Wednesday, December 24, 2008

Merry Christmas

My Christian faith is at a low ebb. Has been for years. I'm not even sure I'd identify myself as a Christian anymore, and I don't know why I turned away from it, but I'm most reminded of this when Christmas comes around and occasionally I think, "Am I being a hypocrite?"

Maybe, though putting up nice decorations and exchanging presents with friends and family probably doesn't hurt anybody, regardless of what the reason is.

I guess I don't really know what to think of Christmas anymore. It's certainly a much more complicated holiday in adulthood than in childhood. It's been a long time since I was able to see everyone I want to at Christmas, and I don't imagine it will ever happen again.

Didn't mean to pee in anyone's eggnog, and I really am fantastically lucky -- lots of healthy loved ones, reliably constant food and shelter, regular intellectual stimulation -- so don't pay any attention to me. Really, Merry Christmas.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Drink motor oil, Chris Johnson

Stupid dipshit football players celebrating touchdowns before they reach the end zone (especially when they are almost tackled as a result) makes the little hairs on my neck stand up.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Disco mayhem

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Friday, December 19, 2008

Really? REALLY really?

Prop 8 supporters, having prohibited gay weddings in California, are trying to nullify existing gay marriages.

Are we still serious about this preservation-of-marriage nonsense? People are having historic difficulty feeding their families and keeping their homes, but sure, we should totally focus our energy on STOPPING COUPLES FROM MARRYING.

I have friends and family from all political ideologies, and sometimes I really enjoy discussing the things on which we disagree. This can't be one of those things.

If you think gay people shouldn't be allowed to marry, fine. But if you try to tell me it makes sense, especially right now, to devote any resources to stopping them, see ya.

Done!

Got all the gifts I needed, and my groceries, and I'm drinking orange-strawberry-banana juice. I think you'll agree, this is the life. Oh, and now I hear one of my cats flinging litter around, possibly out of its customary box! The cherry on top!

Also:
  • Is it legal to set a holiday-comedy film trailer to any song other than "Russian Dance" from the Nutcracker?
  • All I want for Christmas is for Rod Blagojevich to be impeached and removed from the Illinois governor's office as speedily as the law allows, a.k.a. well before Jan. 20.
  • As someone who loves Camden Yards and sympathizes with fans who've seen their team starved to death by idiot owner Peter Angelos, I hope the Orioles get Mark Teixeira.

Dreams will never, ever, make sense to me

In my dream last night, the Detroit Lions finally won a game, and people everywhere were so relieved.

What is wrong with me? I couldn't care less about the Lions, although I don't wish 0-16 on anyone. Why would my subconscious care about them?

Thursday, December 18, 2008

"Weekend"

My weekends are ALWAYS "weekends," since I work Sunday through Thursday. Usually, my Sunday shift is at night, giving me basically a 2.5-day "weekend."

This weekend, though, I swapped days with a friend, in exchange for a future swap.

Boring details really quickly: I usually work Sun-Thu and she Mon-Fri, but once every five weeks she works Mon-Sat, then Mon-Thu the next week to compensate, see? However, this week she has Christmakkah on Saturday, so I'm working Saturday for her and she's working Sunday for me, see? So I'm on Thursday, off Friday, on Saturday, off Sunday, on Monday. M'yah, see?

Of course now, she's pregnant and quitting and compensating me by buying me lunch, instead of swapping. She better have a very merry and hybriddy Christmakkah.

Meanwhile, Friday is going to be all shopping: hours of gift-buying, and hopefully a surgical strike at the grocery store. We'll also see an all-out assault on my stubborn belly fat, in the form of a long run through Absecon.

And, yeah, it's been two days of me and the cats, and I cannot stop talking to them. Just babbling mindlessly, things I'd otherwise just let run through my head. Disturbing.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

I'll let Will Leitch say exactly how I feel about this Bush-shoe thing...

"You'd be hard-pressed to find someone more critical of the policies and actions of President Bush over the last six-and-a-half years than me, though I'm sure there are some people out there. I think he has caused this nation perhaps more harm than we'll ever be able to overcome. I think the only person who wants him out of office more right now than me is ... well, George W. Bush. But I find it appalling that anyone could see the leader of our country, the President, avert an assault in a foreign land and somehow find it funny, or see the guy who tossed the shoe as some sort of "hero." I mean, that's the President, guys. Sure. It was a shoe. But god, really? We're supposed to chuckle? I watched that video with horror; not just that it has come to this, but that people here could actually celebrate it. I hate that video. It makes me ill. It makes me scared."

His full, mostly unrelated post

Saturday, December 13, 2008

They called me Mr. Kitty Daddy


Yup, I've got custody of my two cats for a while, here at the new apartment.

They've stayed with Kitty Mommy for most of the year since I came east for the new job, but interviews for HER new job will cover another month, and blah blah, other factors, I have them now.

For those who forget or never knew, they are Mojo (black) and Moxie (tabby), a brother and sister. They were part of a litter of six born approximately Jan. 30, 2006, in an animal shelter in Jeffersonville, Ind., across the Ohio River from our home in Louisville. We got them that March, and the above photo is from the first week, when they were babies and Holly took a trillion pictures of them. (Another one shows them skittering around in a wok I'm holding.)

Believe it or not, Mojo has grown into his looks a little bit. He still looks pretty owlish from a few angles. Moxie is cheerfully dumb, always wearing an expression that suggests she's looking for her car keys.

Because I project my feelings on my cats -- like all pet parents, whether they admit it or not -- I think things like, "It'll be great when we all move back in together in the spring, when we get our new place, because then they'll have some stability for a while and won't have to get acclimated to new apartments and stuff."

Yes, that will be nice for the cats, and I wouldn't mind not constantly being on Craigslist's apartment pages, either.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Oh, Cole

I don't get this. Why are the Phillies needling the Mets?

You've already proved yourselves on the field. You're champions. This just strikes me as unnecessary.

Maybe Cole's cranky from missing a chiropractor appointment.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Nutso weather

Frigid one day, balmy the next, and neither of those adjectives is an exaggeration. Oh well, good to open the windows for an evening.

Monday, December 8, 2008

MNF

Man, it is frigid in Absecon tonight. I'm prepping for interviews tomorrow (on-the-job interviews, not job interviews) and shopping online, but most importantly, I'm rooting against Steve Smith, Jon Beason, DeAngelo Williams, Matt Bryant, Chris Gamble and Ronde Barber.

This is my eighth year in the Diamondbackfield, a fantasy-football league including alumni of the University of Maryland's INDEPENDENT student newspaper. And I have never made the playoffs. But depending on what happens tonight, in the final game of the fantasy regular season, I could make it this year.

The six guys listed above play for the Carolina Panthers or Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who square off in Monday Night Football tonight. In fantasy football, teams pair off in head-to-head matchups each week, where good real-life performances from your chosen guys are rewarded with points -- most total points wins the matchup. Some of those Panthers and Bucs play for my opponent, and some play for the guy I'm trying to beat out for the final playoff spot.

My guys ("Just Ate A Grape ...") have all played already, as have the guys for Other Playoff Contender's Opponent. And both of us have leads going into this game. It's just a question of whether the six guys listed above will do poorly enough to allow me to win and OPC to lose, because I need both things to happen.

The Yahoo! projections put me at even money. Whooooooooo even money!

(Update after first quarter: Things are going well! Matt Bryant's field-goal attempt clanked off the upright, and Steve Smith hasn't caught a pass. DeAngelo Williams has rushed a couple times for a couple yards. I haven't heard the three defenders' names yet, and that's good, too.)

(Update in third quarter: Long TD catch for Smith, and I think I'm toast.)

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Eli sez: Leave me and my invisible shopping cart alone!


Brian Westbrook spent his afternoon making Antonio Pierce look sillier than a guy who covers for a guy whose gun discharges in his sweatpants, to use a theoretical example. Now suddenly the Eagles control their playoff admittance, provided the Falcons don't win out. How can this possibly be the same team that sleepwalked around Cincinnati's field three weeks ago?

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I have seven groomsmen in my wedding Memorial Eve. Brian, Chris, Duc, Joel, Jon, Sean, Shea.

Prior to today, I had only seen ONE of them with an appreciable amount of facial hair: Shea, who grows it unsettlingly fast. Now that number is TWO, after the discovery of a Facebook photo of Chris with a full beard, and a neatly manicured one at that!

Question, to those who are familiar with any of the other five: Assuming they'd agree, how many groomsmen, and which, should I persuade to grow full beards for the wedding?

From the vault...

I wrote the following Phillies post Oct. 3, 2005, on my previous blog, Bluegrass Beginnings:

Man. That was close. You guys were so close to a playoff-playoff, one game away from one game away from glory. If Jose Macias hits his linedrive 10 mph sharper, it gets into center and the Cubs tie the game against Lidge for sure, and maybe win in extra innings. But that's life.

I may be an optimistic sap, but I'm looking forward to the 2006 season -- umpteen times more than I looked forward to 2005. Things to look forward to:

-Brett Myers putting it all together under a pitching coach he knows and trusts.
-Chase Utley and Ryan Howard doing exactly what they're already doing: becoming superstars.
-Jimmy Rollins gaining confidence from his hit streak and learning not to press -- and MAYBE learning to take more pitches to wear out opposing pitchers? Maybe?
-Shane Victorino getting a shot as the leadoff hitter and starting centerfielder.
-David "Nice Guy, But..." Bell playing somewhere else.-Discovering if Gavin Floyd has what it takes or not.
-Crossing my fingers that Cole Hamels and Jason Michaels can behave themselves in bars all year. Pssh.

I don't think they can keep Billy Wagner or Ugueth Urbina, and I'm terrified that they'll trade Ryan Howard instead of cutting bait with an oft-injured Jim Thome. But hey! Hope springs eternal, and I figure maximizing my enjoyment and minimizing my disappointment is the way to go.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Running

I'm in a new apartment until May, in Absecon. That's across a few miles of back bay from Brigantine and northern Atlantic City.

It's a nice secluded neighborhood, and I found a good running route out to the docks and marshes. Did two miles today after I wrote the Phillies poem.

Mojo and Moxie come next weekend to stay with me for a couple of months. Cat party!

Friday, December 5, 2008

A poem, for your hot-stove recollection and enjoyment

2008: ONE MORE
by Eric Scott Campbell

If nothing else this season,
I'd hoped the Phillies might
win one game in the playoffs.
(Progress, however slight.)

Indeed, they took the first one,
a sloppy error-fest,
then faced C.C. Sabathia,
the ace, Milwaukee's best.

He somehow walked Brett Myers
to set up Shane to slam,
then stalked into the locker room
and swallowed whole a ham.

A droopy loss preceded
Game 4's home-run barrage.
The pounded Brew now yielded to
a team from out of Dodge.

Lowe's sinkers squashed the Phillies
until the pitch to Chase.
The sequel to Pat Burrell
would only sink Lowe's face.

Game 2, again, saw Myers
a stalwart at the plate!
It's all the crowd could talk about
as we poured from the gate.

That pitch behind Ramirez
brought payback in L.A.
A would-be brawl, a blowout,
and not much else to say.

A deficit the next night
required an attempt
to come back off their bullpen,
which rarely gets verklempt.

Down two, our Big Man singled.
A dumb mound move was made.
The Phils once more could ruin
a gentleman named Wade.

A slashing swing from Victorino
made it neck and neck,
then Chooch squeezed off a single
as the hero stood on deck.

Replacement hurler Broxton
sacrificed his aim for might.
Matt Stairs had trained his cannon
on the cheap seats, center-right.

(The outcome taught Joe Torre
when to nibble, not to bite.)

The clincher was a cakewalk
as Cole went seven strong.
Poor Raffy made three errors,
then penned a children's song.

Six off-days made reporters
inquire about our rust.
The Rays stayed fresh in Fenway
letting leads collapse to dust.

The league and Fox wept fiercely
as, to the Series fold,
came mediocre legacies.
(Though one's ten times as old.)

Game 1. An Utley dinger
backed Hamels, who was crisp.
Which helped, because the Phillies
refused to hit with RISP.

That theme continued into
a punchless Game 2 loss.
J-Roll and Burrell competed
to be top albatross.

The Series moved to Philly
for domeless cold and rain.
The home team turned to Moyer,
who twirled with Spahn and Sain.

Two rollers made the difference.
The first, a rightful out.
But umps ruled for the speedster
no rally starts without.

The Phils rebounded, loading
the sacks in bottom nine.
The lead man broke when Chooch knocked
his roller down the line.

Longoria corralled it
and made a desperate heave,
but Bruntlett wiped the plate clean
and I started to believe.

The bats awoke for Blanton.
(Not least of all, his own!)
The rout meant one more station
'til paradise unknown.

Game 5. Dear God. A travesty,
as history was made.
No Series game had taken
three evenings to be played.

But thanks to Mother Nature,
the agony was stretched.
We hurriedly paid bar bills,
flagged cabs, dried off, and kvetched.

By Wednesday night, forgotten,
the weather and the wait.
We sat for three more innings
and hoped to celebrate.

Geoff Jenkins knocked a double,
and J-Dub flared him in.
The Rays retied, then Burrell tried
to walk off with a grin.

So close! Another double
for Pat's last Phillies swing.
And Petey RBI'd him,
the sole important thing.

Chase Utley snared a grounder,
and then I rubbed my eyes.
He'd pump-faked Jason Bartlett,
who raced to his demise.

Our perfect closer entered,
went popup, single, steal,
then J-Dub snagged a liner
and I fell to a kneel.

I hazily remembered
my standard of success.
"Just win one more than last year..."
But still, I caved to stress.

One out, one more! I pleaded
as Hinske took his stance.
I had no clue when we'd accrue
another title chance.

Some sliders slide a little.
Some dive, explode, contort.
Brad Lidge's makes the hitters wish
they played a different sport.

So to his bread and butter
our final pitcher went.
He fooled him twice, then took time-out,
his concentration spent.

The runner danced off second.
The closer stared at home.
The batter hoped to foul him off.
The rabid fans spat foam.

A bullet fires. A flailing swing.
A mob scene at the mound.
A city spills into the streets.
An overwhelming sound.

A truly great 2008.
Those memories will keep.
But next time, in the World Series,
I'd like to see us sweep.