Saturday, November 30, 2002
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
F.C. Sporadic: Part Two
If you read pud's FC Sporadic on him being heckled, you'll notice that he suggests asking Jason Wolfe for his side of the story (Jason was the heckler). I did.
Jason's side had some points that are worth perusing. There are multiple sides to any issue, and for fairness' sake, I wanted to present Jason's story. It's always amazing to me how the same event can be viewed so differently. Jason was comfortable with me posting his response to pud's newsletter.
Jason's side had some points that are worth perusing. There are multiple sides to any issue, and for fairness' sake, I wanted to present Jason's story. It's always amazing to me how the same event can be viewed so differently. Jason was comfortable with me posting his response to pud's newsletter.
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
F.C. Sporadic
One of my favorite e-mail newsletters is pud's FC Sporadic, a sharply sardonic and vulgar missive from the creator of the perfect web site for capturing the low-down feelings from the dot-com bust: Fucked Company.com.
Philip Kaplan (aka pud) went on to write F'd Company, a book observing "the waste, greed, and human stupidity of more than 100 dot-com companies." I haven't read his book, but I've certainly enjoyed his newsletters, which are a mixture of these industry observations, and his own trials as a single young man in New York City trying to get a date. He's a funny writer.
His recent Sporadic describes how he was heckled at a trade show, and how it brought back memories of getting picked on back in the grade school. At the show, the heckler was shouting angrily that pud was spreading lies about dot-com companies, and for putting companies like his out of business. The story was so funny and the heckling so non-sensical that I wrote to him asking if I could post it, and he said "go for it."
It's not hard for me to believe that people still hold a grudge against the dot-com era. I do. I had the requisite useless stock options. People's lives were turned upside down, hoping to make a difference, hoping to be part of a winner. Alas, there were only a few winners. pud gave an outlet for all the workers with corporate angst. He shed light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, and some folks couldn't bear the scrutiny.
Philip Kaplan (aka pud) went on to write F'd Company, a book observing "the waste, greed, and human stupidity of more than 100 dot-com companies." I haven't read his book, but I've certainly enjoyed his newsletters, which are a mixture of these industry observations, and his own trials as a single young man in New York City trying to get a date. He's a funny writer.
His recent Sporadic describes how he was heckled at a trade show, and how it brought back memories of getting picked on back in the grade school. At the show, the heckler was shouting angrily that pud was spreading lies about dot-com companies, and for putting companies like his out of business. The story was so funny and the heckling so non-sensical that I wrote to him asking if I could post it, and he said "go for it."
It's not hard for me to believe that people still hold a grudge against the dot-com era. I do. I had the requisite useless stock options. People's lives were turned upside down, hoping to make a difference, hoping to be part of a winner. Alas, there were only a few winners. pud gave an outlet for all the workers with corporate angst. He shed light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, and some folks couldn't bear the scrutiny.
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Eminem
I have been listening to Eminem. The famed rapper's latest movie, 8 Mile, was big news last weekend, as it grossed over $50 million. I was caught up in the wave of publicity.
Two weekends ago, while surfing TV, I chanced upon MTV's Jammed, a program documenting a "surprise concert". MTV planned a surprise concert for the students at Michigan State University. The singer: Detroit's own Eminem. The ruse: a preview of the movie "8 Mile".
The documentary itself was taut and well paced. I was getting caught up with the planning, and the reactions of the students. When the movie finished, the silver screen rolled up, a stage was revealed, and Eminem (aka Slim Shady) blasted into the beginning of "Lose Yourself".
The music rocked! The students rushed the stage, and started waving their arms to the hip-hop beat, mouthing the fast lyrics, clearly in delirium. It was awesome to see. It was obvious what the big deal was all about.
I recorded the show, and watched the concert over and over again. I downloaded the lyrics. And when I visited Tower Record last Sunday, I bought two of his records. And they're amazing!
Eminem's probably not for everybody: his lyrics are fierce, peppered with profanity, littered with lascivious and lewd leers. He's angry. He's sly. He's Shady ("Guess who's back? Tell a friend!"). His music's connected with me, though. I can hear his expression. It's unique-sounding. It's fresh. I agree with him: "20 million other white rappers emerge, but no matter how many fish in the sea, it'd be so empty without me."
Two weekends ago, while surfing TV, I chanced upon MTV's Jammed, a program documenting a "surprise concert". MTV planned a surprise concert for the students at Michigan State University. The singer: Detroit's own Eminem. The ruse: a preview of the movie "8 Mile".
The documentary itself was taut and well paced. I was getting caught up with the planning, and the reactions of the students. When the movie finished, the silver screen rolled up, a stage was revealed, and Eminem (aka Slim Shady) blasted into the beginning of "Lose Yourself".
The music rocked! The students rushed the stage, and started waving their arms to the hip-hop beat, mouthing the fast lyrics, clearly in delirium. It was awesome to see. It was obvious what the big deal was all about.
I recorded the show, and watched the concert over and over again. I downloaded the lyrics. And when I visited Tower Record last Sunday, I bought two of his records. And they're amazing!
Eminem's probably not for everybody: his lyrics are fierce, peppered with profanity, littered with lascivious and lewd leers. He's angry. He's sly. He's Shady ("Guess who's back? Tell a friend!"). His music's connected with me, though. I can hear his expression. It's unique-sounding. It's fresh. I agree with him: "20 million other white rappers emerge, but no matter how many fish in the sea, it'd be so empty without me."
Wednesday, November 6, 2002
Vocabulary
Two. Three. Nine. Turtle. Octopus. "That's all." Hi! C. D. I. Side! Socks. Shoes.
These are some of the words in my daughter's vocabulary.
These are some of the words in my daughter's vocabulary.
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Retiring from Ice Hockey
I threw out my old ice hockey equipment today.
In 1993, I took up the game of ice hockey, and I took it as seriously as I could take it. I bought the best skates I could afford ($200 Riedells). I spent almost a year learning how to ice skate (I took lessons at The Skating Club of Boston). I accumulated equipment as the months progressed.
I joined Hockey North America in early 1994. HNA is a league geared for beginners. There were group try-outs, and then we were assigned to teams randomly. I forked over more money, signed a bunch of papers, and eventually fell into one of the most memorable experiences of my limited sports career.
Our team, the Boston Heat, had a bunch of hockey wanna-bes. Just like me. Some were fairly good skaters. Others were fairly good puck handlers (I was a better skater than puck handler or shooter). We were all gung-ho enthusiasts, living out our ice dreams.
Our captain, Joe Jaena (a fabric business owner) wanted the team to improve, and he hired Cliff Lombardo, a player in the "A" league, to be our coach (we were in the "D" league). Cliff was a good coach. Our team practiced once a week (drills then scrimmages), then we'd play a league game (complete with referees, a clock, and a handful of fans). I played defense, and wore the number 25 because that was how old I was when I joined the league.
We were a good team, and we made it all the way to the championship game. However, the opposing team's one lone talent skated down the left wing, and scored in the final minute of play. I don't remember the score, but I did remember that a tie would have given us the championship on points. I was on the ice, head bowed, completely lost. The locker room afterward was numb, but I remembering trying to hold Joe back as he started in on one of our teammates. We peacefully departed. I remember eating a breakfast meal (it was almost 11PM) at a local pancake place, trying to console myself.
The team stuck together though. We had a nice team party a few weeks later. And after a summer league (we moved to New England Regional Hockey League) and on-and-off practices, we played one more winter season. However, we never captured our original dominant form. We would fade in the early playoff series. This was April 1996.
After I "retired", I played exactly once, at a "stick practice" during lunch (the equivalent of pick up basketball, except that it takes nearly ten minutes to get dressed). There were only ten men in the game, and I was exhausted after three minutes of being on the ice (professional players typically skate in shifts of less than two minutes).
My bag of gear stayed in my basement, but this past weekend, while cleaning out the basement, Jenn suggested I let it go. I have often thought about chucking my gear, but there was always this fear that I might take it up again, and I would need all this equipment. But that didn't seem realistic. I then thought about getting my stuff into a second-hand store, but my pads were worn, and dank with dried sweat. Eventually, I convinced myself that the road sometimes ends. I emptied my gear into a garbage bag, and put it out on the curb.
I kept my skates and my gloves though. My gloves were too new (they were my second pair). And there's no way I could throw out my skates.
I don't miss my equipment so much as I miss being on the team. I loved the camaraderie. I loved the profane noise of a locker room after a practice or a game. I loved the atmosphere: The hard ice. Looking up at the time. My occasional forays into the penalty box. The game itself is the fastest, most physical, yet most skillful game I have ever participated in.
But my playing days are over. They were over long before I threw out my equipment. Putting it out on the curb just makes it official.
In 1993, I took up the game of ice hockey, and I took it as seriously as I could take it. I bought the best skates I could afford ($200 Riedells). I spent almost a year learning how to ice skate (I took lessons at The Skating Club of Boston). I accumulated equipment as the months progressed.
I joined Hockey North America in early 1994. HNA is a league geared for beginners. There were group try-outs, and then we were assigned to teams randomly. I forked over more money, signed a bunch of papers, and eventually fell into one of the most memorable experiences of my limited sports career.
Our team, the Boston Heat, had a bunch of hockey wanna-bes. Just like me. Some were fairly good skaters. Others were fairly good puck handlers (I was a better skater than puck handler or shooter). We were all gung-ho enthusiasts, living out our ice dreams.
Our captain, Joe Jaena (a fabric business owner) wanted the team to improve, and he hired Cliff Lombardo, a player in the "A" league, to be our coach (we were in the "D" league). Cliff was a good coach. Our team practiced once a week (drills then scrimmages), then we'd play a league game (complete with referees, a clock, and a handful of fans). I played defense, and wore the number 25 because that was how old I was when I joined the league.
We were a good team, and we made it all the way to the championship game. However, the opposing team's one lone talent skated down the left wing, and scored in the final minute of play. I don't remember the score, but I did remember that a tie would have given us the championship on points. I was on the ice, head bowed, completely lost. The locker room afterward was numb, but I remembering trying to hold Joe back as he started in on one of our teammates. We peacefully departed. I remember eating a breakfast meal (it was almost 11PM) at a local pancake place, trying to console myself.
The team stuck together though. We had a nice team party a few weeks later. And after a summer league (we moved to New England Regional Hockey League) and on-and-off practices, we played one more winter season. However, we never captured our original dominant form. We would fade in the early playoff series. This was April 1996.
After I "retired", I played exactly once, at a "stick practice" during lunch (the equivalent of pick up basketball, except that it takes nearly ten minutes to get dressed). There were only ten men in the game, and I was exhausted after three minutes of being on the ice (professional players typically skate in shifts of less than two minutes).
My bag of gear stayed in my basement, but this past weekend, while cleaning out the basement, Jenn suggested I let it go. I have often thought about chucking my gear, but there was always this fear that I might take it up again, and I would need all this equipment. But that didn't seem realistic. I then thought about getting my stuff into a second-hand store, but my pads were worn, and dank with dried sweat. Eventually, I convinced myself that the road sometimes ends. I emptied my gear into a garbage bag, and put it out on the curb.
I kept my skates and my gloves though. My gloves were too new (they were my second pair). And there's no way I could throw out my skates.
I don't miss my equipment so much as I miss being on the team. I loved the camaraderie. I loved the profane noise of a locker room after a practice or a game. I loved the atmosphere: The hard ice. Looking up at the time. My occasional forays into the penalty box. The game itself is the fastest, most physical, yet most skillful game I have ever participated in.
But my playing days are over. They were over long before I threw out my equipment. Putting it out on the curb just makes it official.
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