A damn good night

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

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 man with the scary tattoo

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

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.

1. 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.




2. 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.




3. 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.)




4. 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.




5. 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.

Old dirty bastards

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

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.

Steve's Peeves: Stranger in a strange land

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.

No tix for you

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

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.

Emo warning

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 Visitor

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.

How the other half lives

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.

On second thought ...

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.

It's spring again

I've been in Grapefruit League country for over three years, yet not once have I traveled to Fort Myers to see the Red Sox in spring training. Once the Red Sox signed Marco Scutaro and Boof Bonser, the trip just planned itself. Destiny. Fate. Boof.

Unfortunately, there was no Boof Bonser action Thursday night. Instead, I was treated to a parade of stiffs like Josh Beckett, Jonathan Papelbon, Daniel Bard and Hideki Okajima.

But before I get to the game, let me give you an overview of the lovely town of Fort Myers: The City of Palms. I drove 2 1/2 hours through Alligator Alley to arrive at Worcester: South West. Like the Athens of Massachusetts, downtown Fort Myers is clean, but lifeless. At least the parts I saw. Like certain mole people towns, like Mariposa, California, Fort Myers has all its important institutions within on square mile of each other. The newspaper is right next to the fire department which is right next to police headquarters which is right across the way from the "center of justice."

All that was missing was the town saloon.

Also, it was damn cold. In the 50s and 40s. Weather unfit for human experience, I must say.

I arrived at the ballpark a good hour and a half before the first pitch so I could eat a horrifically overpriced "dinner" that would devour my small intestine like Rasheed Wallace devours cheddar burgers before games. The park is your typical spring training facility: nice and cozy with reasonable parking and small-town charm. I would provide pictures, but I forgot my camera. Just imagine a field shaped like a diamond with green grass, walls in the outfield and lots of spit.

Boston's opponent, the Minnesota Twins, struck first in the first inning. 1-0. Game over Another 14-2 Sears rout, right?

Not with these Red Sox.

Dustin Pedroia knocked in someone named Darnell McDonald in the sixth, tying it 1-1. During all this action, I struck up a conversation with a stranger sitting next to me. You might be thinking this is dangerous, but there were other adults around. The man is a local dentist who is a fan of CBSSports.com. (But then again, who isn't?) The guy has been to about every major sporting event in American history. Nineteen straight Final Fours. Almost 20 Masters. The last Super Bowl. Every Florida Gators football game, including both championships. He must be a very successful dentist.

His buddy, who had a nice Southern twang, is an ACC football official who knows Daniel Bard's fiancee. They both know an NFL official who worked the Pats-Giants Super Bowl. He was the sidejudge that game. I was not very interested in discussing that, but overall, they were very interesting. More interesting than I.

In the 8th inning, Sox catching prospect Mark Wagner put Boston ahead with a single. He doesn't know the rule that the Sox must lose any game I attend. Before the 9th started, I left to go to the bathroom, came back and my new friends were gone. Just like that. So much for the dentist and the ACC official, who is a veterinarian. Just thought I'd throw that in.

Oh well. Joe Nelson closed it out and everyone went home happy, save for a few Twins fans. A preview of the season, eh? 2-1. We might be seeing that score a lot this season. Overall, I'd say my first Red Sox spring training game was a success. They didn't lost 20-2 and Eric Gagne was thousands of miles away.

Note: He blew the lead in the last Red Sox game I attended.

Before I go to bed at the early (for me) hour of 2 a.m. ... there was a Northeastern billboard in right field. Too bad 75 percent of the fans at the game were older than 50. Money well spent.

Something to add

Oops. I meant to include some photos of the old office so you could compare and contrast. Since I don't feel like going back into my previous post, I'll just add them here.

See the improvement?

Movin' on up

Last week, CBS Interactive moved to its brand new, state-of-the-art office. Knowing that you are dying for pictorial evidence and since I'm such a helpful person, I decided to take a few snapshots.

Right away, this is a huge improvement. Our old office had "Pizza Fusion" emblazoned above its front entrance, something that bristled everyone at CBS. Now we have a sign. It's a start.

The Octotron. The heart of the new office, this behemoth boasts of eight flat-screen televisions poised over a conference table we in the newsroom use for our weekday budget meetings. It's very possible this thing is a Decepticon and will kill us all. I just gave Michael Bay the idea for Transformers 3.

I took these on a Saturday night, so the office is mostly empty, except for us copy desk folk. These are a few of my workmates who are pretending to be very busy for the camera.





My desk. Some random things on my desk: Family Guy birthday cards, a Patriots pennant, a penguin, a Jack Bauer card, a mini rugby ball and an autograph from Patriots legend Roosevelt Colvin.









Most of the other desks look like this. Many others come equipped with their own HD television sets. Good for them.




The cafeteria, a huge improvement over the old one because it's a cafeteria. A place to eat. We only had a small room with two tables and some vending machines in the former office. Look at the pretty colors!


The Game Room. This is sweet. A pool table. A Nintendo Wii. Foozeball. And a ping-pong table. Is it the Mono Lisa of ping-pong tables? No, that honor rests with the Schaible-Hosseini masterpiece (or the Hosseini-Schaible project, pending litigation). It'll be tough to find time to come here all that often during working hours, but this is still the best part of the new building.

So there you go. The new place is a big improvement. The carpet is fresh. The office has that new office smell. There's light. There's openness. There are TVs bigger than thumbnails. Some small issues include not being able to get into the building without calling someone to let you in. Small hiccup. Our cards don't work on the outside door. The new phones are not working perfectly yet, either. Neither are some computers.

For the most part, the move went smoothly and some people worked around the clock (like Harrison Ford) to meet the target date. All in all, we're happy with our new digs. Aren't you jealous?

Yeah baby!

I have finally found my true love.

And her name is Samsung.

See that beauty? She's a sensual, tender being. And I've been spending a lot of time with her. Too much time, actually. You could say I'm whipped.

I've wanted one of these for years, and with a little Christmas help, I finally went out and bought one. She's a 42-inch plasma. And to keep her company, I purchased a Blu-Ray DVD player. My first Blu-Ray movie? L.A. Confidential. It looked amazing.

For the past few nights, I've played 24 on my new toy. I'm used to watching my favorite show on a small TV screen, so to see it in large HD format is a delight.

It's been a busy week for me, and I'm not used to busy weeks. First, I bought this TV and the TV stand upon which she rests. Then I put it all together. Then I waited in line for almost an hour to retrieve the HD cable box. Meanwhile, CBSSports.com is moving out of its old office this week. We move Wednesday. We took semi-mandatory classes on how to use the new phones. I've done my self and peer evaluations. The temperature in Florida has hit the 30s and the state is in panic mode.

I even watched the first half of that abomination in Foxborough. My first HD football event. The images looked great. The Patriots ... that's another story.

It's safe to say I won't be leaving the apartment for the next few months other than to eat, work and yell at kids for playing on my lawn. What reason do I have to venture out into the dangerous sun light?

I've found The One.

Welcome, 2010

To say hello to 2010, I must say goodbye to 2009. How did I do it? I went to Rhode Island of course.

I'm back in Florida after my yearly winter trip back to he State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations and the crowded home of my parents. My sisters and their significant others packed into our modest house for Christmas while Jelly ran around biting me. I didn't get many presents. I just wanted to money so I could fulfill my lifelong dream of buying a nice, new HD television. My mom said I should wait for Super Bowl sales, but I don't want to. Ever since I was a little boy running in the cornfields, I've wanted one. I don't think I can wait. What's your take?

Anyway, I saw my New England friends. I drank too much (for me). I flipped through my old schoolbook records to find out my mom saved almost every report card I ever received. I found a Rae Carruth rookie card. I went to Applebees but not Dunkin Donuts. I attended a Winter Classic cookout on New Year's Day. I saw Avatar and loved it. I played Doctor Mario on the Wii and sucked at it. I watched 24: Season 7 on DVD. I made up with Jelly.

And now I'm back in Florida. I have to say, it was the first time during a vacation that I wanted to go back about halfway through. It's not that I don't miss the people, but there's just nothing there for me anymore. That fact just hit me like a ton of bricks. I'll hang out with people I won't see for another 12 months, if that. And most of those people are moving on in life, getting engaged, getting married, having kids. I just drop in for a minute, catch up, tell people where I work and how I like Florida, then I'm back on a plane.

More and more, this area is feeling like home. Not that I love Florida or hate it, but it's where I'm most comfortable. It's where I have my bed, my car and my nocturnal job.

Enough with the introspection. Let's get to a few random things from the past week or so.

• I just finished watching Paranormal Activity and I wasn't impressed. Creepy, no doubt. My heart quickened a few times. But I wasn't scared. The Ring freaked me out much more than this movie. Also, I know this makes me a bad person, but I would have run for the hills after Night 5 or so if I was seeing that girl. Admit it, you would have, too.
• I take the blame for the Wes Welker injury. I just had to take out the Drew Bledsoe jersey. Damn you, Steve! The Pats are now a longshot. Welker makes that offense go. Randy Moss provides the big plays, but Welker moved the sticks. A team that can't run the ball, can't hold leads, can't make comebacks, can't score in the second half, can't stop the pass and can't rush the passer probably won't make it to the Super Bowl.
• Quentin Tarrentino falls in love with his diaologue to his detriment sometimes. Inglourious Basterds was a good movie, but some of those scene could have been cut in half. We didn't need five minuted ordering and eating strudels. It's like he thinks, "Damn, I can write great dialouge! So let's keep going ... and going ... and going." Pulp Fiction would have been perfect if he cut all that useless crap with Bruce Willis' girlfriend. Same thing applies to this movie.
• I dislike Bernard Pollard. Really dislike him.
• Watch your knee if you're a Boston athlete. Tom Brady. Kevin Garnett. Paul Pierce. Wes Welker. I want Josh Beckett to put his knee in a titanium brace.
• Avatar is the best special effects movie I've ever seen.
• I heard Passion Pit for the first time and I'm hooked. "The Reeling" is an awesome song. I heard that band at least five times on the radio in Rhode Island. They wouldn't get within 500 miles of mainstream rock airwaves in South Florida. Wouldn't want to infringe on Nickleback hour.
• Was Bernard Pollard on the grassy knoll, too?
• My mom has a book that marks my evolution through school, from first grade to 12th. I don't have as much hair as I used to. I did better than I remember in elementary school and rocked the crap out of Bain, though it wasn't enough to earn Honors recommendations from my teachers. I was reminded I attended a special arts class back near the fifth grade. And I suck at art. My words of wisdom in my sixth grade yearbook: "Act maturely and you'll do fun things." Yeah, I was cool.
• It served as a "This Is Your Life" moment. From when I wanted to be a carpenter, to when I wanted to be a lawyer or doctor until I finally discovered my prodigious writing talents.
• I immensely enjoyed watching one NFL Sunday in peace.
• Art Lake is missed in Rhode Island.
• I'm the only person in Cranston under 30 without an iPhone.
• Everyone in Cranston works for GTech
• Everyone in Cranston hates working for GTech.
• It snowed again on New Year's Eve. And I shoveled.
• New Year's Eve is much more fun if you're willing to get wasted. I'm not, so I just watch others get wasted.
• I saw drunken men grinding on other men. I saw a man moon people at a bar. I heard "Livin' on a Prayer" on karoke. I lived Rhode Island for a week-and-a-half. That was more than enough.

Bill's in town

This is my 100th blog post. In celebration, I plan on using some salty language. You've been warned.

Bill Maher came to Northeastern while I was there and yet I did not go. Since then, I've regretted it. Friday night I finally made amends, traveling down to Miami beach to see Maher at the Jackie Gleason theater.

He was fantastic.

This is a (mostly) family blog, so it will be tough to relay what he said. He went off on the usual subjects, from Republicans to drugs to marriage and, of course, religion. I'll paraphrase a few of his memorable jokes.

On Scientology: It's gotta take some massive balls to tell another human being what happened 12 trillion years ago. And not even talk generally, like the earth was cooling. No, you know the name. 'Zenu. 12 trillion years ago. End of story'

On the Rapture: Jesus has been dead for 2,000 years and has yet to come back. Of course, these nuts think he's coming back ... in their lifetime. "He wants to meet me! Hey Jesus, Bob Feldstein here. Big fan. I know you must be real busy but if you can just give me one autograph."

On married men: I knew these guys before they were married. They used to be mustangs. Now they're like the horse in central park with the blinders on, just walking all day in a circle.

And I hear them on the phone in the airport. "Hi, I'm checking my bags. Hi, I'm sitting down now. Hi, I'm going into the plane now. Love you. Love you, too. Love you more." Why don't you just put on a husband cam so she can see what you do every second of every day, you pathetic, pussy-whipped piece of shit."

On relationships: Men and women don't have mutual fantasies. Your fantasies bore us. Our fantasies offend you. You fantasize about a charming prince on a white stallion galloping in a meadow and picking you up and promising you his undying love. We fantasize about cumming on your face.

On Tiger Woods: If his wife was black, that driver would not have gone through his back window. It would've been through the back of his head.

On Republicans: It's unfair to say the Republicans hate black people. They also hate Mexicans.

On presidents: Don't think if I make fun of Obama I'm making fun of all black people. When I made fun of George Bush all those years, it wasn't aimed at all retards.

On stress: Stress is a normal part of life. It's nature. Ever see animals? Look at a squirrel. It's the most stressed-out animal on earth. "I know I'm gonna die. I know it. I just want this acorn but I now I'm gonna die." (Mimics chewing an acorn and nervously looking in every direction.)

On people being offended by his religious stuff: They tell me religion does no harm. Really? I guess they're right, if you don't count most wars, 9/11, the Inquisition, the Crusades, stonings, oppression of women, blacks, homosexuals, Jews, beheadings, suicide bombers, human sacrifice, mutilation and molested children.

Obviously, he's not politically correct. But that's part of his charm. There were many more great bits to which I can do no justice. He brought the house down, except for the one woman in front of me who seemed to be sleeping and another old lady who left when he started talking about "pussyboners." (A female version of an erection, in case you didn't know.) What was she expecting?

Time for some bonus Steve's Peeves time.

On my way down to Miami, some woman started honking at me for not taking a right on green. I couldn't go because if I did, I would have killed or hurt two pedestrians. She ends up passing me seconds later and gives me the wide-eyed look of the Pissed Off Driver. I usually don't do this, but I flipped her the bird. Sorry I kept you from your destination an extra three seconds. I know you were on your way to something very important.

I ended up parking ten minutes away and walked through the Lincoln Road strip of flashy clubs and restaurants. If you know me, I don't like to be bothered when walking around. No one cares about that, obviously. People are always asking for money or a signature to save the seagulls or something. I literally had to run an obstacle course to miss all the pests on my walk to the theater.

You know how restaurants will put a good looking person, usually a woman, near the display menu? Well, every single place on Lincoln Road seems to have one. So just because you're a cute blonde, I'm going to want to drop 50 bucks on lobster bread? Is there anything else in it for me? No? Didn't think so.

They were like pesky mosquitoes at dusk. They wouldn't go away. When you swat one away, another takes its place. Very, very annoying.

Anyway, a fun night. I finally saw one of my favorite comedians live and he came through. He even gave me a new word in pussyboner. Not sure I could ever use it in an appropriate manner. And he called Sarah Palin Cruella De Vil, which the crowd loved.

I can't wait until Real Time comes back. Maher's voice is a needed one. The airwaves suffer without him.

Back to school

People are always giving up their time, energy and money to help others, especially in the holiday season. Me, I've only given my time to Sopranos re-runs and football games during this time of year. So I figured: I have some time. Why not help out somewhere?

So I did. I volunteered in the Harvest Drive at Western High School in Davie, Florida today. Yes, I'm just a great person. Father Theresa, you can call me. No. Mr. Father Theresa.

This drive helps out over a thousand families in the community, giving out canned food, clothing, toys, books, you name it. Trust me, there were lots and lots and lots of things donated to this drive. And there was certainly enough room. This high school is gigantic. It has its own campus. It looked like a college. Multiple buildings. Very wide hallways. Student parking.

When one of the leaders told me the big gym they were using for all the food was a mini-gym, I rolled my eyes. My travels have taken me to quite a few high schools since I graduated from Cranston East, and every single one has been bigger. Much, much bigger. They have fields, big parking lots, stairways that aren't as narrow as those one would find in medieval dungeons. It ticks me off a bit. East consisted of one-and-a-half buildings, separated by City Hall, accompanied by very limited student parking and coffin-sized stairwells.

Anyway, the place was gigantic. I showed up at around 3 p.m. and got to work immediately, moving tables into the auditorium and boxes into the so-called mini-gym. I spotted two high school kids struggling mightily with a hefty box of shampoo so I took it and carried it myself about a hundred yards. They were amazed at my strength.

They also asked me what class I was in, like senior or junior. I told them it's been a long time since I was in high school. Back then, we had dial-up modems and cell phones were exclusive items. They weren't the only people to ask me what high school I attended. I guess I look younger in a hat.

While sorting out the toys and books, I came upon a few things that sent me straight to nostalgia land. One, the etch-a-sketch. What a marvelous invention. The second, a book on the TV show Dinosaurs. Remember that one? Didn't last too long. I was telling a young whipper-snapper about how that show was a take-off on The Simpsons. The kid had never heard of Dinosaurs.

Yeah, I'm getting old and out of touch.

Also, the ring lady of the toy/clothes/books department helped me sort the books by age. Baby books in one box. An outdated book on the perfect Gosselin family in the adult box and so forth. But there were some books I thought were for fourth graders that she said were for first or second. Was I just a dumb child? I don't remember what I read until sixth grade, when I got hooked on Goosebumps and Michael Crichton/John Grisham novels.

I sorted and utilized my muscles for most of my six hours there. At the end, I broke up cardboard boxes outside the gym and bunch of smaller boys started stomping on the boxes. They were just goofing around. Accidentally, I spilt one of the kids soda because he put it on the ground next to my feet. When he saw the spill, he screeched, "You spilled my soda!" He seemed a bit perturbed. Then he looked up at me. Way up. And, I'm being serious, he gulped and said, "It's OK. No problem."

Oh yeah! It may be ten years too late, but I'm a frightening, intimidating figure! I'm a bully!

Yes, it feels awesome. Sensing other people's fear is intoxicating. I have to start picking on little kids from now on.

I left at 9 p.m., taking a piece of candy from one of the nice leaders of the drive. I ate the dark chocolate bar with the satisfaction of a day spent doing something worthwhile ... and the realization that it's been almost ten years since I was in high school and a lot has happened since then. Like this.

All in all, a good day. Now, I just have to wait for these people to pay me.