What's Next for Tiger?

Sex: check. Drugs? Perhaps. So rock-n-roll? Is that the final frontier for the famous Tiger Woods? It certainly seems to be the natural progression. I can see it now: Tiger sporting dreadlocks and a leather vest, wailing on a Fender with a neck shaped like a 9-iron, screaming at the top of his lungs, “I don’t care about sports or family, I just wanna rock!”

Some image of our recently crowned Associated Press, Athlete of the Decade. But as it stands now, that’s not too far off. We didn’t want him to fall off his pedestal, but he did, and I’m afraid this time, if the drug accusations are proven true, Tiger will officially lose his stripes.

It all can be attributed to the male psyche, as many issues with our sports figures tend to be. Unfortunately for the female sports lovers, girls are more of a side note than a major issue. Much to Tiger’s chagrin his lady issues were blown up due to his God-like status among moms and daughters across America. But let’s be serious here. He’s a professional athlete with a ton of money and all the potential in the world. What did you think was happening? You really believed Tiger was dressing up as Santa, drinking hot mocha with his Swedish nanny-wife, humming his son to sleep, all while traveling most of the year, winning every major over and over, and sleeping in hotel rooms flooded with women and press?

We can speak candidly here. Athletes don’t usually make good husbands. Even the great Michael Jordan, the man who changed basketball forever, the savior of Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck in Space Jam, has been known to sleep with a college-aged model or two from time to time. I think he even slept with a girl from my Alma Mater while she was spring breaking at the Atlantis. And why shouldn’t he? He’s MJ.

But when it comes to cheating the game, well that’s a different story. Men can forgive cheating on a wife and family, but cheating on your team, your fans, or your sport- that’s a big no-no in Bro-land. Issues of pride, honor, and friendship always trump those of infidelity in the world of the Y chromosome. Always. Just ask Alex Rodriguez.

Supporting my point further is Dr. Gary Wadler World Anti-Doping Agency. (The fact that the World Anti-Doping Agency even exits is a testament to the importance we place on our athletes remaining clean). But even further, when asked about the outcome if Tiger were confirmed as a steroid user, Dr. Wadler said, “That would be devastating.”

It would be. We men, we fellow golfers, fellow athletes, fellow lying, cheating, affair-having men, would be crushed to learn our favorite hero had been alluding us this whole time. We’ve had to endure betrayal in baseball and listen to debates on home run records; we’ve had to hear about it in basketball, whether King James could possibly be that big; and we all know that it’s the life-blood of football, creating middle linebackers bigger, faster, and stronger than ever before. But we never thought it would ruin golf. Golf was our golden child, our sanctuary.

Tiger if you’re reading (which I’m sure you’re not), say it ain’t so. Don’t let us down. You can have all the models and nannies you want, sext all day on an unlimited plan, just please, tell us you haven’t used steroids. Tell us those 350+ yard drives are real. Because if they’re not, Christmas in Bro-land is officially ruined. Thanks a lot.

Your New Favorite Employee

It’s late Thursday afternoon and you’re sitting at your mahogany desk (cubical). In the distance you can hear your boss’ voice down the hall, screaming about the sub-par (in his opinion only, of course) TPS reports you just submitted. If you don’t mask these nails on the chalkboard, this is going to be a long end to your week, and you may end up jobless for the Holiday season. Fear no more, workday warriors, your prayers have been answered.

Swimming its way to the top of my favorite workplace pass-times is GrooveShark, the online radio website at the cutting edge of the digital media market. Yea, yea, I know you’re used to your faithful Pandora, and you’re scared to leave that old box behind. Or maybe you’re thinking, “I can just search tracks on YouTube.” But it’s time to move on. It’s December, and almost 2010. You’re about to get that big promotion (when you fix those TPS reports), and you’re a more experienced listener with higher standards.

Unlike its “competitors,” GrooveShark has respect for his god-like new manager. And why wouldn’t he? You, the soon-to-be corporate leader, don’t take no for an answer, and you won’t stand for anything but studio quality from your employee(s). You also don’t actually want to do any plebian work like searching, scrolling, or any other –ing that involves thinking creatively on your own. No worries. Your best suck-up has you covered. Just type in the exact song or artist you’d like to help drown out your workday sorrows, GrooveShark finds your track or tracks, along with a host of other similar songs; you choose the song to start the playlist and GrooveShark (as a good worker should) does the rest.

With an option to turn the radio function on or off, you have free reign to decide how much or how little control your assistant can have over this acoustic challenge you’ve so graciously let him take on.

Oh, and did I mention there are no commercials or audio advertisements? Well, there aren’t. But then again, that would be rude of lower management to interrupt a more senior member of the team, wouldn’t it? I think so too.

Enjoy.

http://www.grooveshark.com/

Going Blue

There has been a lot of hype lately about the world “going green.” All of a sudden everyone is very concerned with saving our planet and restoring the environment to the Eden of yore. But there’s another color we now should consider with just as much fervor and zeal: blue.

Recently I discovered what I guess isn’t such a recent discovery, but alas, one overlooked by the public eye. Blue Zones, or the marketing ploy of a guy, Dan Buettner, trying to sell books, are places in the world where people are 10% more likely to live to be 100 years old. 100 years old! And these people aren’t setting dates and times to jog in Central Park, nor are they going to an expensive and crowded gym. They’re simply living their lives as those before them had and as those after will. So what’s the secret?

Buettner lays it out in 5 loosely defined categories: diet, work, community, purpose, and environment. The right combination of a few of these factors and you’ve got yourself on the longest path possible towards eternity. The nature of these categories is what really intrigues me. Some, like diet and environment, are fairly scientific. With the right ingredients, for instance the herbal teas of Okinawa or the unbelievably anti-oxidant rich wine in Sardinia, you can keep your body clean and fit, and thus extend its usage period. This fits well into the American mindset, doesn’t it? No matter what, if you have these set things you will always achieve a certain outcome, given the correct mixture. 1 plus 1 ALWAYS equals 2. It’s as simple as that.

The other elements are somewhat more circumstantial. The kind of work people in these Blue Zones are doing is manual type labor. Most are farmers in mountainous regions, walking miles every day, performing low intensity exercises while maintaining a sense of purpose. All of these things come “naturally” to people in the region. There aren’t any crowded bus rides or polluted street cars. People use those things we in the Segway-era have forgotten about: legs. And in doing so, they decrease their chances of heart disease and high blood pressure.

With increased vitality comes an increased sense of purpose and activity within the community. People living in Blue Zones tend to be connected with the others living around them. Unlike here, where people are senior citizens by 65 and are done, worn out, too old to be of use, and shipped off to nursing homes, elderly people in Blue Zones remain vital to their communities’ culture. The bridge between young and old barely even exists.

Recently I read an article about a related story from which I’ve found new words to live by. In Australia there’s a competition unlike any other. A race that’s longer, more grueling, and frankly unfathomable for the normal human being. (Of course, right? I mean, it’s Australia. What else would you expect from the land down under?) It’s called the Westfield ultra-marathon and it’s a 543-mile trek from Sydney to Melbourne. Most of the 150 entrants are, as you might assume young adults in prime shape, geared up and ready to go; their bodies are the culminations of 20-some-odd years of intense training.

In 1983 however, a 61-year-old man, aptly named Cliff Young, entered the race and stunned the world when he finished first and set a record time by 2 days. Young, a sheep farmer from Victoria, Australia, said he trained by working through the nights without sleep. His advice for others and my new words by which I live: “No matter what you do, you have to keep moving. If you don’t wear out, you rust out.”

I think Buettner and the Blue Zone people would agree. It’s all about remaining active. Activity stimulates the body as well as the mind. When you’re active, you have purpose. When you have purpose, your attitude toward life is positive. When you stay positive, you stay healthy. And when you stay healthy, you live longer.

Whether or not I will live to be 100 remains a moot mystery. But what I can say now is that along with going green, (as I register for paperless statements from my Visa card…) I’m also dedicated to going blue. Anyone interested in coming with?

He's Just Not That Into Them

Have you ever met a guy (no not like that), just casually met a guy, a classmate, friend of a friend, regular old guy...that just wasn’t into sports? You know the guy I’m talking about? He seems completely normal. You met him through your girlfriend’s friend, or he sits two cubicles over from you. He looks, sounds, dresses, and acts like a normal dude. A bro, even. You might even think about hanging out with him, picking up a new friend, and maybe adding him to your fantasy football league.

But then you figure it out. It’s the last “feeler” question in your arsenal. Just after, “So, where are you from?”

“Oh, San Diego? That’s awesome. Great weather I hear. What’s the deal with LT though? He has been streaky at best, don’t you think?”

That’s when you get it. The blank stare like a confused 2nd grader looking intently at the math problem, 3 x 4 = ?. That’s when you realize, this guy doesn’t watch sports! I know it seems impossible, but I’m sure some of you out there have come across this guy and know he’s real. It’s a phenomenon of the straight masculine race I had yet to figure out until I met the guy who sits two cubicles down from me. We’ll call him by an androgynous name: Sam.

Sam is your typical guy. Drinks beer. Jokes around. His tie hangs sluggishly from his collar most days, the remnants of a lackluster attempt at dressing that morning. He flirts with the younger girls in the office, as any good, middle management co-worker should. He’s a great guy to work with. But he doesn’t watch sports.

I found this out about three months after I started working near Sam, which is longer than it normally takes. Our thing was, we were close enough to make small talk, but never worked on the same projects or went out socially where we would be forced to have the aforementioned conversation. Just recently we went out after work for a few cocktails with the parting interns. That’s when I learned of this mind-boggling fact. How is it possible?

Once I got past the initial flabbergasting I became very excited. Sam can be my test dummy, I thought. Finally I’ll be able to crack the mystery that is the heterosexual anti-sports male. I can ask him all the right questions to get to the bottom of this case. Elementary, my dear Watson (or Butros, a buddy of mine whom I know is deeply concerned with this issue). Piece of cake.

Much to my chagrin, the answers were unyielding.

“Not a sports guy?” I say to him.

“Nah, not really.”

“Well then I have a question for you, and it comes in two parts…so really, I have two questions.”

1. What do you talk about with your friends besides girls?
2. What do you watch on TV?

The answers were, music and fighting, and “I don’t watch TV, but if I do, porn or HBO.” Ok, so I guess there are other things on TV besides sports. Hell, LOST is one of my favorite shows of all time, and God knows I love the Discovery Channel. But still, music and fighting? Can that really solidify a male friendship?

Everyone has different, if only slightly, music tastes and talking about/learning new music can be awesome. But at least throw some video gaming in there, or maybe, some extreme sports (I guess that wouldn’t be allowed either, so never mind). I don’t know. I don’t mean to sound ignorant, but there’s got to be something more to a conversation with a friend than music and fighting! I’ve only been in one fight in my whole life and that was in 5th grade, what could we possibly talk about?

Sports, that’s what. So to Sam and all the others of his kind I say this: learn to love them my would-be-friends. Sports account for roughly 87% of all male-to-male conversation (statistic yet to be confirmed) and are the glue that binds us to one another in a completely non-suggestive manner. Let them into your life and you will find yourself on the road to…well you might find yourself at very least with a few more friends. Just a thought.

It's Not a Myth

The South that is. And all the things you’ve heard about the South, they aren’t myths either. It’s there, it’s all there. The blondes in sundresses, the cute southern twanged voices, the rah-rah spirit that far surpasses the most passionate school in the northeast, it’s all there. And it’s absolutely amazing.

Getting there, however, can be prickly.

FRIDAY:

My particular trip started at LaGuardia Airport when I boarded a plane for Alabama to see the Crimson Tide take on the Tigers of LSU. There are only two flights that leave New York bound for the Yellowhammer State, one in the morning and one at night. I opted for the morning, of course, as an excuse to miss work on Friday. Missing work was great, but the guy sitting next to me, well, he was not- at least that’s what I thought at first.

As I stuffed my Mets bag into the storage compartment overhead, I looked down to see a cynical face staring back at me. The balding, overweight Rico Suave look-a-like ran his hands through his greasy hair and blurted out his first words. “You sitting here?” I nodded. “Good, you’re not a fatass.” “Okay,” I said as I slid my not-so fat ass past his fire truck red flannel shirt and skin-tight white jeans. Labor Day was a long time ago, pal, I thought to myself. I sat and waited patiently for take-off, hoping that was the end of our conversation. Too paranoid to put on my headphones which (allegedly) interrupts the pilot’s radio signal, I was forced to listen to Rico and his two goons in the seats behind us.

“Let’s get this bird in the air,” he yelled out. His buddies started laughing. “Hey, remember last year,” he turns to me, “we took my plane…we were rolling joints on the way, banging girls in the bathroom. This sucks!” The conversations went on and on along those lines, and from what I could deduce these three were all in their 30’s, all married, all currently cheating on their wives, and all obsessed with money. I put my ‘Bama hat over my eyes to tried and avoid further engagement. But I could feel Rico’s eyes staring at me. His breath smelled like burnt coffee. I didn’t want to open my eyes but his buddy reached from the seats behind us and tapped me on the shoulder. He asked what year I graduated, assuming I had gone to the University of Alabama. “My friend Greg was president of ATO there. Did you know him?” “No I didn’t go to Alabama,” “Oh neither did we, we just go down for this game every year.” Great, I was thinking, as I moved back into sleep positing. Again, that didn’t stop them.

The questions kept rolling in. Where did you go to school? Were you in a fraternity? Villanova. Yes. SAE. All of a sudden I found myself in a 20 minute conversation with these assholes, until finally Rico next to me started laughing, his coffee breath stinking up all of row 9 as he looked to his friend and says, “He,” meaning me, “doesn’t know who he’s sitting next to.” I pause and look at him. “I’m a worldwide influential person,” says Rico with the coffee stained tongue. My jaw dropped, and with the little air I could consciously gasp into my lungs I said, “Cool man,” and rolled over to nap until we landed. Rico had just stunned me to the point where I couldn’t tell if I hated him or loved him.

I woke up to the wheels screeching along the runway. I had made it! I took my headphones off (I guess they really don’t interrupt anything at all) and found the Three Stooges seemingly still amidst the same conversation they had been yelling an hour ago somewhere over North Carolina. More coke and stripper stories (some kind of funny, others too unbelievable to hold comedic value, but Rico was still creeping onto my sweet list). The guy from row 10 got on his cell. “Yea dad, just landed. I’m with a few of my buddies.” Rico chimes in, “Tell him you’re with the ‘King of the Business.’” I bit my lip and shuffled off the plane.

It was 10 a.m. in Birmingham when we landed, an hour earlier than we were scheduled to be there. Luckily my friend, the ‘Bama local and reason for the trip, was awake and able to come to the airport and get us. What’s there to do in Birmingham, Alabama, you might ask? Well, when the sun is up, you can get BBQ, and when the sun is down, you can drink bourbon. The rule of B’s, as I’ve come to know it. 10 a.m., sun was up, BBQ it was.

Much to my delight, Birmingham was awesome. It’s a quaint little city, with only a few small high-rises about ¾ the size of the New York Times building on 8th Avenue. Most of the streets are little bars and restaurants, or shops filled with UA and UAB gear, others lined with more traditional southern threads. We went into a popular place at the “5 points” area of town called Jim ‘N Nick’s Bar-B-Q and got a table. The three of us ordered food and few beers and settled into the booth with some laughs. I think we were about midway through our meal when we were interrupted by a loud and smelly voice.

“Strongman!” Rico belted out, lending an outstretched fist to give me a pound. We exploded with laughter. I thought for a second, maybe I don’t hate this guy so much after all. He had just pounded a complete stranger in public while screaming out the (unbeknownst to me) nickname “strongman” in the middle of a crowded southern restaurant. His partner in crime (adultery) came over as well and introduced himself. Paul was his name. Rico never disclosed his true identity to us, but I guess that kind of info is top secret when you have worldwide influence. After I explained the whole story to my Alabama native friend, we finished our beers and I hit the urinal. My love for Rico was sealed when I over heard this final conversation between him and Paul:

Rico: “You see the blonde out there?”

Paul: “Yea, hot man, real hot. Much hotter than Myra (Paul's wife). She’s like a 6 or 7, easy.”

Rico: “Yea…That’s like a 2 for me.”

Thank you Rico, that was phenomenal. And we left the bar.

SATURDAY:

With the remaining time of sunlight on Friday we bought some University of Alabama merchandise (aka “merch”) from a store called “Bama Pride.” Then we lounged on the couch, and caught up on this season of Californication. You might think this would be a waste of time, but it wasn’t. It was just the quiet before the storm. We went out in Birmingham Friday night, yes, but we didn’t go out hard for a reason.

Saturday morning we all woke up at 7 a.m., which really shouldn’t be hard to do when your body is still on Eastern Standard Time and you’re in a Central Time Zone state, but for some reason 7 a.m. and I can’t seem to get along no matter what. So after a few minutes, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. It was game day, and I was excited.

Tuscaloosa and the University of Alabama are about a 45-minute drive from my buddy’s house in Birmingham, the perfect amount of time to eat some Chick-Filet for breakfast and down a cup of Joseph. (That’s coffee for any of you wondering). In the spirit of the situation we blasted Alabama's "Song of the South" and sung along in our best southern twangs. We were on our way. No longer would the snow white A on our Alabama hats be mistaken for Atlanta Braves paraphernalia. We were here, the place where A meant “rammer jammer,” the land of cotton, where crimson and white meant you roll with the tide, hate the tigers (of LSU and of Auburn, equally), and if you were heading south on interstate 59 that sunny Saturday morning, you were heading to the game.

We pulled onto campus around 9:30 a.m. thinking we were going to be catching the early crowd of tailgaters heading to the parking lot. We arrogant northerners refused to listen to our southern friend when he said, “We really need to hit the road no later than 8.” He was right. By 9:30 the party was in full swing. Streets were crowded beyond belief. Flags were flying and banners that read “Give ‘Em Hell Alabama” hung proudly from the second floor balconies of rundown student houses. Luckily for us, my friend’s cousin lived in one of such houses and had a bed and a parking spot ready for us. Then the bourbon came out, and though it wasn’t our first shot of the trip, it held a special place in my heart.

9:30 turned into 2:30 (game time) pretty damn quickly as it tends to when you basically brush your teeth with whiskey. We walked over to the stadium and entered. We were a small speck of dust floating along a crimson sea 92,000 bodies strong, rushing into Bryant-Denny Stadium. The atmosphere was electric.

I’ve never cheered so hard in my life. The game was a thriller and when Julio Jones ran a small out pass 73 yards for the go ahead touchdown, my voice flew off in the swirling Alabama winds that whipped across the faces in the upper deck. When the final whistle blew, here is what ensued:

After the game we regrouped and put together a game plan. A few beers in the quad, dinner, then out to the bars for the night with my buddy’s cousin. We downed the beers and walked over to the restaurant for food. The restaurant turned out to be a corner burger joint with a superb bar. Once we fought our way to the front of the long but disorganized line (got to respect that northern, “me first” mentality sometimes) we parked ourselves at the table and called over our waitress. She was a cute girl with brown hair and that funny accent. I would attempt to explain to you how our order went, but I think seeing the bill for yourself will better serve my point:

Needless to say our waitress loved us. We didn’t get much eating done, but we did get a head start on the bars. Which is exactly where we headed when we parted ways with our little country helper.

From here things got a little hazy. There were definitely a few bars hit before we found ourselves at our final destination, a place called “1831” aptly named for the year the University was founded. It was a long and narrow place with a fantastic southern-style porch out front and a DJ in the back.

Only one memory sticks out clear as day. The DJ put on a catchy beat with a southern sound to it. You know how it goes, something like “a-one-TWO-three; a-one-TWO-three.” Everybody started to dance to the beat, abandoning their drinks at the bar or on the floor and bobbing around as if there were no other choice. The beat, tractor beam, lured us in. Then the DJ started singing chants to the song. First I remember him saying, “a-F**k Tebow, a-F**k Tebow” bashing the hated Florida quarterback and rallying the crowed behind an enemy. Then slander turned into celebration as the chant morphed into “a-roll tide roll, a-roll tide roll!” At this point the place was shaking. More shots were ordered and bourbon, music, and laughter are the only things I remember from then on. Simply perfect.

SUNDAY:

A quick nap at my buddy’s cousin’s house and we were on the road, headed back to Birmingham to ensure we made our 12 p.m. flights to New York. I was still filled to the brim with whiskey when we got in the car. Needless to say we had to pull over. Here I am on the side of route 59…making sure all of the grass was planted properly:

The Tide fans honked as they passed, cheering on a fallen soldier and friend. I was proud to be like them, leaving everything out on the field like a true southern gentleman.

Despite my two and half hour delay on my flight back to New York, the trip was absolutely amazing. Anything I said in this post indicating that I was unimpressed with the south after recapping a wedding in Virgina, should be thrown in the trash with yesterday’s news. I have seen the promised land. I have been to the Mecca for all fun loving people. I’ve been to a place where you need not worry about pick up lines because the beautiful girls come up to you just to chat. It’s out there my friends. I’m talking about a little place called Alabama. Go, see for yourselves. I promise you’ll come back singing the same tune (Song of the South!).

ROLL TIDE ROLL!

p.s. to any followers reading, one of my traveling partners and I are looking to find a good Alabama bar in the city to watch the games on Saturdays. I know Brother Jimmy's is technically a Bama bar but if there are any other suggestions, let us know. Thanks.

One last thing...

Here's a link to a book supporting parts of my story. Enjoy: Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer

A Brush with Greatness

“I think you should come.” That’s how it started. A simple comment. A simple call back. Before that, my buddy and I were merely discussing some future business ventures, kicking around ideas, old stories, you know, the usual Monday night, pre-football, we-need-to-kill-some-time-before-the game conversation. When we hung up I expected the usual post-conversation activities to occur. I would shower then eat dinner, settle down and cheer on my boy Brees and the Saints’ electric defense. But this Monday night was different, and as I prepared to shower my friend called me back. “I think you should come.”

He was talking about a fundraising event he had briefly mentioned earlier on in our little chat. Some “party” to raise money for lymphoma or something awful like that. Being the good-natured human that I am, I commended him for his actions but respectfully declined the initial offer, choosing lounging by the TV over speeches about fatal disease and tragic stories of actual victims. But when he called again and suggested I attend, I knew something was up. “Just pick up an envelope from my dad, meet me at my apartment and we’ll head down together.” I have to admit, like Karen from Goodfellas, I liked the secrecy of it all. It made me curious. Maybe I was getting into something way over my head, but I figured hey, a little risk never hurt anybody, right?

After I picked up the envelope I headed down to Hoboken, left the car in a convenient 20 minute parking spot, and snuck a peek inside. I thought about all the times I’ve dreamed about what I would do if I had a signed blank check in my hand. Now that I actually did, I referenced the movie for ideas: water slide from my bedroom to the pool, mini racetrack with mini formula 1 cars, giant Velcro bull’s-eye with Velcro jumpsuit and inflatable trampoline. My dreams are interrupted when I met my friend outside his apartment. “Let’s go.”

We headed to a bar on the waterfront towards the end of Hoboken. The streets were fairly empty, with only a few stragglers roaming around but no signs of a real scene worthy of the 15 minute ride and the hasty, potentially expensive parking decision I had just made. Then, as we walked over the small red carpet lain out on the sidewalk, we entered the bar and the night went from mundane to anything but.

We were greeted by 4 girls offering 3 hour open bar wrist bands, mini footballs, and raffle tickets. My buddy and I accepted all graciously and made our way over to his friend, our connection at this party. After brief introductions were made we checked our coats and made our way to the bar. 2 bud lights later the three of us wandered over to a table and met some other guests. “A.J. this is Demarcus, Demarcus, A.J.” My hand was engulfed by the massive paw that was Demarcus Ware’s hand, then again by the grasp of Osi Umenyiora. “I told you you should come,” my friend mumbled to me as we walked away and grabbed two more beers.

We looked left towards to the two flat screen TVs airing a game each (Yankees/Phillies in the far left corner, Saints/Falcons in the far right). Amongst the sea of pin-straight pony tails, fashionable dresses, and freshly pressed button downs we sniped a mop of dreadlocks in a mocha brown sweater filling up the space of two persons of normal width: Cedric Benson.

To his right, seated on the couch enjoying some red wine and steak, was a small, thick-set guy in a lifesavers candy-like sweater. “Is that?” “Yea, I think so. Ray Rice.” That’s correct; Ray is not opposed to a glass of red, so long as it’s for a good cause.

After some perusing around the prize tables and mingling with the other plebian guests, my buddy and I were in dire need of another drink. We could see most of the NFL players taking pictures and glad-handing other VIPs, but noticed Benson was missing from the group. “He’s probably at the bar with a girl or something,” we joked. We walked towards the bar. Sure, enough, with a drink in one hand and a brunette in the other, there was Ced, cool as ever watching Saints game. Phenomenal.

I was hesitant at first approach because his face was saying something along the lines of, “I’m watching the game, don’t bother me.” My friend’s bold brashness saw something different as he patted Cedric on the back and asked for a picture. When the blond selected to take the shot dropped the camera my heart jumped thinking we had lost all the pictures from the night. “Not really the ideal time to drop a camera,” I say to the girl and Benson breaks out a little chuckle. A friendship was born.

The drinks continued to flow from the open bar and the conversation got more and more intimate with each gleeful gulp. “You ‘gonna stiff arm Ray Lewis or what?” my buddy barks out referring to Benson’s upcoming game against the Ravens. A nervous pause…and we all burst into laughter. “Yea I got to,” Benson replies. I start to think, wow, this guy really is going to be playing against the Ray Lewis in six days. What will I be doing in six days? Watching him. That is my life. But for a night, it wasn’t. For a night I was “boys” with Cedric Benson. For one night, I was important enough for Tony Romo’s new favorite target receiver, Miles Austin to introduce himself to me!

When the Saints had won their seventh straight, we debated their strength of schedule, grabbed our last few drinks and parted ways. Ced left with his girl of the night, a tradition he said started at the University of Texas and never stopped. We of course didn’t doubt him in the slightest. My friend and I watched in awe as one of the leading rushers in the NFL walked away from what was arguably one of the best hour-or-so long conversations the two of us had ever had. “You think he’ll remember us?” my friend asks. “You did tell him to stiff arm Ray Lewis and to do Lewis’ signature dance in the end zone if he scores.” True. If you see number 32 throw the stiff arm out there and do the dance, let it be known, he did it per request of two drunken fools he met at a lymphoma benefit party.

We walked out of the bar changed men. We had lived our respective dream lives for 3 glorious hours.

“Told you you should come.”

“Yes you did. And goddamn you were right.”

It's Only A Matter of Time

I opened my eyes to a world an hour behind where it once was, and I too felt my mind an hour behind my body. What time was it? What were the implications of that time? I had no natural inclination of an idea. From what I could reason it was Sunday, morning, felt like 10, actually 9, wanted to keep sleeping, had to get home. I dragged my body off the fake leather couch (how and why I always find myself sleeping on these instead of a bed I'll never know), collected my thoughts and began to make my way to the car. November 1st, the morning after Halloween. Rough.

I took off the remains of a costume that lost its luster after drink number 11, tossed on some normal street clothes and hit the road. City driving while hung over, half asleep, and in pain can be challenging, especially when the FDR is blocked off by police barricades and you continually find yourself redirected deeper and deeper into Harlem. Nonetheless, I put on some Phoenix as loud as possible to stay awake, sang as many broken phrases of the lyrics I could muster, and made my way across the bridge. I pulled into my drive way half an hour later, 9:30 a.m., now feeling like it's almost 11 but tired enough to pass out on the kitchen floor. I elect for my bed instead, 1: because the hardwood floor is a downgrade from the leather couch, and 2: my mom might get suspicious of drug use if she found my close-to-lifeless body in front of her refrigerator when she came down to make breakfast and coffee.

As I nestled into the cold sheets, gripping my pillow for warmth like a 7 year old on his father's leg at a family party, I recapped the night and laughed at the crippling effects of alcohol on the human body. What did I drink to make me feel this terrible? I guess the real question would be, what did Billy Madison drink to make me feel this terrible? Ah, well that's a different story. Whatever Billy had, it must have been strong. I distinctly remember talking with Audrey Hepburn for awhile and perhaps the kid from E.T.? Or maybe it was E.T. himself. It was then I realized the true beauty of Halloween. It's the only night of the year you get to take on a whole new identity, however crazy it may be, and just roll with it. You lose all responsibility for your actions. I didn't follow shots of tequila with shots of vodka, then take the conditioner and shampoo bottles and clank them together as if they were fighting, Billy did. Or, I didn't make out with a blond flapper at the bar, my nerdy-professor alter ego did.

When reveling in the phenomenon that is the adult-Halloween wore off, I passed out, feeling like it was 11, actually 10, knowing there's some time commitment in my near future, thinking what it could be, not remembering, not caring, falling asleep, sleeping. I wake up to the sound of my dad opening my bedroom door. Oh the joys of living at home after 4 glorious years of freedom. "A.J. wake up, we have to go to the wedding party." The last thing I want to hear on any day off was the first thing I heard the day after Halloween, and on one of the biggest days in sports ever.
There I was, sitting at a table filled with my parent's and my sister's friends, hours before what was to be (and I believe was in fact) FOX sports' saving grace- the ultimate lineup: Giants/Eagles at 1, Favre's return to Lambeau Field at 4, Yankees/Phillies, Game 4 of the World Series at 8. Every sports fan in the country would be watching...except for me. I was locked up in a restaurant from 12 to 4 at some kind of post-wedding, post-reception wedding party, an introduction of the bride to the groom's family friends. Given my physical and mental state at the time, a warm basement couch accompanied by food and a 60" flat screen TV with the Giants and Jets games on simultaneously would have been, well absolute Heaven. But, alas I was stuck. 12 now felt like 12, with four hours more to go...four hours. It was like the time I was forced to go see Sense and Sensibility with my mom and sister when I was 10, except now I was expected to act civil and polite instead of whining.

Here are some statistics from those four hours. Number of, "I haven't seen you since you with THIS tall"'s I had to engage in conversation: 3. Number of "So, how's work"'s I had to lie to: 21. Number of points my fantasy team fell behind after Steve Slaton (or is that Satan?) was benched due to his 7th fumble of the season: 18. Overall, morale was low, especially after I got wind via ESPN mobile that Ted Ginn, Jr. returned his second kickoff for a touchdown against the Jets. 2 now felt like 1 and this party was not showing any signs of ending at on time.

4:45, that's when the party ended. As the sun dipped below the New Jersey tree line the earliest it had all year, I broke free from my family-shackles, went home, showered (again) in an attempt to subject my body to something pleasurable as opposed to the past 20-some-odd hours of pain, and headed over to my girlfriend's house for dinner away from my family. Though she doesn't have HD TV, her mom is head-and-shoulders above mine in terms of cooking, so although reheated pizza has its place in my heart and diet, filet of sol in a cream sauce with potatoes and broccoli followed by fresh strawberries and ice cream, all away from anyone present at that dreaded party, sounded pretty good. And it was.

By the time 8:20 rolled around, Favre had defeated his old team again, my fantasy team had fallen behind by 54 points (thanks again Slaton), and I had a full, warm stomach, happily awaiting the first pitch of game 4. I'm certainly not a Yankees fan, but as any good politician knows, the best way to unite people is to create a common enemy, so bound by my pure hatred for the Philadelphia Phillies, I watched with pleasure as the other New York team took care of business. One more win and the city of Philadelphia can forget about its hopes of dynasty. That’s a win for the Mets no matter how bad our season was.

11:30 felt like 3 a.m. as I closed my eyes on the first day of November. Another October had come and gone, another Halloween success was over. The days are shorter now for another few months, and although that can be a tough pill to swallow, the longer nights always seem to offer a feeling of mischievous fun. I look forward to the end of fall, the last few falling yellow leaves, Thanksgiving and the NFL playoffs. I put my head down, defeated by time once again but assured in the fact that it keeps on ticking.

Somehow my alarm this morning didn’t seem to feel any later. 6:55 is still simply too early.

Two Times, Too Many?

Well, it's here. Homecoming. My homecoming. The real one. And on the eve of what should be my grand weekend, I'm feeling a little bit like my favorite ESPN columnist, Bill Simmons, when he went to Vegas with his fantasy football buddies for their league's 20th year celebration: old.

I'm tired. My original plan of loading my October weekends with substitution homecomings may now be coming back to haunt me. I mean, it's not like "back in the day" when my time during the week was consumed by 15 to 20 sober hours of work, tops, the rest spent prepping for the weekend with practice games of beer pong, mooseknuckle, flip cup and other various cardiovascular fitness activities. I work now, and the working man's body, although very much sober, is weak. Think about it, 40 hours a week I sit in front of a computer, staring at the screen thinking, "What happened?" The most exercise I do during the day is probably laughing at the "I loved College" Asher Roth spoof that my friend sent me the other day.

But, to quote my idol Bill Simmons, "[will this] stop [my friends and I from] putting on a throwback 48-hour show of...drinking, smoking, ball-busting, eating and (fill in every other verb that ends with "ing" except for the ones that would get us divorced)? Of course not." OK, so we're not that old that we need to worry about divorce, but some of us have girlfriends that would probably want those "ing's" left out of the list as well.

Tomorrow night at 9 my friends and I will embark on a mission to overcome the awkward second homecoming since our graduation. Are we too old to go back and still feel cool? Probably. Are we going anyway? Obviously. But as was push the envelope of what's socially acceptable in terms of the college comeback, I have to wonder, when will we finally be over the whole thing?

Maybe when I'm settled into a job, one that I'm truly happy with, where I'm writing and actually using the skills I learned while in school, will I begin to put to rest my memories of fondness towards college. But then again, maybe not. I've never heard anybody say, "Man, remember those middle years of our careers, when we were 35 and working for someone else, living on our own, with serious girlfriends/potential wives, hitting the hay at 9 pm, waking up at 6 (chipper and refreshed)...man those were really the best times ever!" Something tells me, for the most part, these middle memories humble in comparison to the glory days of college.

But alas, they're coming, and although the college years are closer to where I stand now on the time-line of life, unfortunately, the 30-somethings are (iceberg!) dead ahead.

So where does this leave my friends and me as we wait at the gates like worn out thoroughbreds about to sprint another tired lap- our awkward return, our mustered attempt to relive a life we enjoyed together...for the second time? Well, who knows? I don't have the answers. I'm just "in it to win it" as they say, praying I don't tweak an ankle along the way and, well, you saw the Kentucky Derby, you know what happens to injured race horses.

A Day in Dixie

Another weekend has come and gone, and yet another story to tell. My second replacement homecoming event took place in Charlottesville, Virginia. It involved a white dress, smiling friends and family, and an exchange of rings. That's right, a wedding. Ah the Holy union of young love, sealed beneath the arching boughs of two ancient Virginia oaks. What better reason to suit up in seersucker as if it were college game day, take it slow, and soak in some southern comfort?

What ensued was nothing too short of my expectations. After we got through the whole "I do," "I do" part, the mass of 300 people (a modest size for any proper Southern wedding) began to herd towards the cocktail pavilion, a small stone-laden out cove carved into the country hill. The wedding took place at James Monroe's house, a 17th century estate nestled in the hills of the Blue Ridge mountains. It was incredible. A real Southern gem. You could feel the power of the Southern elite while standing on top of the cascading hilltop, overlooking the "land of cotton," in total control of your surroundings. It must have been nice for all that to be a sustained reality...

Drink of the evening: Bourbon, what else? Especially since there weren't any other options. Bourbon was served for the men, vodka and wine for the ladies. There were no restrictions, of course, seeing as we live in a Northern-governed, post-women's rights movement era, but let's just say I wouldn't be caught dead with anything that was wasn't a stiff shade of brown in my clear cup.

Is it bad that as I stood around in my fancy clothes, chatting with the other guests in a newly acquired Southern accent and soft demeanor, I wondered what it would be like to be a plantation owner in the 17th century? I mean aside from the whole slavery thing, and possibly killing other humans, it seems like a pretty sweet deal. No overhead. No payroll. 100% profit. Incredible. It's probably about the closest thing to being royalty we Americans can conceive, so I rationalized that as justification for feeling almighty in conversation- a rolled up procession sheet, my scepter, a glass of whiskey, my orb. I am a Southern king...from New Jersey.

We stood, and ate, and drank- a sea of white faces discussing the phenomenon of the Southern business model. "How did these guys ever pull it off," we wondered. These inquiries were quickly washed away by more bourbon and more wine as we floated up the knoll to the reception area, and the party continued.

The next order of business after even more food and still more drinks, was mingling with the Southern belles. Mingle I did, or tried, but most of the Southern belles weren't ringing. Let me just say this: I'm no longer sold on the allure of the Southern girl. Blond hair, sweet manners, proper speech. I didn't find any of these assets to outweigh the utter bore most of them were. On the whole, they had little to say and offered even less to do, as they spent most of their time huddled around table 12 in the back corner of the room. Maybe they could smell the toxic New York air pouring from my clothes. I don't know, and I don't care.

So when the one bridesmaid came over to chat towards the end of the night, she got the cold shoulder. Denied for the mindless, yet far more entertaining banter of a Northern brunette I've known since I was about 10. United States: 1, Confederacy: 0. Nice try dollface, but my New York capitalist sense of reason has taught me to take the path of least resistance. I know where that lilting conversation is headed. A friendly handshake or an introduction to a UVA boyfriend? No thanks.

Overall, I'd say my Virginia homecoming was a positive experience. The scenery and overwhelming feeling of encouraged entitlement made up for the death of my notion that Southern women are like Stepford wives with great accents. I'm sure there are some fun ones out there, but the search continues. Maybe I need to head further South. After all, Virginia does still get cold in the winter, making it curiously Northern by my standards. Next up on the homecoming trips list: Birmingham, Alabama where I and two friends will road trip to Tuscaloosa to see the Crimson Tide take on the LSU Tigers in football. It's time to venture into the real south, the deep south, where the Civil War (I'm sorry, the war of Northern agression) is still an on-going battle. This should be fun. Ramma' Jamma' Yellow Hammer.

Giving Credit Where Credit is Due

Here's a familiar scene. I open my eyes to a picture of bliss strewn about the floor in front of me. The self-assembled wooden Ikea coffee table is filled with empty beer bottles. Two XBOX 360 remotes like huge boulders anchored in the ocean shallows, create small gaps amidst the sea of glass. An old sock that looks strangely like one of my own, lays next to a flannel shirt, definitely not mine, on the floor. Drinking shoes (yes, the timbs made it) weigh my feet down like two cinder blocks as I peel my face off the leather arm of the couch in an attempt to get the day started. It's 8:30 am Sunday morning. Time to get to the Pats' tailgate.

Rewind 24 hours. I've just woken up with a terrible, or should I say "wicked bad" hang over. My head is pounding. The drive that started with a few Irish coffees while sitting shotgun of my buddy's Pontiac, moved quickly (as 3 1/2 hours tends to do while drinking Irish coffees) into a night of what can only be described as absurd overindulgence. Upon arrival in Boston we went straight to [insert Irish last name here]'s Pub, where the men were men and the women were too. And, thus, the buckets of beer were only $10! Needless to say we rode the euphoric high of seeing old friends, reaching our weekend destination, and a little bit of whiskey to the vertical limits of a prolonged adrenaline rush.

This alone would explain the throbbing head, but after some investigative work I see there's more to this picture. I look down and see some blood on the elbow of my thermal undershirt. I inspect my actual elbow and see it's scraped open and gravel infested. It is then I realize that my head is pounding not only from the booze, but also from the sizable lump on the back of it, most likely caused by falling onto pavement. Pavement + fall = pain + gravel in the wound. I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I went to college. The pain quickly turns to inspiration when I realize I'm actually not that hung over. There's hope yet that this, my only Saturday in Boston, will rise above the temptation of peaceful sleep and will lead me to Harpoonfest.

After a hot breakfast at a local dive we wasted no time making our way down to the Harpoon brewery for their Oktoberfest party, Harpoonfest. $20 got us in the door and a "free" beer. An additional $20 bought 4 more tickets for beers. The price wasn't foreign to a healthy Manhattan drinker like myself, although it was brought up as a negative factor of the festival by some of the Boston locals. The redeeming quality for the "outlandish" price: the alcohol content of Harpoon beers (nearly always around 5%). Our four tickets, plus a few we picked up off of some lowly stragglers no longer willing to entertain the idea of another Hefeweizen, predictably ended with a circle of clanking glasses and celebratory wasteful pours to the late, great Boston god: Teddy Williams.

Saturday night was better summed up Sunday morning in a Hangover-like photo reel recapping the events. Shots (or is that just one shot?) of Patron, some unknown dark, iced concoctions in pint-sized glasses, card games, me in a blue flannel shirt which I still don't believe is mine but nonetheless, and finally some late night bagels with assorted condiments.

Overall, Boston went above and beyond my expectations. South Boston especially felt like a home away from home. Or more like a college away from college. Could I do it every weekend? Probably not. Do I respect the men and women that do do it every weekend? Absolutely. Boston is like a young drinker's paradise: lots of bars, not much else to do, the drinking starts so early you forget that 2 am is absurdly early to close a bar...It works. I'm not saying it's a last great place or anything, but it works. So to all those I visited this past weekend, this one's for you.

Teddy Williams

Getting My October Fix

Ah to be young again. To be able to pick up and go on a whim. Skip class on Thursday and head down to your friend's school for some more of the same: partying, collegiate sporting events, sleeping (around, if you're lucky), and other such leisure activities, just with different people and different colored beer-pong tables at the party. Every October, when the various college homecoming weekends begin to kick off, I find myself getting nostalgic. How I long for the moldy carpeting and exposed pipes of my old fraternity house. Forget the lavish decadence of New York nightlife. It's October. Give me kegs-and-eggs in the morning and a theme party at night.

If only it were so every weekend.

I may be over the proverbial (college) hill, but this year, my second year as a post-grad in homecoming season, I'm taking a stand. I'm getting creative. Merely going to my own homecoming wont be enough. So I've planned a few trips to satiate my needs.

First up: Boston

This weekend I, and my road-soldier ex-roommate, hit the road after a long, grueling week and head north to "the smallest big-name city in the country." I'm not a Yankee fan, so the city of Boston doesn't make me cringe with deep-seeded rivalry, but I will say I disapprove of their unworthy sense of arrogance. Especially since their bars close at 2. What's the deal with that? Even bars in Jersey don't close at 2. Come on Boston, time to step it up. (Maybe this is for a different posting when I get back).

With that said, there is a stellar crew of dark-beer-chugging, NHL '10 playing, wake-you-up-from-your-Sunday-coma-with-a-bloody-Mary-type people up there I'm excited to knock a few back with while sharing college glory-stories. And to top it off, it's the Harpoon Brewery's version of Oktoberfest (Harpoonfest) this weekend- a perfect substitute as my homecoming pregame. How does this sound: Harpoon beers, German food, massive crowds of day-drinkers all huddled under one giant tent? Ah, just like college (or is that Heaven?).

Don't get me wrong, life after school is great. Nothing beats the freedom of having your own money to spend. But when that cold October air comes seeping through my bedroom window, it's like my biological alarm clock starts ringing....

BUZZZZZ

Alarm clock: "Dude"

Me: "Yah"

Alarm clock: "Dude"

Me: "Really? Already?"

Alarm clock: "Dude"

The Dude abides. I know it's time to lace up the drinking boots (a roughed-up pair of high-top timbs most likely) and hit the road. There's nothing like getting out of the city that has become your new campus, and exploring the wonders of someone else's, right? No strings, no worries, just a weekend wholesome fun. Mark me down for one.

HarpoonFest

http://www.harpoonbrewery.com/index.cfm/pid/28569/page/Octoberfest-Boston

Renaissance: Buffalo

New York licenses: check
New York state of mind: check

New York City: 346 miles east...

Buffalo may be a healthy six hour drive away from the city, but its ambitious residents aren't discouraged when it comes to art...

OK I admit, before I got there I was skeptical too. But after perusing around the city and meeting some of the laid-back (likely stoner) store owners on Elmwood, my attitude towards Buffalo has changed. One store in particular pulled at my heartstrings, and wallet. Two purchases later I found myself repping a "Buffalo Roots" t-shirt and helplessly linking Terrell Owens with the word "Hope." The power of marketing rears its charming head at me once again. Go figure. Buffalo, a city forgotten, but not gone.

The store: CITYLOVE, a clothing store not named for New York's largest and most affluent city, but Buffalo, the crown jewel of the western Empire (State). Its products are the city's own walking advertisements. Its media: t-shirts sported by all those Buffalo natives who aren't ashamed of their blue-collar heritage. It's time to get rid of that worn and played out Che Guevara shirt and join a new revolution. CITYLOVE is on the front lines, using prints from local artists to promote its cause- saving Buffalo.

CITYLOVE's urban feel and optimistic attitude has earned it a spot atop the young social scene in Buffalo. And why not? It's a cool idea. Whether you're from the B-Lo or not, you've got to enjoy a place that has turned the humble mindset of a city into a marketable product.

Shirts range in design from humorous punch lines like "I Love Dick...Jauron," to more subtle inked etchings of a steadfast bison with small print on the back, advising wearers to "still B proud." The unique style and idea hold a small-town charm found nowhere else.

Buffalo. Who would've thought?

CITYLOVE

http://www.citylovebuffalo.com/

Hang 10...in Manhattan?

Concrete, concrete everywhere and not a spot to surf.

For many years you've been marooned on this barren island called Manhattan, stranded without a palm tree or decent wave in sight. Not to worry all you surfing city dwellers, your prayers have been answered. Your life-vessel has just pulled in downtown.

The port: 31 Crosby Street. The ship: Saturdays.

Walking into the store the rumbling traffic noise outside fades away, drowned out by laid-back jembe beats and mellow lighting. The walls are lined with photos of perfect waves (are you ready to ride giants?) and nostalgic surfers. Boards stand like Easter Island moai, propped up on the left wall of the foyer. And just in case you were thinking about going no further, a beach-ready wooden bar, complete with staple blond at the reigns, invites you in with an espresso or a black-cherry soda.

Just beyond the bar, the main room of the store is adorned with all the gear you'll need to complete your "business formal = (wet)suit" look. Throw back board shorts with 60's style colors and cuts, mixed with soft flannel shirts and thin woolen cardigans hang effortlessly from the walls next to vintage surfing books and classic Playboy magazines (browsing optional).

And if you're not quite ready to shop, or just didn't shove enough bills in the old wayfarers' case, head to the ship's rear deck (an outdoor sitting area) perfect for chilling out, reading through one of the store's books, or listening to some live guitar.

Fear not, fellow Manhattan stranded beach-bums, our time to escape has come. Saturdays is open any day of the week to get your fix of the life less complicated.

I think you're ready.

Saturdays NYC

official site

www.saturdaysnyc.com/

Is that Doctor Pan, or just Mister?

Or is it Peter Pan, CPA? Whatever your title may be, the fact of the matter is we've all begun to grow up. Despite all our best efforts, Hook has delivered a substantial blow. We've been booted from our college Neverland, and the question remains, what to do? How do we continue our childish dreams, sadly all realities a mere 18 months ago, of loafing all day in an Eden of beer and sex? The answer isn't simple, and I don't think it's the same for everyone, but here are some ideas I have been mulling over for all of you fresh college grads searching.

Move in with college friends. Who better to foster your return to Never Neverland than the very people you shared every moment (keg) with during your stay? Not me personally, but a guy I know was going through a tough time dealing with his post-graduate stress disorder (yes, that's what they're calling it now, and yes there's a prescription (or ten) for it). He was moping around his house with his roommates (mom and dad) until one day he decided to make the move out. Now he's getting invited over his college fling's house, conveniently located around the block, to help her "drill holes" for hanging pictures on her bare apartment walls. Call me crazy but I think his life has improved drastically.

The next step, also a crucial one but often not as easy to fulfill, is to either find a job you love or love the job you find. This is a tough one for all of us who used to scribble in the word "student" (in crayon) in the blank line marked occupation on the official documents that we were forced to complete at the doctor's office. (Lollipop on the way out anyone?). Time to find a new filler for this spot. How about "assistant ______?" Yea that'll work (crayon, too, will still work). You need a way to finance your mini-fraternity house right, so do what you must. And if assistant, or associate, or junior....blank, doesn't feel right, do something else (prostitution) that makes you happy. Peter Pan, Samuel Adams Beer Taster. There, that sounds right, no?

In the end we're all going to have to submit to Hook, but until then hang on tight to all your saving graces: video games, cheap beer, moldy apartments, fast women. To quote a great speech, "the inches we need are everywhere around us." It's up to you to be the badass and just take them. Don't ask for anything, nothing outside of Neverland is free. Until we're old and tired, and probably (definitely) overweight from all the Sam Adams tasting, stay strong. Exercise daily, drilling holes or curling brews, or even hitting the gym if you're so inclined. Learn something new each day (how to mix a mean bloody Mary is a good skill, and one of the many prescribed meds to the aforementioned disease). Whatever you do remember this: the title doesn't make the man, it's the Pan inside that keeps him going. It's a slippery slope, and if you find yourself falling, take a risk. Meet up with friends, get a keg, plan a party. Don't worry, Tinkerbell will still be at your Halloween bash, but trust me she's not looking for a guy in a suit (even you, corny guy who chose to be Clark Kent instead of Superman. What were you thinking?).

The Subway Buddha

They say the only two absolutely certain things in life are death and taxes. That list is incomplete. The third certainty has been overlooked, but is nonetheless true. Fact: nobody enjoys their commute to work. No matter how great your job is, no matter how close it is to your home, getting to work is simply not fun. So to curb the boredom and improve the time I spend traveling on my way to work, I look for little things every day to make the trip a bit more interesting. Some days it's a stranger's outfit that is so ridiculous I think, "What do they say when they look in the mirror before leaving?" Some days it's a conversation I eavesdrop on and cannot help but laugh along when I hear about this girl's on-going escapades with her ex-boyfriend. But today, well today went above and beyond the rest.

As I boarded the 7 train to go across town everything was business as usual. The car's air conditioner was broken, the guy across from me had a blank stare on his face that somehow gazed through my head, and then the wall, and on into infinity, and there was a woman in business attire aside from her awkward tennis shoes she dons to minimize her time spent in heels. Needless to say, I pulled into my stop disappointed. That is until the train conductor got on the intercom...

"42nd Street, Grand Central, transfer is available to the 4,5,6, and Shuttle. Connection is also available to the Metro North."

More business as usual as I stand, waiting, in front of the door like a lab rat begging to be released into his cheese-scented labyrinth. The doors do not open and I'm feeling a bit frustrated when the conductor comes back...

"Enjoy the weather," he says in a kind and almost practiced stage voice. "Get to work safely today, and no matter what your destination, remember, happiness is always the way."

Everyone on the train stairs at each other in a moment of awe, then the train erupts with laughter. Our own personal Buddha on the subway. What a phenomenal way to start a Friday.

I've been thinking about his words all day and I've concluded the Subway Buddha is wise. Happiness is always the way. And for a second I began to think, "then why am I on my way to this job??" only to realize happiness can be found in the weirdest places. Sometimes even a hot crowded tunnel deep underfoot a busy city can be the saving grace of your day. You just have to keep your eyes and ears open (or maybe just turn down the ipod once in a while).

The Experiment

Ok here's the deal. We're going to try a little periodical experiment. In order to keep the content fresh and diverse, I'm going to allow some followers of Something Evermore to submit, verbally or in writing, topics about which they'd like me to write. I see this is as the perfect challenge to break away from the habit of constantly writing on things in which I'm interested, and learn to write about things that tickle the fancies of others. So without further ado, here's the first topic of conversation:

West Coast Promises of the Eastern Dream

This is an interesting topic that was brought up by a friend of mine as we discussed different ideas for the blog. To be perfectly honest, it came up originally as "the life of a West Coast Playa." I thought the idea was funny, for sure, but no gripping enough for a story. Then I realized there's more to the West Coast Playa' than meets the eye.

The idea of the West Coast Playa is one much older than you probably think. The West has represented blissful freedom in America since the idea of manifest destiny (our distinctly American idea that we are destined to own the Western territories of the New World). And it seems that not much has changed since then. In the 137 years or so that have passed, Americans have been flocking as far west as possible to find the true paradise our country promises. Today, the ideal culminates as the so-called West Coast Playa': A dude who's chillin' out Cali style, riding waves and dating blonds- living the dream while sporting a flat-brimmed Dodgers hat (in black, of course). He hits the beach by day and the clubs by night. Think Brody Jenner meets the Beach Boys and, I don't know, Snoop Dogg, just for some flavor. He's an image that never dies. Like Hugh Hefner, age is not a factor out west. When you've got it, you've got it and that's the bottom line.

This is what we East Coast people think of when we dream of the land that lies beyond New Jersey. We dream of packing up and roaring down Route 80 until we reach the end, fueled by thoughts of the land of dreams-come-true. And from all the live accounts I've heard in my life time, that's exactly what it is. A fantasy of laid back bros and gorgeous girls. I don't know, maybe it's the perfect weather (ideal marijuana growing conditions) that mellows people out in Cali and creates the closest thing to a Utopian society since More's fabled island in the Atlantic. I don't know, and I don't care. I'm glad it's there for us to dream about. And maybe that's even more fun than actually living it. Maybe it's the East Coasters that have it made. Because no matter how bad things get here, we can always rest assured there's a better place beyond the horizon. What do they have? Japan? I think we win that argument.

Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

Picture this: you're walking the streets of Florence, Italy with a group of 3 of your friends. As you meander through the maze of cobble stone, you stumble upon a porcelain shop. Standing behind the counter is this girl whose beauty is so traditional, so simplistically perfect you can't look away. Her long, soft brown hair cascades down the sides of her face, rolls off her shoulders, and hangs lightly at the mid of her back. Her pale brown eyes shoot through yours, now humbly bowing in shame as you and your crew nervously file into the small family-run store. For a moment, as you float past porcelain-clad walls towards the register, you feel as though everything else has fallen away. She speaks. It's English but with a northern Italian accent that softens the harsh Germanic words to their dullest edge. Her voice is dark and deep, not what you expected, but it lures you closer. "Hello. Can I show you anything?"

later

The four of us are standing on the Pointe Vecchio watching the sun as it paints the sky an awesome burnt orange and pink on its final decent over the Arno River. Her words are echoing in my head, "Can I show you anything?" "Why yes, I think you can." We all just stand and gaze at the beauty before us and reflect on the beauty we'd just encountered when suddenly, and almost to my chagrin, my one friend poses the question...

"If you could live with that girl, 'China Girl', here, on this bridge, forever, never to return to the United States again, would you do it?"

We all stand in silence to consider. I think it over...and over...and over. On that bridge, I stood in one of the most perfect places I'd ever been. Nothing could argue with that. The warm summer breeze on my face, leaning over the edge of the bridge, nothing could replace that carefree feeling of freedom. But could I stand to never return to the United States and all the loved ones she possesses? At that time I had been traveling for 5 weeks and was feeling a bit homesick. My answer then: No. But as I sit behind the desk in my tiny New York cubical, surrounded by overstressed bosses, underpaid workers and a culture obsessed with work for the sake of working, I am forced to reconsider my decision.

In fact, if my friend asked me that question right now, I would say "100% yes," and I would never look back. For me Italy represents a return to the simple. Yes, to live there you must forgo some of the luxuries of American living (i.e. guaranteed service at any time, in basically any store through out New York), but the return, is far greater than the sacrifice. Having worked an all-American corporate "9-5" job I can say from experience that our system is flawed. Yes, working is good. I'm a firm believer in capitalism. But the purpose of working should not be lost in the work itself. That is, one shouldn't work simply to work. One should work to live, not the other way around. I want to enjoy the ride that is my life while I'm young enough to really live it, not slave through 40 years so that I can enjoy the end in moderate comfort. Who knows if I'll even make it that long! The purpose of work is to give a feeling of accomplishment to your every day. Yes it's a means to maintain, but more so, I feel work should be a way to contribute.

So would I abandon my American roots to run off with a gorgeous Italian on the Pointe Vecchio, running a small porcelain shop day in and day out? Yes, yes I would. I would say goodbye to SUV's on open roads, baseball at Citi Field, friends and family, if it meant a life concentrated on achieving gratification rather than wasting hours in an office building. There are so many things going on outside of the gray box that is corporate America, I cannot even fathom why I would waste another second sitting here. And yet, we stay.

So I ask you, what would you do? Would you stay, or would you go? Take a risk, or play it safe? The choice is yours. Personally, I'm thinking it's about time to take a risk. The way I see it, if you don't act fast, the things you once despised for being mundane will become the norms you slavishly can't live without. If that's what America is all about, then I say, no thanks.

Don't Fall Behind

Well, we're here again, aren't we? Has it really come and gone? I can't even bring myself to type the words...but nevertheless, here they are: summer is over. And with that stale and stagnant statement come promises of a less enjoyable lifestyle. But, I'm forced to ask why? Why does the fall always catch such a bum rap? Fall certainly isn't the worst season of all- that, without a doubt, is winter, and that's another blog on another transitional day. No, fall is more like a country dirt road than the desolate white dessert of winter. The road can be lonely if you put your head down and just truck along, but if you take a look around and embrace the changing journey, you'll find lots of fun things are still happening. Your summer dreams of months packed solid with entertainment are not dead. Here are some of the many redeeming qualities on which you can focus your attention to keep your spirits high as the temperature plummets.

First and foremost, sports are alive and well. Football is about to kick off, which means fantasy fans across the country are all gearing up for the season. Who's going to be the best sleeper pick? Will Brandon Marshall stop complaining and start playing up to his potential? How will Cutler do in Chicago? How will Orton do in Denver? Will Forte and Slaton build off their stellar rookie seasons? or will they plateau like so many other rookie sensations. Will Moreno be a pro, or just another college stud gone average player? Although summer offers great weather to play football, for those people in the autumn of their athletic careers, fantasy football is the only place to live out your dreams of making it big on the gridiron.

Baseball is still in full swing as well. The beginning of fall means the playoffs and the World Series are just around the bend. And even though my Mets are long out of the picture, I still love the thrill of baseball in October. The smell of falling leaves mixed with pine tar, grass stains, beer, and peanuts-it's a potpourri of America's finest I can't help but enjoy.

Holidays, too, are at a premium in the fall. Labor Day has just passed giving us the opportunity to catch up on some much needed time for fun, and leaving us with a shortened work week.

For those party lovers and miss-ers of the all-American college rager, Halloween is coming up, and even though the weather is getting colder and colder, something tells me the outfits will continue to get hotter and hotter. It's a phenomenon I can't explain, but then again, I'm not complaining. Halloween was once my least favorite holiday, now I wait in anticipation for it all year. Forget those summer parties, sweating out on the roof- give me wacky costume parades and a chance at the unthinkable. That's when the real fun begins.

But if that's not your slice of pie, Thanksgiving is there to round it all out with some good, wholesome fun- games of touch football, time spent with loved ones, and the best cooking mom can offer.

So for all of you moping around these early days of fall, cheer up! and think about all the fall has in store. Forget about summer. It's over, it was hot, and I'm sure it was fun, but it wont be back for a long, long time. This is the beginning of something new, and what does that always call for? A party. So quit kicking those leaves around the backyard and crack open a can of spiked cider. It may be getting colder, but remember, the only way to stay warm is to keep moving fast!

The Quest for G

It's 4 o'clock on a Tuesday, the working man's least favorite day of the week- too far from Friday to dream of the weekend, close enough to last Sunday to still remember the joys of a time already passed. And just when you thought your life couldn't get any worse, after your boss emails you a new assignment, what happens? Gmail goes down for the count.

10 - 9 - 8...

This has happened before. Your main portal into the social pipeline of people you once spent time with daily, now only engage in digital friendship, suffered some kind of severe blow. But you, being the businessman that you are, rest assured in the power of technology and tell yourself Gmail will be back in no less than 5 minutes. You rely on getting a head start on that new assignment to pass some time....

7 - 6 - 5...

Ten minutes have now passed and panic is starting to set in. What is going on??? Is it possible Google, the Internet giant, is really having this many problems? You rationalize, maybe someone over there is also having a bad Tuesday. You say sorry to that techie out there in cyberspace and you patiently get back to work.

4 - 3 - 2...

OK, enough is enough! It's now 4:50 and this has to be a dream. No way in hell can you possibly do "real" work anymore. "What is going on with my friends?" "Who's going where for happy hour?" "Have ANY of the jobs I spent most of last week applying for responded with a promising interview?" The power of the Internet is now punching you in the face. Because what can you do without it? Simple social networking tools are all you have left of humanity! Take them away and you whither and squirm like an ant under the magnifying glass! "Please, make it stop! Connect me with those friends I so desperately cling to for reassurance that this won't be my last job and everything will be OK once we get to the bar! Google, what have you done to my life?!"

1...

It is now 5:30. Somebody at Google better be getting fired.

Bring Back Dem Bums

As an avid New York Mets fan, life this year has been downright rough. The anticipation of an epic year, a year when it would finally be our turn, a year following two years of heartbreak at the hands of the Phillies and Marlins, has turned into one of the biggest debacles of all time. In my 23 years as a Mets fan, I've never seen a low like this. 9 starters on the dl, including names like Jose Reyes, Carlos Beltran and Johan Santana. There's no coming back from a hit like that. The season is over, and we all know it.

Last night, however, the Mets took the field at LandShark and, for the first time I saw a team eager to play. The thing is, it obviously wasn't the normal Met squad. Aside from the newly acquired Jeff Francoeur, I knew maybe one or two players out there. And yet, they beat up on the Marlins 10-3! It was a classic underdog story; a couple of kids, happy to play the game on the center stage, overcame experience with sheer excitement.

So I ask, what happened to the glory days of New York baseball- when teams had proverbial heart? Last night I saw a Mets team that looked like a real New York team, an image I think they've lost over the years. They were a rag-tag group, rough around the edges, wet behind the ears, but ready to scruff when the time came. The Met's are New York's blue collar team, and they need to embrace that identity. It's one with a storied history of success in this city. From the Bums in Brooklyn to Mays in Manhattan, the New York National League teams have always been a group of "good ol' boys."

So why the change? New Yorkers like a team with grit- a team that finds ways to win beyond the conventional American League method of writing a check. Last night was a testament to this fact: in sports, success can't always be bought. The total dollar amount on the disabled list comes to $67,675,000.00 (metstoday.com)...That's more than $67 million dollars of high-profile talent doing nothing to help the team win. It seems the roots are stronger than the flower, so let's stick to them.

Welcome

Hi everyone, and welcome. I've started this blog as a means to keep doing what I love to do amidst the toils of day-to-day life in corporate America. I see this as an outlet for any and all who share similar interests in writing, sports and any other leisure activities they wish were more prevalent in their adult lives. As the title suggests, this is all about moving forward and keeping the spirit of Romanticism alive- despite the efforts of modern realists. That said, get ready to escape, give in to your infantile inhibitions, and let's move on to the good life...