “suspenseful” music only to have the movie’s climatic scene negated by your very lame attempt to shock us once more and plant the seeds for 18 sequels in our brains.

Oh my, Michael Myers/Jason/Freddy Krueger/Jigsaw is still alive!

Hopefully we get to see more sequels where the same exact thing will happen! And then we can see Freddy vs. Jason. Or Freddy vs. Jason vs. Mothra.

I’m no prude. I watch plenty of violence, but usually it advances what’s called a “plot.” Someone is trying to prevent a terrorist attack or uncover a conspiracy or get revenge. Horror movies are just slaughterhouses with the meat thrown in the trash.

Yet every year someone reinvents Halloween or Friday the 13th or Nightmare on Elm Street or Saw. A modern interpretation by Rob Zombie perhaps. The same cast of characters. The same no-name town. The same music. The same bad guy who just never dies, even when the movie tells you he will die.

Horror movies have their fans. To each his own, but at least come up with different material. The fact we’re still making movies about Freddy Krueger is just sad. He shouldn’t scare us anymore. We got over the bogeyman under our bed. We got over being lost in the supermarket.

Freddy should someday face the same fate.

And don’t even get me started on Chucky.

P.S. Big props for Roger Ebert's take. He says it much better than I could.

Facebook history

2010-04-25T00:58:00.000-07:00

Facebook is a refuge for the annoying. You've heard it all before, about the endless Farmville updates or Mob Wars or boring status updates like "Going to sleep."

Many of my Facebook friends are guilty of these offenses, but that has never been enough for me to de-friend them. My friends list is already embarrassingly low. But someone went so over the line a few days ago I had no choice but to evict them from the Chateau de Sears.

It was someone I barely knew in high school. She's made some political posts on Facebook before that I don't agree with, which is fine. But then she joined a group with a long title basically saying, "God, you took my favorite actress in Farrah Fawcett and my favorite singer in Michael Jackson so let me tell you my favorite president is Barack Obama amen."

That was the final straw. I even waded into the muck of that group and it was very scary, replete with death wishes for Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, etc. Just disgusting.

So, dear high school acquaintance, you were the first person I've ever de-friended in my nearly six years on Facebook. And if a certain ESPN employee whose last name rhymes with "Schaible" asks me one more time to join a live chat, she might be next.

Protest fatigue

2010-04-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

Thou doth protest too much.

Seriously, you do. This is America and the right to protest anything is as ingrained in our DNA as the right to eat anything. Good for us. Good for the hippies during Vietnam, the Gen X'ers during any WTO gathering. It's all good. And it's all out of hand.

For more than a year, the political media has gone Brangelina on the Tea Party rallies. They can't get enough. Every rally, every utterance by anyone who claims to be a Teabagger is covered with the same mania and gravitas as a papal announcement. During the height of the health care debate, the Tea Party ran the political coverage in this country. They were the Beatles and the folks from CNN, Fox, NBC, etc. were their shrieking, pre-pubescent female fans.

Fine. I have my problems with these protesters but I defend their right to gather. I would take their sudden concern over the debt and government power if they had the guts or smarts to protest under George Bush, but they didn't. They watched a surplus disappear into a huge debt because a president they voted for passed tax cuts they wanted and started a war they supported and yet they said nothing. Any claim these people are independent is a joke. They are disaffected, rabid Republicans who still don't accept Barack Obama as president. Period.

Of course they don't accept Obama. Many of them are still stewing over the Civil War. So a black guy getting elected will take some time to get used to.

A year of hearing these people is enough for me. We all get it. You don't know how to spell. You don't like Obama. You don't like that your taxes have gone down. You don't like Democrats in the White House. The media loves you, so much so they ignored 200,000 pro-immigration reform protesters to cover a few thousand at a Tea Party rally. I'm more than sick of it, but they haven't reached my last straw.

You never want to reach my last straw. This story is the last straw.

First, they're marching around D.C. with guns. Seems dangerous. Imagine if Iraq War protesters did that? (Remember: Tea Party protesters are "concerned" Americans who love their country. Anti-war protesters are slimy communists who need to get jobs.)

That's not even the worst thing. What I REALLY don't get is why they are protesting in the first place. Are they that bored? Because the Democrats have completely given up on the gun issue. The NRA has won and won big. You can take a gun to Starbucks for crying out loud. Barack Obama has never and will never go after your guns. He's never mentioned it, not once.

The Dems will only dip their toes in the ban of assault weapons. Of course, gun rights advocated will rip them for that, because who shouldn't have the capability of killing a massive amount of people in a very short time? How can people protect their homes against the roaming pack of super ninjas with just a plain old shotgun or revolver? No, they need Rambo weaponry. It's in the Constitution.

So you've already won, gun protesters. No one's coming after your guns. So why are you marching on Washington again, with guns on you in public? Are you grandstanding prima donnas or just ignorant morons?

I can't wait until they protest Obama's plan to inseminate alien sperm into all women between 18-45 so he can construct an unbeatable socialist army to take over the world. I'm sure the media can't wait either.

Meanwhile, I'll do my own protest. I'm done reading/wasting any more seconds on your "legitmate concerns." I disagree with what you say. I defend your right to say it. I defend my right to completely ignore you. If only the cameras would do the same.

SteveCentury: Crossover battle

2010-04-13T09:45:00.000-07:00

Working in the rough-and-tumble sports world, one tends to get into many arguments. I am no exception. I can't count how many time's I've argued for Tom Brady over Peyton Manning.

Still, it all comes down to personal opinion. It's not crazy to prefer to Peyton Manning over Tom Brady, just like it's not crazy to dislike 24 (that's only unpatriotic). But tempers flare nonetheless and I'm here to recount a moment from high school that popped into my mind during a random debate last week.

The year: 1997. The president: William Jefferson Clinton. The location: Cranston East High School Briggs building.

I was a freshman that year, hair parted down the middle and terribly awkward. (Much has changed.) I had this "friend" I will call him Stan for the purposes of this blog. We weren't really great friends, but we did hang out every now and then. I don't know why, looking back at it. Let's just say if I met a similar person today, I'd have nothing to do with him.

Anyway, we're in a group talking about Allen Iverson's crossover of Michael Jordan. This friend believed this proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Iverson was the better player. This statement is as stupid now as it was then. I pretty much said so, though I don't recall using the word "stupid." I merely said that Michael Jordan was better, regardless of one play. Granted, I was a big bandwagon Bulls fan back then, but my point still stands.

He didn't take too kindly to this, proceeding to get in my face, aggressively reiterating his insane opinion. I backed up until I couldn't back up anymore. I wanted no part of any fight, especially right before class. Then he took a swing, which I dodged. This set my animal instincts into high gear and in pure Jack Bauer style I grabbed him and tossed him against the radiator. We grappled some more until the Spanish teacher finally appeared to break it up.

This woman also happened to be my homeroom teacher and we were on good terms, so I didn't get sent to the principal's office. Neither did Stan. So we have our normal Spanish class and the bell rings, meaning I had to go all the way to the main building for my next class. This took me outside into the parking lot past City Hall. While swimming with the school of fishes outside, Stan followed me the entire way. He cussed up a storm and got so close to me I practically felt the spittle protruding from his foul orifice. Everyone noticed this. They had to since he was so loud.

Obviously, I was extremely uncomfortable. I avoid confrontation at all cost and I could not believe he was acting like this. He normally carried on like a street tough, even though he was just another middle class kid from the suburbs. But all this because I had the temerity to suggest Michael Jordan - widely considered the greatest basketball player of all time - was better than Allen Iverson? Half out of embarrassment and half out of pure confusion, I refused to say another word until, thankfully, we had to part ways to get to class.

I never got into trouble for it and he eventually cooled down after that. We may have even hung out again, but eventually we parted ways. For the life of me I don't know why we were friends. Anyway, the important thing is A.) I won the fight and B.) I was right. Jordan was better then and he is now, reinforcing another of life's basic truths: Don't mess with Steve Sears.

My audition for Cosmo

2010-04-03T12:13:00.000-07:00

Yahoo.com is my homepage. Very often I will see sundry dating columns on the front page: Five ways to get the woman/man of your dreams or 10 worst ways to dump someone. So on and so forth. I usually ignore them. Last night, I clicked on this story.

If this is what you call "dating advice" then I think I can do it. Now, you may think taking such advice from me is like taking a pitching lesson from John Wasdin, but if you read the story, you'll see writing such "profound nuggets" with a touch of "humor" isn't very hard. So let me give it a try.

10 Dating Mistakes Men Make

by Sassy Sassafrass.

Men. (BOOO!!!) Yes, they can be boorish, insensitive, idiotic, fat and useless, but we still love them anyway because we have no other choice. Guys, with all these strikes against you, mistakes are not an option. If you want to win a woman's heart (only to crush it into pieces later) there are certain traps you have to avoid. Thankfully, I'm on the case.

1. Don't poop on the floor: Your girlfriend might think it's cute when Spot or Sparky leaves a nice coil on the carpet, but it's not quite as adorable when you do it. So, guys, do like your mommy taught you and go to the potty. Women hate having to clean up your dirty socks, so imagine how much they hate cleaning up dirty poopies. Talk about a crappy situation!

2. Hitting on Mom: Talk about a mother-#$##U&*&*! Sure, your future mother-in-law may have the body of a sorority girl, but keep your hands off, gentleman! We all know men are crazed, immoral sex hounds, just leave our mothers out of it.

3. Hitting on Dad: This is even worse.

4. Shooting your girlfriend in the leg: When women say they love it when men bare arms, they're talking about muscle shirts on the beach. Please, if your girlfriend walks through the door after a long day at work, don't plug a bullet into her. It's not attractive.

5. Getting a sex change: Perhaps your girlfriend wants you to get in touch with your feminine side. What she means is more Dancing with the Stars, not hormonal therapy. Keep the package, gentlemen. Once it goes, so do we.

6. Sleeping with her friends: You're trying to impress your friends, so one night you seduce your girl's best friend. Then she finds out about it. I would suggest you don't do this. Studies show women prefer their men not to have carnal relations with their gal-pals. You heard it here first.

7. Setting your girlfriend on fire: Women love adventurous men, but sometimes you go to far. A third-degree burn looks terrible in a wedding photo. When we say we want some heat in the bedroom, a four-alarm blaze is the furthest thing from our minds!

8. Selling her into slavery: Once you get into the black market of human trafficking, that's a deal- breaker, ladies.

9. Skulls on the wall: We girls don't like messy apartments. You don't have to be Martha Stewart, but the beer cans and crusty onion dip are a big turn-off. Even worse, if we find human skulls on the wall or smell rotting flesh, we're not going to stick around long enough for your explanation.

10. Inviting ex-girlfriends into a three-some: We don't care about your past. We're with you to start a new future. But once you propose bringing Sadie from college into bed equipped with a camera, electrical probes and a walrus, things could get weird. When getting down to business, guys, keep things to a duo. Too many chefs spoil the broth.

Maybe I'm not Cosmo material, but I think I provided some useful advice for the men out there. Now I just need to find a stock photo of two good-looking models (man and woman) looking pissed at each other and some pink/purple typeface and I'm ready to go.

The show can't go on

2010-03-27T22:14:00.000-07:00

24 has been pronounced dead. But like any time Jack Bauer croaked, you know it won't be long until he resurrects himself to kill some terrorists.

Yes, my favorite show is ending this season. A show I have been watching since it started in 2001. A show I feared would be canceled just 13 episodes into its first season, but a show that lived on to become one of the biggest hits of the decade and the longest running action show in history.

I never expected more than five years. To get eight is a blessing. While some of you may gloat or cackle at this great loss to America and while some of you may want me to cry like LaDainian Tomlinson, I won't appease you.

The time has come.

The show was getting to the point where plots and characters were being recycled over and over. A mole in CTU. A ticking time-bomb. Jack going on a suicide mission and lives. Jack being right but always ignored by some bureaucratic dumb ass. Despite some mild surprises this season, it's the lost the ability to pull off a good twist because any true fan has seen them all before.

The fact that a movie is being planned certainly dents the impact of this news. This probably won't be the last we ever see of Jack Bauer. But at least he gets to go out on his own terms in his television universe. No show can last forever.

Speaking of which ... another program that I've loved this decade is growing old in the tooth as well. It might be time to administer similar Old Yeller treatment to The Office.

The characters are starting to annoy me. They haven't changed in six years. They're like interesting relatives who stay just a little too long and can't take a hint. The last episode was emblematic of its problems. It was one of the funnier ones in a while, but how many times can we see Michael Scott act like a moron in public before we just roll our eyes? It's not funny or interesting anymore. It's actually quite infuriating. The Jim-Pam thing has run its course. Dwight is just obnoxious. Even Phyllis is highly unlikeable now.

Frankly, most of the time the half hour passes and I realize I just didn't laugh. It gives me no pleasure to write this, but the time has come for The Office to go the way of 24. It's time to channel Barry Sanders, not Brett Favre.

Hell week

2010-03-24T22:41:00.000-07:00

You need a status update. That's why I'm here.

How have I been lately? Not great actually. For those not in the sports journalism industry, the first two days of the NCAA tournament are beyond insane. Black Friday times two. We all dread this time of year. You have fun with your brackets and non-stop games. It's a hell of a lot of work for us. Game after game piled on each other with columns coming out of every corner of the nation. By Friday night I was exhausted. By Saturday night, I was catatonic. For proof, I went to bed at 1 in the morning, which is like a person who usually goes to bed at 11 going to bed at 7. And then I slept the next 10 or so hours and never felt like getting out of bed.

Now, the day before that, I actually celebrated St. Patrick's Day. You know I'm not a big drinker so the day has never meant much to me, but some friends love it so I hung out with them. St. Paddy's Day in Florida is quite different than it is in say, West Warwick. Some of the outfits I saw the women of Fort Lauderdale wearing that night were crazy. I can't begin to describe it without getting an NC-17 rating.

To cap the night off, we saw Badfish, the Sublime cover band. Never been huge on Sublime, but the show was good. The crowd was really into it and there might have been some of the marijuana floating around that building. I came away from that night thinking that Fort Lauderdale sure love its Irish holiday, more so than I thought it would. And that Sumblime fans love the grass. Who knew?

Anyway, after two long days of non-stop basketball, a cold/sore throat made its way around the office. I caught it about Saturday night and it got really bad on Monday and Tuesday. As I write this, I'm just getting over it. Another two off days down the drain, but I did get a lot of good TV watching in my jam-packed schedule.

(I never caught on to the Ricky Gervais podcasts for whatever reason. Now I realize how stupid I was. The show on HBO that replays them with animation has me in tears, literally. Some may think the animation is stupid, but it cracks me up as well.)

So the past seven days have been tiring, but the passage of the Socialist grandparent killing health care bill definitely lifted my spirits. The Dems actually got something done! I'm amazed. This is the first major piece of social legislation since the 1960s. And now the Republicans, knowing they're on the wrong side of history yet again, are losing their damn minds. While it's scary for the country, I am taking a bit of satisfaction in all this. Maybe November won't be such a disaster after all ... The Republicans need another electoral ass kicking so they can realize how low they have sunk.

In closing, a week where the Democrats lift my spirits (along with a very good episode of Lost that actually told us something) is definitely a weird week, isn't it?