New WIS Series: Dollar For Your Thoughts

Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! I'd like to announce the implemention of a new What I See series, "A Dollar For Your Thoughts."

This new series is born of two principal factors. First, I've been semi-lazy about writing lately. Second, there are many, many pictures of notable characters who look like they're gettin' the shocker, and what beats making fun of the clueless and famous? I wish that the comedy of the photos would always speak for itself, but the temptation to be a wise ass is sure to overwhelm me 99% of the time.

Therefore, let me apologize in advance if you find yourself offended on occasion. Actually, no, if you happen to be, in fact, one of those offended, why don't you check out something that couldn't possibly offend anybody, you twittish pansy.

Rock on out...

Despair, Meet Hope

As you’ve probably guessed, 'Nova basketball's crappy week has me bummed out pretty badly--to the point that I was incapable of approaching the topic until today. To review, first, they barely took advantage of blatant speed mismatches versus the Cincy football-cum-basketball squad, and then they shot like pathetic garbage in the ScrewConn rematch. We basically blew in both of those games; we lucked our way to a split as far as I'm concerned. Thankfully, Syracuse and St. John's both suck, and we're still in contention for a top seed in March. But, man oh man, I hate losing to ScrewConn!

Choppy, underdeveloped, and awkward--so describes 'Nova basketball this week. Am I wrong in my assessment that they appear to be cruisin' it out a little? However, it is important to remember that these guys are kids, and, in addition to performing at the highest level college basketball offers, the 'Cats are also routinely burned and distressed by the same dumb things as their fellow Villaova undergrads. Maybe ARay's psych teacher is a total dick, or Lowry's girl's been riding his ass about nothing in particular. Maybe the guy across from Shane Clark's room went to Manhattan for the weekend and left his stereo on full blast, or maybe Fraser's got the runs from a drunken Pizzi's run at 3 a.m. Life on the Main Line is oftentimes wacky, even if you're not every night's subject of discussion for the Eastern Sports Promotional Network talkie circuit.

I'm beginning to wonder if Jay Wright has something up his sleeve. Consider this: In the early part of the season, 'Nova's guards slashed and spread out wherever and whenever they wanted. This style of play utterly confounded opposing teams, which resulted in eye-opening final scores and an enormous amount of national attention. However, over the last three games in particular, there seems to be a decreased reliance upon shooting and slashing, and an increased emphasis on rebounding and pounding the post. The four-guard front that everyone keeps talking about has not been on display nearly as much as the three guards with two forwards formation. The slightly taller offensive set, however, in and of itself poses significant problems, because any combination of the four guards can create a fireworks display. As a matter of fact, any of 'Nova's starting seven--because that is essentially what they are--is capable of executing a huge play in a tight spot. Therefore, over the last few weeks--since Nardi was struck with mono, roughly the weekend of the Notre Dame thriller--'Nova has had the luxury of shelving the vaunted four-one attack.

Now, stay with me here: Under the current three-two set, they would likely roll right through the rounds of sixty-four and thirty-two, particularly if they are lucky enough to be seeded in Philly for those opening games. (I don't even want to think of what a madhouse the F.U.C., or whatever it's called these days, would be for those games.) The Sweet Sixteen takes place more than a month since we last saw the dazzling four-guard exposition. Opponents would therefore be forced to look at tape from much earlier in the season, or even as far back as last year, in the hopes of formulating some kind of game plan to counter the four guard onslaught. Thereupon, the 'Cats will basically maul everybody, including Puke in the final, Wright will be crowned the new genius and awarded coach of the year, and 'Nova will raise its second championship banner. Glory may yet be within our reach after all.

Historians of college basketball will forever linger on what-ifs involving Curtis Sumpter. It's not ridiculous to assert that the 'Cats might have been #1 end-to-end had he stayed healthy. Reportedly, last Sunday's ScrewConn game was his return target date, yet there he was on the end of the bench, sitting quietly as he has for the last 12 months. At this point, I really hope he takes the red shirt and comes back for a full year. Frankly, 'Nova is good enough to win it all without him this year, and I honestly think he could help make next year's team better than the current squad. But, if he does decide to come back for the tournies and enter the draft next year, there’s no doubt that Jay will figure something else out. This past week aside, the program is in fantastic shape--maybe its best shape ever.

Dear God, please let us win it all this year. 'Nova Nation would go Villa-nuts.

Tourino Takeaways

Curling is kinda cool.

Bode Miller ripped some great partying, choked badly out on the slopes, and left with a Zen-like contentment about the whole experience.

Shani Davis is the Barry Bonds of ignored sports.

As a general rule, Swedish women are very attractive.

Cross-country skiing broadcasts earned final tallies of: two frozen thumbs down, 0 Alpine stars, and a last-place medal the size of Piazza San Carlo.

You Stink Good

Words you never want to hear this late in the season, or any time for that matter: "They're still holding out hope for a shot at an N.I.T. bid." Take!

Patpourri

"Here's to the misfits. The rebels. The trouble makers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They are not fond of rules. They have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. But the only thing you can't do is ignore them, because they change things. They push this human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the people who are crazy enough think they can change the world are the ones who do."--Apple Computer, 2002

Memo to a Foe

Dear G-town,

You are our bitches.

Sincerely,
'Nova Nation

Definition of Zero

Zero degrees fahrenheit is...

...feeling the freeze before the door even opens.

...taking a drag on a cigarette and, upon bringing it back up to your mouth, realizing that the filter has turned into a small block of ice.

...finding out the hard way that the pain of getting warm is much worse than the numbness of the initial freeze.

...enough to turn a bustling city into a ghost town.

...noticing that your hands are bright blue, and being thankful that you still have hands at all.

...convulsing so badly that you stop noticing after thirty seconds.

...not caring that other human beings are in close proximity.

...enough to turn a five-block walk into the Iditarod.

...wishing that you hadn't lost not one, but two Bears knit caps in the last month, and accepting that neither would have helped much anyway, even if worn together.

...wondering why we don't all move to Arizona, and then remembering that June is right around the corner.

...turning on the radio, hearing the announcer declare that the wind chill is negative thirty-two, and registering no surprise whatsoever at the news.

...my favorite city in the world, as of this very moment.

Random Thought of the Day

If business wants law changed, there's a change. If law wants business changed, there's chaos. Democracy follows markets, not the other way around. Compare Russia and China if you think I'm off my rocker.

Patpourri

"I don't think I want to know a six-year-old who isn't a dreamer, or a sillyheart. And I sure don't want to know one who takes their student career seriously. I don't have a college degree. I don't even have a job. But I know a good kid when I see one. Because they're ALL good kids, until dried-out, brain-dead skags like you drag them down and convince them they're no good. You so much as scowl at my niece, or any other kid in this school, and I hear about it, and I'm coming looking for you. Take this quarter, go downtown, and have a rat gnaw that thing off your face. Good day to you, madam."--John Candy as Buck Russell, "Uncle Buck"

"Dear Max, I am sorry to say that I have secretly found out that Mr. Blume is having an affair with Miss Cross. My first suspicions came when I saw them Frenching in front of her house, and then I knew for sure when they went skinny dipping in Mr. Blume's swimming pool, giving each other hand jobs while you were taking a nap on the front porch. Why am I telling you this now? Because you're such a good friend. Take care, pal. Fondly, Dirk Calloway."--Mason Gamble, "Rushmore"

"I submit that you took that baseball, stuffed it in your unusually large vagina, and walked right on out of here."--Larry David, "Curb Your Enthusiasm"

Anti-Shades

I think my ancestors were vampires, not only because I am ghostly pasty, but also because sunlight is my greatest natural enemy. Because of this, I wear sunglasses basically all of the time. This produces a condition in drastic contrast to drinking, in that the more I do it, the less tolerant I become. At this point, after years of wearing shades between the hours of 6 and 6, I can't see shit in the daylight without my shades on. I also have a hard time adjusting to lights at the ballpark, which means I usually wear my shades well into the fourth inning of mid-summer night games. Sunglasses also serve as goggles, a trait that comes in handy in the crazy and ever-changing wind tunnel known as downtown Chicago. Also, I think shades make me look cool. Actually, that's not my style at all. My attachment to my shades is totally practical, I assure you.

On the rare occasion when I'm forced to face the daylight without sunglasses, two principal effects occur. First, I end up squinting an inordinate amount, which makes me look inexplicably pissed off. Second, since I wind up essentially closing my eyes in an attempt to block out the sun, I find myself bumping into and tripping over static objects. So, here's this guy, looking all angry, ramming into light poles, newspaper boxes, and street signs, swearing at no one in particular all the while. It is not a pretty sight, and if I were to see someone knocking into shit as he ambled down the street, I'd probably think he were crazy, drunk, or both. Therefore, my shades are like an AmEx: Never leave home without them.

Late last summer, I walked to Sheehan's house following a late afternoon ballgame. With a freshly purchased twelve-pack of Miller Lite tucked under my arm, I climbed up the back stairs of his townhouse and settled my drunken arse onto the fantastically spacious porch atop the garage behind his place. Upon phoning him, he informed me that he was still up at his parents' house in the vanilla suburbs, but when he heard that I was not only drunk but continuing to drink while sitting uninvited on his porch, he rushed back downtown in a failed attempt to moderate my poor behavior. As the early evening passed into full-blown nighttime, I took my shades off and put them into a pocket, as they were hindering my ability to review my scorecard of the day's game. At some point during my and Sheehan's boozing session on the porch, I inadvertently allowed the shades to fall out of my pocket.

Following many fantastic (and now forgotten) misadventures, I came out of my stupor back at my apartment late the next morning, only to realize that my trusted old friend, the black metal Ray-Bans, were missing in action, and had likely become casualties of the evening. To say that I was despondent over the loss would be putting it lightly. Adding to my sense of disorientation, I was due at my sister's boyfriend's apartment to drop off tickets for that night's Cubs-Cardinals game, which I could not attend due to a mandatory family gathering at my parents' house. Combined with my natural aversion to the sun and the raging headache I was nursing, performing either of these two activities without ocular protection was unthinkable. So, I headed over to Water Tower Place, for yet another impulse shopping spree. Within seconds of leaving my building, I was overwhelmed with the terrifying and irrational sense that my retinas were on the verge of burning away in the scorching glare of the summer sun. Thankfully, I reached the oasis of the sunglasses store just in the nick of time.

I tried in vain to find an exact copy of my lost shades, as they had served me well during the three years I had worn them, through many long days and many eventful road trips, both at home and abroad. However, fashions change (in spite of my utter resistance to change), and I was of the opinion that all of the Ray-Bans they had in stock completely sucked. The sales guy suggested that I should try on some polarized Oakleys. At first, I wasn't too sure of his suggestion, primarily because I always thought Oakleys were either for hipsters or guys who were dying to get laid. Accepting that I was, indeed, a hipster dying to get laid, I picked out a pair that covered nearly half of my face. I heard from someone (one of my sisters, in all probability) that big shades were in that summer, and, though I typically resist things others find to be cool, I decided to break with my natural instincts and follow the herd for once. 'Anyway, the bigger, the better,' I told myself.

As I stood at the register, the store clerk asked if I wanted a hard case for the glasses. I resisted at first, but then, with a lisp I could never replicate with the written word, he capped off his sales pitch with, "See, the case is big, and there's this hidden compartment you can put your glasses in, so if someone finds the case, they might open it and say, 'Oh my God! Where are the sunglasses?' and then they won't seal your sunglasses." "Right," I thought to myself, "The old hidden glasses trick gets 'em every time." Since the bill was already way more than I'd hoped it would be, I bought the case like a complete sucker. Not surprisingly, I've never had occasion to use the hard case, primarily because I'm always wearing them, and also because I've never felt the need to use the old hidden glasses trick--not that I think it would work in the first place. I will say that the case looks pretty cool sitting on my desk, even if it is tragically under-used.

This new pair of shades has served me well in the intervening months; I've found that you can wear polarized glasses at more or less any time of the day and still see everything perfectly clearly, even through the darkest shadows of night. Though they are huge and (as Day once pointed out) make me look like Bono (especially when my hair is greasy and slicked back), I really love my newest pair of sunglasses. A couple weeks later, I once again trekked up to Sheehan's back porch, only to discover my old Ray-Bans right where they'd fallen out of my pocket, sitting idly under my favorite deck chair. This was something of a miracle, as Sheehan's downstairs neighbor, Bill, had thrown raging outdoor parties at least three times in the weeks since I'd lost them. I've since left this old pair at Seamus's apartment, as my go-to shades in case I ever pass out there and somehow manage to pry myself off the couch during the daylight hours. This has never happened, especially since he subscribed to ESPN's College Gameday a couple months ago.

Setting their principal sun-blocking purpose aside, there are other reasons why I insist upon wearing shades almost all of the time. First of all, I enjoy casting sideways glances at people. I think it's funny, especially when I pass self-conscious girls (oxymoronic) on the street; the look of unbridled tension on their faces is simply priceless. Second, when I'm wandering around with my iPod on, listening to some complex piece of music by one of my favorite bands, I've noticed that my eyes tend to dart all over the place in a haphazard fashion, and I would hate to give the impression that I've got the crazy eye, even if I am, in point of fact, borderline crazy. Third, there's a certain line from 'Unforgiven,' the greatest modern Western ever made, in which Clint Eastwood says, "The eyes are the window onto a man's soul." Sometimes--most of the time--I don't particularly feel like allowing strangers a glimpse at my soul. (God knows that many times I don't even want to glimpse in at my own soul.) I love that sunglasses provide a false sense of privacy and security, like hiding under the covers, or closing your eyes on a roller coaster.

In many ways, writing What I See is my anti-shades, offering glimpses of the goings-on in my head that I hadn't previously known were there--a window on a hidden world, I suppose.

Random Thought of the Day

Who is Preston, and why has he scrawled his name on buildings all over my neighborhood?

Random Thought of the Day

The Swedish women's curling team has a couple hotties. Then again, I'm sure the Swedish women's anything team has a couple hotties.

Something Wrong With Me

My best friend Page just called me from the new Winn Hotel & Casino in Vegas. I asked him to go to the sports book and place two bets for me: $100 on Villanova to win it all in March, and another $100 on the Cubs to end their World Series drought. The big question is: Which will prove to be the worse bet? You would think that I'd have learned to stay away from my favorite teams after all these years of relentless losing, but what can I say? I guess I'm just a ceaselessly hopful, impossibly naive, predictably rah-rah moron at heart. At any rate, Page: You suck for being in Vegas while I sit in the freezing Chicago rain, you bastard. But I'm still psyched you're finally moving home!

One Step Closer

Keep smiling, Kyle! It's only gonna get better from here on in!

And, a hearty "Thanks for staying!" to our man Jay!

A New One

I just heard back from a hedge fund that I'm overqualified to be their bitch. It seems like I'm either overqualified or underqualified for everything I try to do. It's frustrating. Where do I fit in? I have this creeping sensation that the answer is nowhere, but, I must admit, I kind of get off on that. Still, an odd sense of satisfaction does little to pay the bills or lend purpose to my life, which leaves me with little hope but to keep soldiering on.

If indeed the answer is that I fit in nowhere, I guess that's a sign that it's time to resume the Pruitt project. I put it to the side a few weeks ago in the hopes of an inspiration strike, for I am frozen on the third portion of the book, which details the affairs of his personal life. His family and friends are easy to conjure because they play more or less peripheral roles in this story. Rich's girlfriend presents the tricky part, because he spends most of the third part with her, and it is through her that we truly come to love him through their affection for one another. I have laid out in my mind exactly what she looks like and a good deal about her background, but I've gotten stuck on (how to put this?) the exact mechanations of how they relate. It's not easy to imagine a relationship with no foundation in truth, what with all the twists and turns and contrasting opinions and surprises and so forth that make loving someone such a vital, human experience.

I mentioned to Ellen, the girl I'm seeing, my problem with regard to Rich's girlfriend, since she went to Kellogg and is a writer herself (only she gets paid to do it).

"So," she said, with a stern yet comical look she's famous for, "I'm research for a book, huh?"

"No," I said, lying. She saw right through it. I have a pretty tough time lying to her. I didn't want to say much more about it, so I mumbled something (which follows, in legible form) and changed the subject.

It's not that I plan to reproduce specifics about our relationship into the novel. The important thing is that being in a functional, normal relationship puts me in the right frame of mind for creating this love affair out of thin air, and crafting this relationship in just the right way will make or break this story.

Getting back to the original point, I've begun to believe with increasing frequency that, if it is the case that I don't really fit in anywhere, I must make up some place where I can feel most at home. And the act that feels most comfortable to me is creating intricate webs of words. I've known that I possessed this talent since I was five or six years old, even through the flurry of realizations that freshly dawn on me each day.

Swan Songs

Some of the most beautiful music you will ever hear, period. In particular, I highly recommend "Goodbye My Love."

Starting Gun

Pitchers and catchers, please report to your team's spring training facility immediately. Thank you.

Patpourri

"All you need in this life is a tremendous sex drive and a great ego. Brains don't mean shit."--legendary Key West denizen Captain Tony

You Feelin' It?

First the Big Five, then the Big East, then the NCAA? You better believe ARay's feelin' it!

Super Blog Sunday

I woke up and had to look up what time the game starts. Yeah, that's how much I care about the Super Bowl. The Super Bowl is the New Year's Eve of sporting events--it should be great, but, for whatever reason, typically sucks. Too much hype, not enough substance. As far as I'm concerned, the Super Bowl is great for one reason: It means baseball is right around the corner. I'd rather watch bad baseball than great football any day of the week--unless the Bears are involved, then I'd need a radio for the baseball broadcast.

I passed out on the couch Saturday night, which happens every so often. I'm supposing my bed missed me the night before, so I stumbled over to my bedroom and crawled under the covers. Very comfy. I picked up "The Glory of Their Times" by Lawrence S. Ritter, one of the best sports books ever. It's an oral history told by the greats who played in the Big Leagues around the turn of the century, back when players were ordinary folks, not unapproachable supermen-millionaires. Without exception, the two modern players (modern for them--Ritter began compiling the interviews in 1961) whose abilities most impressed the old timers were Willie Mays and Sandy Koufax. Who would disagree with those selections? Forty years later, and I'd still agree with them. I wonder which modern player would have really caught the attention of a guy like George Sisler? Probably Roger Clemens and (I grind my teeth as I type it) Albert Pujols; maybe Greg Maddux and Ichiro.

Once I finished the remaining 40 pages or so, I showered and watched some t.v. Everyone knows how brutal the 120-hour Super Bowl pre-game shows are, so I won't even go there. It's not that I'm sour on the Super Bowl, it's that I've already heard the starting line-ups and what to look for at least two hundred times by now. Get on with the game already. The only other options were a boring NBA game, a marginal NCAA game, and not much else. History of Mexican-American food on the History Channel. "Clueless" on Comedy Central. Not much news-wise. Exchanged a couple text messages with the girl I've been seeing. Ignored a couple calls from my brother and mom.

After abandoning my attempt to avoid Super Bowl coverage (which is an impossible task when your fingers reflexively punch in the ESPNs), I turned my attention to Cubs season 94 on MVP Baseball 2004 dynasty mode. They should name future MVP Baseball World Series trophies "The Paddy Award," because that game is my bitch. I don't even play the games at this point; I run the draft, sign free agents, pull some trades, and run the simulator. I grew tired of the game months ago, but I'm addicted. It's a bigger challenge at this point to win the AAA and AA playoffs, so I've been focusing on the farm teams lately. After a little while, I flipped back over to t.v. As fate would have it, ESPN had an ad for MVP 06 NCAA Baseball--done! Impulse buys account for approximately 95% of all my consumer decisions. I grabbed my iPod, threw on a coat, and headed to the store.

It was pretty nice today; cool and clear, not too windy. It was like a ghost town, though; everyone presumably at Super Bowl parties. I went to Starbucks, then CompUSA. College 2006 was unfortunately out of stock. Crap. Maybe Best Buy this week, if the impulse rears its ugly head again. One funny thing: "You Gotta Be Startin' Something" by Michael Jackson was blasting from the large iPod display near the front door. So, on my way out, I did a little jig, and the previously bored security guard laughed at the nutty white guy. What can I say? I try.

Hunger dawned on me when I got outside. Despite the many dining options right outside my front door, I still feel the need to make an occasional McDonald's call. It's gross but good. As I crossed the street, Seamus called me to inform of my brother's misbehaviors of the night before. No surprises there--that's why I didn't go out with him last night. I can't make him stop being a dick, so I get out of the way. I advised Seamus to do the same, and then hung up on him so I could order and be home for kickoff.

I went in and ordered two #2s without onions, supersized. Why two meals? It is, after all, Super Bowl XL, and since the game might be as uninteresting as many Super Bowls of the past, I figured at least one thing about the day should be huge and awesome. Walked home and went back upstairs. Wolfed down the burgers and fries. Good and gross at the same time, as expected.

The game starts.

Seesaw non-action. Ho-hum. Field goal. 3-0, Seattle.

Second quarter.

Madden: "I've never seen quarterbacks in a Super Bowl as cool as these two guys." Maybe they're as bored as I am of these limitless commercial breaks.

What am I supposed to do during the 45-minute halftime show? I'm sitting here alone, there's nothing else on, and I'm not going to call someone to say, "Wow! A defensive first half! How unexciting!" Why are the Rolling Stones performing at the half? Shouldn't it be a Motown revue, or an Eminem and Kid Rock duet, or something somehow related to Detroit? Can you still smoke in Detroit bars? Did they tear down Tiger Stadium?

Commercials, two plays, commercials. Stifled yawn. Contemplating a potty break. Holding it--something to do at halftime.

Antwaan Randle-El just broke his back. Maybe it's not broken, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was. We'll see that replay for the rest of our lives. Fast, barbaric, violent--it could be part of the new NFL Films intro. Anyway, somebody get that guy a cortisone drip; he'll need one in the morning for the rest of his life.

Roethlisberger launched a bomb to Ward near the goal line. It was something you definitely tried on the playground, especially when you had a 10 second blitz count. Sometimes good players get lucky when other good players mess up; so goes sports. Big Ben runs it in. Oh--no, did he? Replay. Call stands. 7-3, Steelers.

Hasselbeck dumps to Alexander on the sideline; Tyrone Carter rips off Alexander's shoe. What a pussy move. Timeouts. Alexander's shoe notwithstanding, very little hurry-up in Seattle's hurry-up. Don't they know there's only 30.5 minutes left in the season?!

Halftime.

I'm glad the game is finally gotten on with, after all the nonsense. My excitement for the Super Bowl would be exponentially higher if it weren't for stupid media week. Last Saturday, I was totally ready for football. But, by Wednesday, I couldn't wait to get on with it. What's the point of the week off? The talking-head response is: So the players can go home and spend time with their families before the biggest event of their lives. Judging by all the heavy comments in the week (weeks, actually) leading up to the game, you would think that these men were on the precipice of performing these valiant deeds on behalf of humankind. It's a football championship, people. It's not going to feed the hungry or give sight to the blind.

I played MVP Baseball for almost the whole break. What'd the Stones play? Would I have even remembered by lunchtime tomorrow? No. So, I'm good with missing it. Also, I started a new baseball book. I won't reveal which one. A shroud of mystery descends...


First drive of the half, huge run by Willie Parker. 14-3, Steelers. Next stop: Blowoutsville?

What to do after the game--Grey's Anatomy (ha!) or get groceries? (Groceries.) Another schmaltzy Clydsdale commercial. Three-way tie for my least favorite things: Budweiser beer; Budweiser ads; Budweiser baseball (a.k.a. the St. Louis Cardinals).

Nice pass from Hasselbeck to Stephens. 14-10, Steelers. Nineteen minutes left. All of a sudden, the game draws me back in. John Madden's broadcasts are like jam band music: It's not what he says, but how he says it, that conjures the greatness.

A few years ago, Barron's ran a cover cartoon parodying Gillette's apparent business strategy for the new millenium, depicting a frightening-looking disposable razor with twenty blades. Well folks, it's good to see that, once again, the world is one step closer to having comedy become reality. "The All-New Gillette Fusion: We Just Keep Adding More Blades." I wonder what they'll come up with for next year? I bet they add another blade. It's not like trowing on additional blades means you won't have to go over certain areas four or five times. I gave up after the Mach3--I find it to be more than enough razor for me personally. Also, I like the vibrating one--it just floats across your skin; it's nice (like my wife). Hey, wait, there's a football game on...

My mom called; I answered. "Hi! No, I don't particularly care who wins. You pulling for anybody? Of course I'm sitting in front of the t.v. Yeah, I'm eating snacks. Sure, I'll call back after the game. Love ya, bye."

Fourth quarter.

Long bomb, touchdown, Big Ben to Hines Ward. 21-10, Steelers. Another bathroom break.

The urge to play video games is overwhelming me at this juncture. My solution is to throw the remote into a corner, which will force me to watch the rest of this game. After all, the future of the free world hangs in the balance of this contest, or so we've been lead to believe.

The Steelers are on cruise control. Maybe go over to the couch for a while? Forget it. Make more popcorn. Pop Secret Homestyle with a splash of paprika. It's the best.

I'd like to be familiar with the ABC actors on these public service announcements, but I can't remember the last time I watched a show on ABC. Oh wait, "Boston Legal" from time to time. (Good show.) By the way, the big secret in the show "Lost" is...nah, I'm not that big of a jerk.

Pittsburgh's got this one in the bag. Four minutes left. Why is the Steelers' logo only on the right side of their helmets? That's always bothered me.

One minute left. Why is Seattle throwing up the middle? They did a shoddy job of managing the clock from the very first snap; that'll kill you every time. The Seahawks go for it big--another pass up the middle--a completion, but still the middle. Madden keeps saying, "You take one shot at the end zone, then you try a field goal and onsides kick." They should have gone for the field goal thirty seconds ago; now they've got no chance of an onsides kick or any kind of miracle. An inbounds sideline catch, another downfield completion, and utter confusion at Hasselbeck's line. Clock runs out. Steelers take XL, 21-10.

Re-read the post; looks good. Not a bad game, I suppose, but just another game all the same. Aw yeah, the grocery store is open for another hour...thank God for a rare short Super Bowl.

Patpourri

Berkshire Hathaway's greatest hits...

First, one from Charlie Munger, the Scottie Pippen of corporate America:


"Never wrestle with a pig, for if you do, both you and the pig will get dirty, but the pig will enjoy it."


And, my three favorite Buffettisms from the main man himself:


Reporter: "What keeps you awake at night?"

Warren: "I don't worry. We do the best we can. We don't predict currents--just how certain fish will swim in different currents."


"Risk comes from not knowing what you're doing."


"I know people will be drinking Coke, using Gilette blades and eating Snickers bars in 10 to 20 years, and have a rough idea of how much profit they'll be making. But I don't know anything about telecom."

Maxims of the Single Guy

When I say I haven't had hardly anything to drink, I'm lying.

It's nothing personal; it's just that sometimes I'd rather stay in and play video games.

Two hours of shopping is two hours too long.

Sports is more important than sex, because sporting events take place many times per day, whereas I can only take place a couple of times per day.

Raisinettes and popcorn at the movie theater constitute "dinner out."

Of course I'm checking out other women. And, it's not about how hot you are; it's about how hot they are.

It's not that I care about my car more than I care about you, but would you care as much about me if I drove a crappy car?

I don't actually need to work out in order to stay skinny; I'm just saying that to make you feel better.

My apartment is never even marginally clean until you tell me you're coming over.

What your mom said about me is totally relevant, but only to you.

I'm always doing other stuff while speaking with you on the phone.

You're beautiful, but so is an unopened bottle of Cuervo 1800.

I don't necessarily dislike pillow talk; it's just that I'd rather roll over and go right to sleep.

I like your friends, but not nearly as much as I love my buddies.

I hate sushi.

I'm always thinking about sex, just not necessarily with you.

It's never, ever going to be a good time to have the big relationship talk.

I have a better chance of recalling the last ten Heisman, Stanley Cup, World Series, Super Bowl, and March Madness winners than any one of your grandparents' names.

There's no such thing as "too revealing."

I can't figure out why you stay with me either.

New WIS Series: Patpourri

As previously noted, I've been a bit short of writing ideas lately. Today it dawned on me why this is the case: I'm completely tired of writing about what I do. I hate re-reading some of the posts and feeling like I sound "a particular way." It's tough to put a finger on this problem, but I feel that the only remedy is to put the topic to the side for a bit--just like milk, or bread, er, bad examples... Let's just move on.

To the best of my knowledge, Ben Franklin never noted in "Poor Richard's Almanack" which quotes and sayings he'd invented himself and which he'd paraphrased from others. Well, I'm going to do just that. "Random Thought of the Day" will be things that I thought of, or things that I heard someone say. "Patpourri" will be things that I've taken from others.

This new section will be likely be extremely random things: quotes, lyrics, cool hyperlinks, tidbits of that nature. The links will not always be of the purest nature, so I'll warn you when they are objectionable. Be forewarned that my objectionable standard is shaky at best. Therefore, you'd best check the links from your home computer, unless you find yourself in a daring mood on a boring Friday afternoon. Enjoy!

Happy Message

From my buddy Page: "Paddy. Me quit job. Me move back to Chicago. Call me."

Yippee!

Content Suggestion Response

I've taken a bit of flak lately over the fact that I only seem to write about my own experiences or, alternatively, baseball. Also, my brother has taken to coming over at the end of particularly fantastic nights to exclaim, "Paddy! You should write about my night on your blog!"

As a reaction to both of these sentiments, it's clear to me now that the time has come to go off into uncharted grounds, by discussing a much wider variety of germane topics, few of which will have anything to do with me. For example, no longer will I attempt to comment on a ridiculous exchange with a stranger on the street. Never again will you hear me mention a strange occurrence on an L platform. Not once more will you find mention on these solemn pages of discussions with friends, family, or random folks about topics wide and varied. I will all but totally abandon discussion of fantastic double plays, Villanova basketball, favorite restaurants, and the like. I will try to write about what other people tell me, and how they fell about things--in other words taking second-hand accounts and making them my own. From now on, I will keep it real as defined by what other people think is real. Further, I will do my best to become a much more mundane writer, for your own sake, so that you might become bored, rather than amused. Comedic commentary is no longer my game.

Like hell.

I am a bit tired of having to clarify the purpose of this site. What I See was never meant to be a ship's log of my life, and I would never claim that to be the case. Though the banner on the top of this site reads "What I See," it would at times be more aptly entitled, "What I Recall." Forgive me for my occasional consolidations, dwellings, or ramblings; it is always for the story's sake. Anyway, let me ask you this: have you ever tried to sit down hours after the fact and tried to re-assemble the happenings of a particular blurry night? I bet not. And, if you were successful in your endeavor to recall the most miniscule of every detai of any particular night, I doubt you'd be nearly as successful as I, or, if you were, I'd bet you hadn't nearly enough to drink to make it very interesting in the first place.

So, regardless of the peanut gallery’s cries against these pages, let it be known that this has always been meant as a venue for the best of what remains of my thoughts, and/or what comes to mind when I sit down at the computer. I am not perfect, and neither are you. But maybe, in some way, through these pages, when I point out things that provide us all with a little amusement, we can feel better about ourselves and the world around us by thinking in unison, "Yeah, that's exceptionally goofy!" I do not, nor would I ever, purport to be the New York Times. On the contrary, I'd rather be a part of the supplemental materials of life, the reporter in charge of covering things that would never, not in a million years, make the cover of any respectable newspaper or journal. This is "What I See," or "What I Remember," and, by whichever phrasing you prefer, what I choose to relate can be pretty messed up. So, let's not make this more than it really is. Enjoy it and move on.

Also, as I look back through my January posts, I have to admit that I am slightly disappointed with my output, both in terms of post content and length. I promise that this will not become a continuing trend, so keep checking back often.

With that, read on, kind soldiers.

S.I. = M.I.A.

Where's Mike Nardi?

I don't see how ScrewConn is ranked #1. Are they 18-1? Sure. But who are most of those victories against? The list includes Quinnipiac, Stony Brook, and Texas Southern, to name a few. Most of their non-conference schedule reads like a list of schools you'd never let your children attend. And it's not like any of those places is a crappy school with a good basketball program, like ScrewConn itself. Then, when they came out of that long, long non-conference padding of the winning percentage nonsense portion of the schedule, how did they do in their first Big East test? They lost to Marquette. Correction: they BLEW against Marquette, which doesn't even have a very good squad this year. And, ScrewConn's best player is named Gay. ("Dude, you're Gay!" "Screw you, man!" "No, I said it with a capital G." "Oh, that's cool then.") Also, fuck Jim Calhoun. That guy is phonier than a three-dollar bill.

Villanova, on the other hand, lost close games to two schools who have been legitimate Top 10s for the past two years--Texas and West Virginia. All of the kids in our program will graduate; they do indeed go to class and have brains. I heard that the assistants check in at their classrooms every day to make sure they're sitting there, and it doesn't surprise me. It's exactly what you'd expect from Jay Wright, who is a class act all the way. Also, when they pull Foye or Nardi or Ray to the side for a post-game interview, I swell with pride to hear them answer the reporter's questions. Those guys are a credit to the school, and I'm not just saying that because they're good this year. I'm very proud of them, because they represent themselves and the school as well as they play basketball. The AP and ESPN voters will occasionally clamor for more academics in collegiate sports when the topic might make a splash and sell some ad space, but it is clear that they would rather slobber all over a program as flagrantly crooked as ScrewConn's when no one feels much like playing watchdog. That Villanova is legit both on and off the court should mean something to the voters; we still have a few weeks to see if it does.

Enough about how great we are....or not! I simply cannot wait until 'Nova gets to have their way with the Huskies--and I don't mean the exclusively fat bitches who go to that shitbox "school." I think you gain automatic admission to ScrewConn if you can spell Connecticut without using a D or a K. The ScrewConn fans will probably spend most of our two games against them trying to figure out why so many kids have Vs on the fronts of their shirts when the name of the school is 'Nova. Really, though, do you expect much more from people willing to waste four (or five, or six, or seven) years of their lives in a place as desolate as Storrs, Connecticut? That place is worse than limbo--it could be worse, but could it?

At any rate, I think we have a very good chance of being ranked #1 before the year is out. If we can topple ScrewConn at least once (if not twice), I don't see why #1 would be outside the realm of possibility. And, at any rate, if Villanova, this little Catholic college outside of Philly that is far too basketball-obsessed to bother with a big-time football program, rolls into March with a top seed in the tournament, I'll be the happiest guy in America.

Scream it loud and scream it proud: Let's go 'Nova!