Super Choke

Being a New England sports fan is awesome. When you live in New England.

Living in Minnesota, cheering for the powerhouse Red Sox, Patriots, and Celtics is feeling more and more like being a New Yorker cheering for the Bronx Bombers in a Harvard Square bar.

After last night's game of rooting for the Pats in THE most historically significant super bowl in the past 20 years, and getting booed down by 'underdog-fever' friends, I am spent. I expect people to root for their home team, and I also appreciate people who choose a team to support before a game just for the value of entertainment, but being the only Patriots supporter, it was a lonely battle.

What I didn't expect though, was the unanimous intolerance of success that seems to be the growing motif. The Pats did not deserve the win last night. They did not play even close to their potential; blame it on Brady's ankle, on the aging front line, or whatever, but they didn't do what it takes to win a game. And the Giant's played like a possessed team, relentless in their blitzes and coverage.

But I would have been happy to see the Patriots win for the good of the sport, for a team that has the best coaching staff in the game, for the players that have dedicated their time and life to this game to be the best, for the discipline and professionalism unrivaled by any team possibly ever, and the chance for an undefeated season (when the field is so even and the margins of advantage so small). But, the underdog, for whatever reason, is now the new favorite and I have to accept that.

But don't feel bad for me, I'm a New England sports fan.

Working on it

I have eighteen minutes left in my window of freedom. The one hour glimpse of sunlight each day where they open the internet firewall like the gates of Mordor. Scratch that. Eight. Today is Friday so we all 'voluntarily' traipse around in these god-awful 'desert beige' sweaters. They somehow got selected by our Ricky Gervaise-esque office committee. It looks like someone on a strict oatmeal diet just vomited on my torso. (I picked a sweater vest. Just to make it look worse.)

Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock. Five minutes. I use every ounce of my resourcefulness to get though each painstakingly boring day here. We have no customers. And I don't mean very few when i say no, I mean like stranded in the Gobi desert in the hot midday sun with nothing but dunes surrounding you and then you see something in the distance, something that could be... is it? It cant be! It's a person! Then you get super excited and giddy at the prospect as you scramble over dunes in the hot sand, only to find out the 'person' is the skeleton of a dead camel. You're screwed. That's how slow it is here.

Rainbow Meets Wind Turbine: Nations Fruitcake Hippies Get Half-Chubs

Entertainment

If my writing needs to be anything, it needs to be entertaining. I need to find prose that captures interest, makes the reader think that they know what I am saying, but then leaves them with a begrudging and resigned smirk when the discourse takes an unexpected, but piquant turn.

I want my writing to be admired like an imaculatly prepared dish at the finest restaurant under the most elegant and elusive candlelight. But with each bite, the reader starts to understand the flavor, novel and exciting, and becomes entirely focused on satsfying every solopistic tastebud in their mouth. The fork could not move quicker, but the tounge lounges, letting it all seep in.

An article would be a snack, and a novel would be a meal.

To write like that would be something else. I'm hungry now.

2nd

I have been taking some personal time today, which consists of feeling bad for myself and doing next to nothing. Namely just sitting here, wasting away online. But I did lean what the word bombastic meant. So I've got that going for me.

So, as I sit pondering the utter fatality and brutality of this sphere that we call a world and this mirage that we call existence, I, in essence, only reaffirm my internal dialectic of the nature of philosophically thought. Bombastic. Kind of a downer, but bombastic.

I need to get accustomed to writing on a regular basis if this is what I want to do. This blog seems easy enough, and just might do the trick. I'll try to make it entertaining enough for y'all, as well as fulfilling on a mental and spiritual level. Who knows, maybe sexual.

One thing I have learned is that people like lists. Especially ranking lists. Why?

1) They are easy to read. Just straight facts.

2) They take up more space, and you feel like you have read more when, in fact, you have read less.

3) Much less.

4) Deep down, people need structure and order, especially when ranking things like NBA teams or 2007's top 10 consumer camcorders.

5) Canon PowerShot SD870 IS

I was going to make this a list to 10, but I started blanking hardcore, and out of frustration and self-pity, called it a day.

Juno

I just saw Juno and it sent me reeling back my old ambitions of being a writer. It was fantastic. I was completely in love with Juno; this beautiful, brash, strong, genius of a girl. I was a little weirded out by the fact that she was playing a sixteen year old, but felt a little better when Jason Bateman's character echoed my 'pedophellic' yearnings (Ellen Page is 20, so relax).

The movie did everything that a great movie should do. Great direction, cinematography, and acting. I was moved. I'm not sure how I feel about Rainn Wilson's cameo. Actually, it was awesome, Rainn kicks ass.

Being moved, and also being in this incredibly introspective and moldable state of my life, I thought to myself...'I want to create something like that. I want to move people.' Since I have been in high school, I have thought that being a writer would be the shit. The idea has ebbed in and out of my ambitions, sometimes taking the forefront of my 'life goals'. At times it has been completely abandoned, or at least put on the afterburner (the 'when I retire I can always work on a novel' afterburner). So here I sit again, precariously posed between a life of safety (corporate promise) with possible happiness (and maybe adventure!), or this life of a 'dream', with no certainties, no concrete goals or structure, and no promise of anything actual. I feel sick. This is the tortuous process I go through. Every night.