Goodbye, Dodger

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.

A weekend at Sears

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!

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.

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.

Meet the Schaibles Part I

I believe this is the first Internet draft of the Schaible Nuptials. Not sure why the couple has not transcribed the events yet ... too busy? No Internet in the United Kingdom? As usual, leave it to me to be the responsible one.

Here goes ...

Home from New York, I spent a few quiet days in Cranston at the home of Jelly Sears. Funny thing about our plump canine friend: She loves going upstairs but she hates going down them. So she will wait at the top of the steps, make her sad face and wait for someone to come up just to carry her down. She sure lives the life.

Anyway, the main reason I made the trip when I did was to attend the Big Marriage in swanky, foggy and crowded Newport, Rhode Island. A short rehearsal was scheduled early Friday afternoon, just to run through the actual ceremony. Within minutes of my arriving, I was able to chip off a toe nail of the maid of honor. I still got the skillz.

With a giant circus tent for bumper boats in the background, the pastor raced through the readings and we did all the lineups before the women ran off for nail appointments that probably lasted longer than Ken Burns' Civil War documentary.

Then Zach, Jeff and I huddled into my sister's spiffy Honda Accord (with Sirius!) and drove down to back Cranston to pick up Zach's tux. From there we promptly drove back to Narragansett, where I dropped Zach off and then to Newport to drop Jeff off then back to Narragansett to pick up Zach. So by that time I felt as if I had entered and left Newport that day more than I have my entire life. That could really be true, by the way.

Zach took over the driving part and did some nifty maneuvering past packed Newport traffic to get to Pop! Kitchen where the rehearsal dinner was being held. The whole place was reserved just for us for three hours with free booze and appetizers. Pretty sweet. Then the gauntlet of intros to family members and some long-lost Northeastern acquaintances.

For the first time in years I saw Jeff's parents and probably had my first ever conversation with the bride's mother. She immediately brought up the sore subject of me beating her daughter for the English Award in high school. After hearing that, I decided I had to include something about that in my wedding speech the next day. It can be dangerous to make such last minute changes to a speech I had down pat by that point, but I had to do it.

The night culminated in some very tasty Red Sox-Yankees cake and sweet toast by Jeff's mother before the crowd dispersed. But Mike Grimala had just arrived and was not ready to hit the hay just yet. So Zach, Mike and I hauled off to one of Zach's favorite restaurants, the Brick Alley Pub. Grimey and I ordered the same thing. So what? Wanna fight about it??

I woke up that Friday with a sore throat that only got worse throughout the day. My throat burning and drier than a BBC comedy, I slept maybe three or four hours that night.

We got up early because Jeff was treating the groomsman, Grimey and his dad to some golf in Jamestown. However, to Jeff's consternation, a tournament was scheduled and the golf course basically told us to fuck off. The Schaible Face erupted and I was worried. I didn't want Jeff pissed off like this on his wedding day. Thankfully, we found a more secluded golf course close by. It worked out well. No Schiable face.

I don't golf. I suck at it. I swing and miss when teeing off. I can't get any lift on the ball. I can't pull off the golf shirt. I started out well, hitting a 25-yard tee shot that resembled a grounder to shortstop. I just wanted to keep the ball straight and out of the water or woods. This strategy worked for about three holes. Then some ponds came into play and I self-destructed. So paranoid about hitting into the water, I could barely hit the ball 10 yards and when I did, it went straight into the drink or into some tough rough.

To top it off, I did not wear a hat or sunblock, so the sun fried my forehead. So if I look really red in wedding photos, you know why. I ended up shooting a 60 ... on nine holes. And that 60 is a generous score. Nonetheless, we all enjoyed ourselves (when we were not swearing or tossing clubs around).

From there, the men retreated to dress up time and met a few hours later at the groom's hotel. Looking sharp and damn sexy, we passed the time playing the name game while waiting to take our pre-wedding photos. The photographers took us to the beach where the wedding would be held. On our way, we narrowly avoided a bombing of bird poop. And I'm not kidding when I say narrowly. Whew! That would have been a story to tell ... and a disaster.

I can say I had never been on the beach in a full tux until that day. The whole process was bit weird since I'm not used to being photographed quite like that. We were jumping in the air, contorting out bodies in some strange ways, like "lean to the left, put your right hand in your pocket and look out into the ocean!" or "Jump up and down and do something with your arms!" or "make a cool shadow!"

OK, you're the boss, I thought. I'm sure some of these photos will look quite ridiculous, but that's the point.

The hour of reckoning crept up on us. The chairs were set up. The keyboardist practiced. People started showing up. The wedding arbor, after some strenuous manual labor, was set up. The groom, nice and calm for most of the weekend, started to feel the nerves. I could spot the bride staring down at us from the rotunda window. The pastor arrived. The time was at hand.

The weather could not have been better, by the way. A bright, sunny day. A nice beach breeze. About 80 degrees. They couldn't have asked for better conditions, especially considering the Seattle-type weather the previous week.

Six o'clock came and the men lined up on a concrete platform facing the ocean and waited ...

And we'll have to leave it at that right now before this post turns into a Bill Simmons summer NBA column. Would Jeff's true love Vishal make an appearance and ruin everything? How many stupid faces could I make in the ceremony photographs? Would my Schaibleburg Address be a rousing success or would it meet and awkward, silent, British Office-style death? Would Grimey do "The Grimey" on the dance floor?

Tune in for the shocking season finale.

Dispatches from Rhode Island

Greetings from the Ocean State ...

It's been a wild and crazy excursion so far. Let's start with last Friday, the day of the craziest bachelor party in recorded history.

I traveled up to Boston from Rhode Island early that afternoon on the commuter rail. I can report that the MBTA still sucks. Really, really sucks. No A/C. No lights. And the nice scent of smoke and burnt rubber the whole way. It grew so strong I got nauseous. I was legitimately worried I would throw up on the train.

I did not. I purchased a Coffee Coolata as soon as the ride ended and walked 20 minutes to the hotel. That did the trick.

I met up with the groom and we walked around Boston a little bit, including a memory stroll through the Northeastern campus. We even came across my old professor Linc McKie and talked a good 45 minutes in the school's spiffy new journalism office.

But let's get to the fun part. We assembled at the Pour House at 8 p.m. Zach arrived at the exact same time I predicted in my blog post. I knew I had secret powers. There are no pictures from this event. They've been confiscated for violating decency standards. I can say there was some alcohol, some nachos, drunken basketball in the rain and in the dark, Grimey slipping and falling twice, bloody socks and aliens on the radio.

Other than that, I cannot comment on what may or may have happened.

The three amigos then drove down to Cape Cod for some Chatham Anglers/Yarmouth-Dennis Red Sox action. We reminisced about the old days and even tried to come up with the top stories for each of us. In some later post, perhaps I will expound on mine because there were quite a few humiliating tales.

The three of us don't get to hang out that much anymore, so it was very nice to have a couple days. Some innocent games of catch. Some mean, mean heat from Cuban defector/pitcher El Searso. Some Pour House food. Some indie music and insufferable Morrissey. Exactly what I planned. I wanted one last "free" weekend to do the stuff we used to do for five years in college and that's what we did.

That's not to say I don't think we'll ever hang out like that again, but as the years go by, it does become harder and harder. Geography gets in the way. More and more responsibilities come into play and free time seems harder and harder to come by. Meshing schedules can sometimes be harder than a Rubik's cube. That's just the way life is, so I'm glad we at least got one "just the boys" type trip in before baldness, beer bellies and bunions kick in.

The three-day wedding extravaganza begins tomorrow. I will be sure to report back on that and on my short stay in the New York/New Jersey area. I spend a few days in Hoboken, N.J., and the mayor gets arrested?

Coincidence? I'll report. You'll decide.

All about Steve

This guy and this gal are getting married. Big deal, right? People get married all the time.

The real main event on July 25th will be ... me.

Yes, I, Stephen R. Sears, will be giving a speech after we rush though all the opening acts, like the marriage and stuff. Kind of like how you wait the trailers before the feature presentation. It's not every day where I give a speech. Actually, I've never really given one. Hence, all the excitement. The Providence Journal called my speech the most anticipated event in Rhode Island history after the unveiling of the Potato Head statues.

To reward my loyal readers, I hereby present you an early version of my speech. I have slaved over all the words and I know this will be a grand slam.

Here goes.

Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming here today. I, for one, just flew in from Florida, and boy, is airline food bad these days or what?? (BREAK FOR LAUGHTER) I haven't had food this bad since the last time my wife cooked dinner! (LAUGHTER)

Hoo boy. I congratulate the beautiful couple. Marriage is a beautiful thing. They say a good man needs a good wife, but I think buying a dishwasher is cheaper. (UPROARIOUS LAUGHTER) A dishwasher doesn't nag as much, you know what I'm sayin'? (MORE LAUGHTER) And it's better in bed. (LAUGHTER WON'T STOP) Yeah, the guys here know what I'm sayin.'

And you know how black people are all like, "Wassup?" (LAUGHTER) And white people are like, "Hello, kind sir?" (LAUGHTER) What's the deal with that?

Anyway, marriage is great, isn't it? You know the best part about marriage? (PAUSE) When it ends. (UNCONTROLLED LAUGHTER)

But seriously, it's a joyous occasion. If you watch any television, you'll know how Jeff will be from now on. He will sit on his couch and watch the local sporting event while Emily does all the work of the suspiciously clean, ceiling-less house. Jeff will forget all the important dates and even his kids' names. And these kids will look nothing like them. They'll be Asian with red hair or something. And Jeff will always come perilously close to ruining the family before Emily comes in and saves the day -- but not before a whole bunch of family-friendly fun. (LAUGHTER)

There will be the hilarious day when Jeff tapes over the tape of this wedding for a Yankees-Royals game in May. Oh boy will Emily be pissed. (LAUGHTER) Jeff will try many things to right his mistake and fail miserably, but Emily will forgive him. Just wait until he schedules a golf date with his boorish, idiotic, out-of-shape buddies on their five-year anniversary. Won't that be a riot? (LAUGHTER)

Oh, men are stupid, aren't they? Lazy, forgetful, afraid of commitment, but always loveable. Jeff is none of these. (LAUGHTER)

You know you're a Schaible if your favorite pizza topping is another pizza. (LAUGHTER)

You know you're a Schaible if you're in a cafe in Paris, France and order a hamburger. (LAUGHTER)

You know you're a Schaible if you swing helpless at a 50-mph super changeup from Steve Sears. (SPATTERING OF LAUGHTER)

But, seriously folks, we're all happy for him and for his lovely wife. The ceremony was fun and all, but let's get to the real stuff. Me. (APPLAUSE) Thank you for dressing up so nice for me today. And ordering all this nice food. And the nice beach-front rotunda. You're all too kind.

The truth is, our married couple would not be here today if it weren't for me. I introduced them. I introduced their parents to each other and am therefore responsible for their very existence. (APPLAUSE) I've probably saved the lives of everyone in the room in ways both large and small. (APPLAUSE)

(DRAMATIC PAUSE) Why do I do it? Why do I always help people out so much? Why am I such a great person? I ask myself this question every day. The truth is, I don't want to know. Because if I do, I might stop. I might feel satisfied.

That must not and will not happen, my friends. I will strive to improve the lives of everyone I meet. (APPLAUSE) It melts my heart to see all you here, celebrating me. It's about time someone honored me. I deserve it. So dance for me tonight, people. Dance ... for ... me! (STANDING OVATION) Thank you! You're too kind. Too kind. Thank you! And please, leave the presents with Zach. He'll bring them to me. Thank you!

That's what I have for now. I'm still working on a dramatic exit involving a helicopter, explosions and unicorns. You'll have to wait until D-Day to see that. Let me know if you have any compliments/praise for this speech.

This is how we do it

I tend to associate songs with important and memorable moments of my life. Sweet About Me for the New Zealand trip. In My Life from my high school graduation. Toxicity from that New York trip, which Zach sang the ENTIRE time.

A few days back, I randomly heard Montell Jordan's This Is How We Do It (and quickly bought it on iTunes) and it brought me back to the sixth grade at Arlington Elementary School in Cranston.

Why that song? I'll get to that. Why am I writing about the sixth grade? Well, because I consider it the turning point in my life. 1994-1995. When the little boy Stevie became the person you know now ... me.

Some background: I acted out a bit as a kid, like most young boys. I was a late bloomer ... in everything. It took me a while to talk, to stop sucking my thumb. I did an extra year between kindergarten and first grade because the teachers didn't think I was ready. My teachers were pretty sure I'd be a mediocre student. I got into occasional trouble in grades 1 through 3 and calmed down a bit for grades 4 through five.

During these years, my best friend was a kid named Mike, who lived across the street from me. He was pretty much my polar opposite. He was great with girls. Always had girlfriends. He was outgoing, brash and a bit of a rebel and trouble-maker. We were an odd pair, but a good one. In some ways, I wish I had his type-A personality and maybe (and this is just me guessing) he wished that he could have been a better student like I was.

So we enter sixth grade in a portable classroom in the very, very large recess yard at Arlington. The kids in my grade were, to put it mildly, a bit rambunctious. All the other teachers disliked us or distrusted us. Besides myself, the Vietnamese twins I lived next to and a few others, the kids were Hall of Fame rabble-rousers.

We were so bad, the sixth grade teacher we started off with quit over the first or second weekend of the year. One Friday, she was there. The next Monday, there was someone else. We put the next substitute through hell. One day, we were so loud the third grade teacher (we shared the annex) barged in and yelled, "You're all acting like a bunch of wild Indians!"

We paused. Then a large portion of us mimicked the Indian yell by putting our palms to our mouths. It was a thing of beauty. I didn't yell, but I sure as hell laughed my ass off at the reaction. So picture us like the class in Dangerous Minds, sans the drugs and weapons.

Enter Michelle Pfeiffer. Or Holly Scripsack, as we knew her. She took over as our full-time teacher. Miss Scripsack would go on to become my favorite teacher ever. Elementary, high school, college, doesn't matter. She's my favorite teacher and I would bet a lot of money more than half of my sixth-grade classmates would say the same thing today.She's the sweetest, nicest woman you'll ever have the pleasure to meet. I truly mean this. So how did she tame our class?

It was simple, really. She took a personal interest in every single kid in our class. She wanted to understand what their home lives were like. She didn't care if you misbehaved before. She gave up on no one. When she had to discipline us, it was fair. And you felt that you had disappointed her, and since she was so nice and such a great teacher, you wouldn't want to do that again.

For the first time, I had a personal relationship with a teacher. I talked to her outside of school. I vented about issues at home. She encouraged my reading and writing. She loved that I was reading Michael Crichton books during recess and activity periods while the other kids were playing kickball or on the computer. I wrote my first serious short story that year, about a kid who falls off a ladder and cripples himself. (Yeah, it's corny now.) I saw her two years ago and she told me she still has it.

She also put me in charge of the school store. Yup, I was the Michael Scott of my class. We sold school supplies and candy and I always had to keep an eye out for thievery. It was important to be handed a responsibility like that and I took it seriously. She also encouraged us to get invovled in an after-school walking club to help raise money for leukemia research. After school we'd go to the track next to Bain and compete with each other over how much money we could raise. She'd walk with us and we'd talk about anything and everything.

Again, not to sound too corny, this was when I discovered myself. I could write. I could read. I was pretty smart. I was not very popular and sucked in social settings. I was also too meek and shy. But it was a big step just finding these things out. Mike was there for those walks, too. She played a similar role for him. Where many teachers would have seen a no-good troublemaker not worth their time, she saw a somewhat confused, good-at-heart kid whose intelligence went unnoticed by many. Today, he's serving in the National Guard and fixes helicopters.

It wasn't all fun and games for young Steve. (Cue the music.) Despite being friends with the most popular kid in the class, I was never in the "cool" crowd. This was the first time I really got a grasp of the social stratification of school and this was the first time I knew I'd never be in that crowd. I would always be on the outside.

There were also the requisite girl incidents, which popped up for the first time. That could be another Bill Simmons-esque 75,000-word blog post. Here's a couple of stories. One, Mike tried to set me up with one girl who was kind of fruity, but in a good way. She had wild, fritzy hair but I saw a cute girl beneath all that. (I'm good at that.) He asked her for me because obviously I was too scared. And obviously the answer was "no." Years later I heard that she had indeed turned into a very attractive girl. So at least I had the foresight.

Second, one night I told Mike about this one girl I liked on one condition ... he could not tell ANYBODY. So guess what happens the next day.

Yeah.

It was a bad day. I was pissed at him. And myself for telling him. I kept those sorts of feelings to myself from then on.

Despite the intermittent embarrassments, that mish-mash group of miscreant children had a bond. We were the rebels. The class everyone looked down upon. We fed off it, hence the school store and the walking for leukemia. The school held a talent show that year and we worked very, very hard to put on a good show, to prove them wrong. So we picked a dance routine to a No. 1 radio hit at the time ... This Is How We Do It.

Saying "we" is misleading. I really had no part. The cooler kids danced and directed. Others did some choreography and handled the sound and clothes. I just watched. When show time came, we impressed everybody. I don't remember if we won anything, or if there was anything to win, but I recall vividly all the practice they did in our class, how it brought everyone together. And how I heard that song about 50 times. Hence the connotation.

Most of our class would move on to Bain the next year. I still speak with Mike occasionally, but I have not kept in contact with almost all of those kids. I wonder where they ended up. A nice memento of our final days was our sixth grade yearbook. Mike's mother showed it to me two years ago. It was hilarious of course - the photos, the profiles. The cool kids constructed a page where they listed all the nicknames for us in an artsy manner. I didn't have a nickname so they gave me one.

Melon.

Mike tried to tell me it was because my eyes were the shape of melons. Nice try, but I knew why. I wasn't stupid. It was because I had (still have) a big head. Melon-shaped in their opinion. And sure, it hurt, but I also smirked inside, knowing I would turn my superior intelligence into a job that would pay more money than they would ever see.

That didn't work out either.

And right on my page, with a picture of my face with weird teeth and bangs at my eyes, was a line that said "What I want to be when I grow up."

I wrote one word. "Author."

If any of my classmates ever see this (doubtful), my subsequent writings and personality were shaped from the good and bad from that year. The great friends. The mischief. The slights. The humiliations. The laughs. The fun. They all shaped me.

And if Miss Scripsack ever sees this, I still write. I do this motely blog and I find time to write when I'm not working. I copy edit for a sports website and it's a cool job. And, Miss Scripsack, maybe one day down the line, I will be an author. Who knows? If it happens, it's because of you.

An Ode to Coffee Milk

I enjoy coffee milk and I've made it my mission in life to spread it.


Some call it the "foul concoction." They just don't know. Even some of my co-workers were skeptical. Coffee milk? Like coffee with milk? Then I had them taste it and it was a giant success.


It's Rhode Island's official drink and, gosh darn it, America must learn about this. Still can't find the stuff down here at all. I've had to do some nasty things to attain "the stuff."


With that in mind, I thought about a new way to spread the word. Through the beauty of poetry. While poems may not be my speciality, everyone loves a good rhyme. So I composed the following diddly.



From the smallest of states came a gigantic treasure
A fine local blend to give us all pleasure
Throughout the land, sad ignorance runs wild
Of a grand, precious product given no trial


"Coffee milk? Why, that'll make us ill!"
The pundits will say
"I'll never partake in such dastardly swill!"


They ignore the sweet taste of a gallant little sip
That Autocrat and Eclipse bring to our lips
Perhaps they are scared, the peons of today
So dismissive they be, from Newark to L.A.



"Coffee milk is no drink I will ever try"
Protest the weak simpletons
"I would rather gouge my own eye"


Do they forget what RI has done for out nation?
Family Guy, Dell's, the Vinny Pazienza creation
The state of Rocco, hot weiners and Salty Brine
A land of James Woods, Art Lake and R.J. Heim


"You've convinced me dear sir, I'll drink if I may"
Will concede the stubborn
"If Buddy Cianci says so, then I must obey"


Here forth the word of this heavenly drink shall spread
The scintillating sensation will consume all, don't dread
Finally these yokels shall see the errors of their ways
And proclaim their allegiance until the end of days


"Oh what greatness! Oh forever protect us!"
The converts will cry
"The Liquid of the Gods! The Nectar of Justice!"

For What It's Worth

I suppose only a few people will get this but I've been wanting do this for a while. Anyone who read the Projo's Bill Reynolds every Saturday morning will appreciate the urge I had to write this.


Basically, Zach might be the only person to find this remotely entertaining. Enjoy!



For What It's Worth ...



By Bill "Bunky" Reynolds



The Friars are having a good season, but they can turn that good season into a memorable one against powerhouse UConn.


A win over Syracuse is nice. A win over UConn is sublime. For the Friars can put the proverbial foot down and declare themselves to the nation, a little snowball gaining steam as it rolls down a cold mountain.


The Huskies have only one loss and players that we'll see in the NBA in subsequent years. That won't matter in Connecticut.


It won't matter if Providence can stake their claim and pull of the upset.


-- So much for that Joe Torre Yankeeography, huh?


-- I still don't get the appeal of Ryan Seacrest.


-- Seriously, a 9-7 team in the Super Bowl? Wake me up when it's over.


-- You know it's a strange world, Bunky, when companies will shell out millions for 30 seconds of airtime Sunday but lay off thousands of their employees.


-- Kids these days love their iPods. Count me in the Walkman camp.


-- Quiz of the Week: Brown will have two players in the Pro Bowl next week. Can you name them?


-- Jason Varitek needs to suck it up.


-- So does Rod Blagojevich.


-- There's no truth to the rumor that "The Dark Knight" was really about Providence city councilor Ganucci Donatello.


-- Or that this hellacious winter will ever end.


-- Line of the Week comes from former PC coach Pete Gillen on Dick Vitale: "I asked him which team would win the Super Bowl and he said, 'Duke.' "


-- "Casablanca" is a solid movie with some good lines.


-- Set in Tiverton, the new mystery novel "Run of the Mill" by Pawtucket writer Flanigan O'Leary is a page-turner.


-- Cuba Gooding Jr.'s career peaked in "Jerry Maguire."


-- Don't look now, but Eddie House is carrying the Celtics' bench. He can't miss from the behind the arc anymore. Stay in New York, Stephon.


-- You know the end of the world is upon us when more people vote for American Idol than a presidential election.


-- Good tidings to Luke DeLuca, the assistant junior varsity girl's volleyball coach at Salve Regina, who retired last week. They won three Division 45 district divisional regional semifinal titles during his stay. A good 25 years, Luke. And a better 25 more, hopefully.


-- Athletes are paid way too much money these days.


-- As if you didn't get the message when Manny Ramirez considered $50 million an insult.


-- Or when Varitek, an aging catcher who can't bat his weight and can't throw out base-stealers, looks down at $5 million a year.


-- Can someone insult me with $50 million, by the way?


-- There's no truth to the rumor that the Stimulus Bill is aimed at Tony Allen's career.


-- You know it's a strange world, Bunky, when more kids play with the computer than read books.


-- Whatever happened to the penny candy store?


-- Is it me or is TV more violent and sexually suggestive these days?


-- Teenagers get more exercise on the Wii than they do outside.


-- And we wonder why we all look like blimps.


-- Quiz answer: Sean Morey from the Arizona Cardinals and Zach DeOssie of the New York Giants.


-- Good luck on Sunday, Sean. Rhode Island will be rooting for you.


-- If we haven't frozen to death by then.


-- I would go to many places, Bunky, before you'd catch me at a Jonas Brothers concert.


-- The Patriots will be better with Tom Brady next year.


-- What he did was wrong and he deserved to be impeached, but I have to admire Blagojevich's pluck.


-- And his hair.


-- In fact, Blagojevich's hair was so bad on TV the other morning, I expected Bruce Sundlun to shoot him.

Steve Sears vs. Hugh B. Bain Middle School

Your Honor, Ladies and Gentleman of the Jury, I present to your the case of Steve Sears v. Hugh B. Bain Middle School

Charges: Hard Times at Cranston Junior High and Why It Might Not Be Cool To Bring Star Wars Toys to School

(Pretend I'm Jack McCoy for the rest of this)

Life is like high school? Well, I can handle that. I was many things in high school (Cranston East, fools!), like the useless cog of the computer team, the star handball player during gym, the quiet kid you hope didn't follow you home, and of course, the English Award winner.

So if life is like that, sign me up!

If life is like middle school, then give me a bunker and all six seasons of 24 and just leave me alone.

The case against Mr. Bain and his cronies is simple, folks.

1. Stand under the clock: I don't remember the food. I was a young teen and I would have eaten almost anything. Stale pizza cooked under a small lamp? Delicious. The time after lunch ... a different story. For no reason whatsoever, the school authorities, who got their jollies for punishing kids, would stop lunch five minutes before it actually ended and make you sit there in silence.

Yes, we'd just sit there in silence. Those five minutes seemed liked 20 to me as the assistant principles strolled all around just looking for someone to punish. If you laughed, if you did anything, they made you stand under the lunchroom clock. Was this a metaphor of some kind? Did it symbolize that anyone who talked during silent time after lunch had little time remaining on this earth? Those questions only occur to me know as I look back at the sheer idiocy and the absolute uselessness of that whole exercise.

I wonder if they still do that, by the way.

2. Divisions: Way back in kindergarten, I did something bad. I don't know what, but I had to do a "transitional" year at Woodridge elementary before moving on to first grade. That explains why I was always a year older than my classmates.

(So, yeah, that means Emily would be working at the Dover-Sherborn Gazette because she would not have had my expert tutelage. And Jeff would be re-enacting Rocky V in some dive bar in Albany with his gut hanging out of his wifebeater and a a torn Bengals hat on his mullet. And Zach would be sipping margaritas on a beach in Hawaii with time shares and a wallet packed with million dollar bills and native woman draped all over him because he would have transferred from Northeastern. So yeah, you're welcome guys.)

This crime I committed in kindergarten relegated me to second division many years later, I'm convinced. If my memory serves me well, they grouped most of my classes into divisions. Separate and unequal! Excuse my ego, but I was just as sharp as those Division 1 douchebags. But noooo ... poor little Steve Sears with his hair parted down the middle was a second-class citizen.

This meant that when it came time to recommend us for high school, I could not for the life of me get a teacher to say I would be able to handle AP classes at East. Even though I aced history, nope, college prep for me. I had to haggle (and I NEVER haggle) to get the teacher to recommend me for AP history.

I got an A in that class.

Of course, those CP classes in freshman year were ridiculously easy. Again, I don't say this to brag. I say this because I resent the fact those teachers had me convinced I could not handle tough classes at East. It ended up costing me a top 10 finish by senior year, too, though that's nothing big. It just cost me Harvard and a partnership at a high-powered New York law firm.

If those teachers could see me now, working weekends in Patriots t-shirts I've owned since the 90's and making "That's what she said" jokes at work, they'd eat their words, Ladies and Gentleman.

3. The kids: Me included. You've got 13, 14 or in my case, 29-year-old kids with hormones raging and Hang Time confusing them about the fundamentals of basketball, what can you expect. I was far from a little angel back then, but I'm pretty sure there were many little Satans running around.

I mean, for crying out loud were kids BAAAD back then. Attitude. Bullying. Fighting over the stupidest stuff imaginable. You were either an "altie" with a chain in your pocket or you were "hip hop" with a pimp roll. There was no in between. Of course, I didn't like music that much back then. If anything, I liked classical. I kept quiet about that. There were fights between these two groups. They'd fight over anything. And don't get me started on gender relations. I think Ted Bundy or Shredder would have had better luck with girls than I did.

I met many great people as well, some who I am still friends with to this day. It was just a bad, confusing time. Maybe some of those teachers and principles were right to be pricks.

Nah.

In closing, Your Honor, middle school sucked worse than every movie Kate Hudson has done since Almost Famous. Puberty, pricks and more puberty made for a Gulag-type experience. And if it weren't for those divisions I would have a degree from Harvard or Yale right now! They tell little children that America is a land for justice and truth, well, Your Honor, justice and truth took a vacation during those two years.

When I drive by that school, a small shiver still slithers up my spine. Though I would go on to become the Lando Griffin of Cranston East, the hard times at Bain just weren't necessary. I mean, I received detention once because a teacher lost my homework! My lisp was a great cause of joy for a few mean little boys. Can justice ever be served in this case? Not unless they invent time travel. Until then, I will fight to make sure no kid has to suffer the same fate ever again.

I think writing this blog ... er giving this closing statement ... will do the trick, right?

At least there's one silver lining in this sordid mess. At least I didn't go to Park View. Yuck.