Tim

NEW blog!

Tue, 09 Sep 2008 02:13:00 GMT

This page has had quite a run since the beginning of my junior year in high school. I've rambled, vented, hoped, dreamed and reminisced for three years. I've kind of outgrown it, though, both as a writer and as a person, so I'm posting under a new username now.

theoldsport

It's a play on both my love of sports and a claim I once made about being Gatsby from F. Scott FitzgerIn a wayald's classic novel. I'm looking to focus more on independent writing projects, bringing my personality out more through them than arbitrary daily updates. Also, I'm going to link the family to the new spot, so they can keep up with what I'm writing and how I'm doing as a college student.

I'm not sure what this means for the flyrz. Perhaps I'll update here every once in a while. No matter what, though, this is a large, important chunk of my life that I'll always have to go back and reflect on. The memories in this particular journal are ones that mean something to me, and it's a good thing to have them all collected here. I want to move on, but I don't ever want to lose sight of where I came from.

So head on over to theoldsport.livejournal.com and continue this unique jouney.

I've still got a lot of thoughts, dreams and memories ahead of me.

GO FLYERS!

I'm crying midnight green tears right now

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 18:07:51 GMT

Last year, I found the Eagles radio broadcasts on a central Pennsylvania radio station's live-streaming radio broadcast. It wasn't much, nothing to get excited about unless you're some sports-obsessed loner who's "on his own" for the first time in his life.

But I did get excited about it.

I was excited about sitting there at the computer in my Eagles gear, snacking and drinking soda while living and dying with Merril Reese's distinct voice as it shot to my dorm room from south Philadelphia.

It wasn't just a sports ritual. It was one of the few ties I had to back home. My ability to stay connected with my favorite sports teams gave me a constant in one of changinest times of my life.

And that's really what sports means to me, a constant that can keep me connected to family and friends, to childhood memories and to places I called home in my lifetime. Sports linked my basement on Fremont St. to Grandma's house to family party venues to my friends' respective living rooms to a dorm room in Falconio Hall.

So I was kind of looking forward to today's season-opening game between the Rams and my Eagles. The local Bills were on FOX (since they were playing the Seahawks from the NFC), so the Eagles would not be part of the regional television package here.

I still had hopes for at least something on radio.

After a shaky Sunday morning, I was looking forward to returning to my dorm. Eagles on the radio and the first game of the Phillies/Mets double header on Gameday with the nightcap on ESPN.

At 1 p.m., the local radio station was still playing today's "cutting edge" rock music. Either it lost the rights (even though they did have the Birds on in the preseason games) or the NFL caught on to me getting *gasp* free radio broadcasts and put on the clamp.

The sports station out of Philadelphia also gained the rights to broadcast games, but, being a sports station out of Philadelphia, those broadcasts are obviously blocked out for those of us surfing the net.

So my options are to receive game updates on Yahoo or spend an exorbitent amount of money on some package that allows me to watch 43570984356438726085 games a week when I only really want to watch one.

Fucking NFL. You made a ridiculous amount of money as it is. I buy a $67 jersey, a $25 hat, hell, even a pair of green socks with the Eagle head logo on them. If I could afford it, I'd spend egregious amount on tickets and two weeks' wages on a fucking hot dog and soda (because you're no longer allowed to bring your own food into the stadium). Despite all this, I still blindly worship your product, doing everything I can to follow a franchise that doesn't even know or care who the hell I am.

And now all I want to do is listen to my favorite team on the radio. Unlike baseball, football is a sport that needs some kind of live, realistic component to it. A fan needs a voice or a moving picture to follow. A series of dots and a short paragraph describing what happens after every play doesn't suffice.

If I lived a certain number of miles southeast, I could pick up a radio and follow my team for free. Anyone with a radio in most of Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia and Delaware can listen for free,

Other than that, those of us with the same ability to pick up the radio signal are screwed. I know there are millions of us out there, just wishing to suck oodles of revenue from the NFL. We're asshoe criminals trying to run the innocent NFL out of business.

Wait a minute. I'm just a broke college student trying to bring a little bit of home, a little bit of something I love up to a dorm room in western New York.

Now, if you'll excise me, I have to get back to my dots and short, action-packed paragraphs.

14-0 Eagles.

At least if they win, I'll feel a little better.

Unofficially one year ago tonight...

Fri, 05 Sep 2008 04:05:55 GMT

It was one of the mot surreal experiences, sitting there in a half-empty room. It was the first Thursday night of the NFL season, and I watched the game at the Skeller. By the time I returned, my roommate had already moved out, leaving half of the room in a dark void.

Not that it was completely bad. I ended up enjoying living in a single the rest of my freshman year. Still, though, I couldn't help feeling so alone that night.

Then, by some weird series of events, I ended up talking to Amanda on line. And I felt better.

It was the last meaningful conversation I had with her.

One year later, I'm back. This time, my roommate has yet to move out.

- I went to sleep at 5 a.m. last night after leaving the BV's office a little after 4:30. I had to wake up to give a power point presentation on unity and multiplicity for Art and Literature. I worked on the slides during the long hours I spent barely working on the school paper, but I had to finish this morning. Upon finishing, I realized my flash drive must've jumped out of my laptop bag at home. It surely wasn't here.

The presentation went okay. Some girl even said "good job," though I'm sure it was just a formality. Then I went to the first off-ice hockey practice and spent more time at the BV after.

- A few notes on said newspaper. Yeah, it sucks working (or, in my case, not working) on it until the wee hours of the morning. It didn't help that I had the presentation stressing me out in the background. But I do enjoy it. I wish I could do more of the hands-on work at deadline time, instead of watching. Once I learn the program, I'm sure the sports editor won't mind letting me take up some of the layout jobs.

Yesterday, I had an interview with a sophomore runner for the women's cross country team. I like interviewing people. Being a journalist (or pretending to, at least) connects me with people I wouldn't normally be involved with. And I like sharing their respective stories with those who are willing to read them.

The BV might not be the most reputable organization to be involved with right now. A lot of people probably look down on it. But tomorrow morning, I'm going to grab a copy between classes to see the fruits of my labor. There's something about seeing your name in print and seeing something you worked on sitting there for the public to read and experience. I don't know if I should be proud of it or not, but I am.

It might be my life, but I can think of a few worse lives to be living, anyway.

As long as I don't sign up to do presentations for Thursday classes.

-Mom sent me an email tonight. She linked me to some local news. Barack Obama made a stop in Lancaster today and she went to see him, at Buchanan Park, actually. "Couldn't pass on this one - the office is less than 2 miles from Buchanan Park & there are a lot of memories there, too," she said.

There are a lot of memories there. I've been meaning to contact the family this week. Hopefully the weekend will give me a chance to.

-I got a work study job here on campus. It's PR work, mostly, writing thank-yous to people who make donations and organizing a few events. I'm not looking forward to adding another task to my schedule, but it will be nice to get a paycheck here.

Looks like I've come a long way from sitting in my room, alone in the dark one year ago tonight.

I've got a long way to go, too. And I'm looking forward to it.

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 11:52:34 GMT

I saw my deer friends today on the trail during my early-morning run. I saw them in the distance through the thick fog, making out little more than big, black figures against the white of the ground-level clouds. When I recognized their shapes, and realized that they, too, were watching me from a distance, I stopped and stared at them for a few minutes. They were quiet, calm, serene as they stood in the middle of my path.

After a while, I decided to give them their space. After all, they were there first. And so I turned and ran the other way, back toward campus, leaving them in their peace on this quiet Wednesday morning.

Uh-oh, he's in one of those moods again...

Tue, 02 Sep 2008 03:38:13 GMT

On my way back from a good reading session at Cafe La Verna, I took a little detour along the athletic fields.

I could see us walking through the quiet campus, hand-in-hand. A few hours ago we watched the sun set over the mountains beyond McGraw-Jennings field. It was a magnificent sunset, highlighting the bright colors of trees that had just turned for the fall.

Now the leaves were lost in the darkness that enveloped the September evening. A cool fall breeze danced between the minute space between us. She squeezed my hand in surprise of the wind's bite.

The Reilly Center appeared to be growing as we moved closer. The broght lights shining on the arena contrasted the surrounding darkness. It was quite an impressive sight.

But tonight, we were looking for a different kind of impressive.

Moving past the RC, we crossed the road overlooking the athletic fields. The road, too, was lined with bright street lights. We stopped at the edge on the other side before strolling down the hill, arm-in-arm into the shadows beyond.

It took a good thirty yards before we were out of the beams of campus lights. In the darkness, I could still see her beauty standing next to me. I could see her warm breath as it hit the cool air. She turned and gave me a warm hug, and I could feel that warm breath caress the side of my neck.

Another quick breeze incited a shiver from her. I took off my sweatshirt and draped it over her petite shoulders.

I don't bring the sweatshirt because I need it.

Then we turned our collective focus to the stars above, clear, bright stars decorating the dark sky above western New York. We sat on the damp grass, sharing a kiss.

For a while we'd sit there. Maybe we'd discuss our beliefs, our feelings or the latest news in sports or pop culture. Either way, it would be a discussion neither of us would forget. After a while, we'd lay down, side-by-side and we'd watch the stars rotate around the surrounding mountains.

We'd lay there and watch and we'd cuddle until sunrise.

Oh Deer

Mon, 01 Sep 2008 05:29:30 GMT

I'm back on top of the world.

Yeah, I had to endure a two-hour BV meeting. Yeah, I fought through 26 pages of Natty World. Yeah, I'm getting up at 6 tomorrow to get in a daily run before a French quiz at 8:30.

But, with days like today (or, I guess it was yesterday now), it's all worth it.

Actually, rewind a bit. Last night ended with some Skeller food (a cheese quesadilla for me), some bad puns, a new nickname and some of us creeping out the girls at the table next to us...eventually, they moved and became the girls next to the table next to us. Afterward, we watched two episodes of The Simpsons and called it a night.

I don't know what it is about Sunday morning Mass that I like so much. Outside of the spiritual fulfillment and religious component, it's just a good venue for me to clear my mind and relax for an hour.

After Mass and brunch, we tossed off in The Grove under the comfortable afternoon sun. I relaxed and watched as the Phils beat the Cubs. They settled for a series split, but outplayed the National League favorites for all but two or three innings in the past four days. Then I headed to dinner with the gang.

Every day this semester, I've hyped up this new ice cream place down the street. I wasn't even sure if my passing glance of it on the way here was enough to certify its existence. After the idea of going out for ice cream was dismissed, pushed off and ignored, we finally got around to making the trip after dinner.

It was worh it.

Perry's Ice Cream stand has a huge selection of frozen treats and grilled foods alike. It's a shame they're going to close down after next weekend, I think. After debating on whether or not to try a Bart Simpson or Mexican sundae, I decided on sticking with a classic root beer float, which I had craved way earlier this summer. It was delicious.

On the way back, my friends and I kept on the trail that runs along the river. We figured we'd stop at one of the benches to watch the sunset. The bench we were going to stop and sit at was...occupied, to say the least. We nearly interrupted a hot and heavy makeout session there at the bank of the river. Such a public display was rude and disturbing and, well, it kind of made me wish I could be making out with someone on a bench overlooking the Allegheny River at sunset.

After that surprise, we kept on and settled at a bench on the rugby field. And there, six deer-three doe and three fawns-crawled out of the woods and walked along the brush perpindicular to the trail we were walking. For about a minute, my friends and I sat and stared, watching them stroll, stop and gather. A family of bicyclers noticed the deer and startled them from their place on the path. The deer turned and scampered majestically across the rugby field, right in front of us, under the clouds turning purple in the setting sun's light. It was a siht too beautiful to accurately describe at 1:30 in the morning.

Sure, it was a walk filled with innuendos, tasteless jokes and brash humor. Though, at the same time, while I'm laughing at someone's suggestive situations and discussing bad date movies, I can take a deep breath, look up and appreciate the appeal of my surroundings. It's a perfect combination for me. I love to laugh with my heart ablaze.

And it did light a fire of sorts inside me. It's a good feeling to have right now before I bury myself in schoolwork. Today, I found the optimist in me, the idealistic dreamer appreciating the beauty of the world around me.

It's good, because I know I'm going to need to find that dreamer a lot this semester.

'Tis Been A Week Already

Sun, 31 Aug 2008 05:02:03 GMT

...since I packed up and moved back to Bona's as a sophomore. There's surprisingly not a whole lot to report, at least until I get back into the swing of things.

I've adjusted much better than I anticipated, even without having electricity on my half of the room for the first day. I've slept fine and I've even managed to eat a little better and get in a daily run each day this week (except Thursday).

Classes are shaping up with some promise. The dreaded core science course (Inquiry into the Natural World or "Natty World," if you will) that I'm taking without any close friends doesn't seem too bad. I survived honors science courses in high school, so hopefully I can swing a general overview of them here for a few months. Denny's class is another Denny class, French 201 is supposedly just a review of French 101 and 102 and Western Arts and Literature seems to be just like Humanities, but without the cool teachers and awesome field trips...and the professor doesn't rag me nearly as much for being an Eagles fan.

I'm still on the fence with hockey. Every part of me wants to participate this year, but it seems like we're getting a good turnout this year and I might end up being thrown down the depth chart. Maybe I've worked my way into a spot in the lineup already, even if I'm not good enough. No matter what, though, the hockey players all greet me and talk to me around campus and that feels pretty good.

I've survived my first of many BV deadlines. Wednesday night was awful, especially since the Phillies/Mets game was on. I didn't know how to do a whole lot, but apparently it wasn't much less than the other sports editors. I ended up sitting in the corner until 2 a.m., waiting for something to do and rolling my eyes while the rest of the crew went nuts over a Playboy (the one with *gasp* Kim Kardashian) to pass the time. Thursday went a lot better, though. For a while, I was the only sports guy there and I actually was able to do some hands-on work and actually got some editing done, which felt good. It's a lot of (sometimes unnecessary) work, but when the papers come out Friday morning, it is a special accomplished feeling.

Not a whole lot of homesickness, really, but I'm not bubbling with excitement about being here. Granted, I'm feeling good and I'm around some pretty awesome people. Sometimes I feel like I'm on top of the world, that everything's exactly the way it should be in a place that's perfect for me. But there have been a few times this week during which I felt trapped and out of place I've felt like something is missing and I've wanted to be anywhere but here.

Over time, I guess, as I get back into the swing of things and get used to being here, I'll be feeling more the latter and the former will fade away. After all, this is sophomore year. I'm ready to learn some new things, try new some things and connect with some new people.

And the same-old, same-old is always good for me, too.

It's never good to leave, but it's good to be back.

So when's this Phelps character going to jump the shark?

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 03:00:25 GMT

In case no one heard about this, American swimmer Michael Phelps won eight gold medals at the 2008 Beijing Olympic Games. I mean, China is on the whole other side of the world, and it hasn't really been publicized here in the States.

End sarcasm.

Even with his race for eight over with, Phelps is still swimming in the pool of media attention.

To be honest, my own interest in the Olympics has diminished. I feel a little cheated spending prime time watching events that happened hours before. NBC made a fuss about getting the golden boy and the gymnastics squads into a suitable time slot for U.S. viewers (at least those of us in the Eastern Time Zone), but the network executives either feigned interest or couldn't get the Chinese to budge any more scheduling.

I still keep up, and I'll watch a heat or two on the delay, but I'm no longer glued to Olympic coverage that's seemingly going through a Phelps hangover. I mean, how many interviews am I going to endure? How many features am I going to have to read on the guy?

Why, with track and field heating up and marquee events approaching the medal rounds, am I bombarded with all this drooling over Phelps? Why, all of this media drool could fill an olympic-sized pool.

Then Phelps could swim in it, faster than anyone else. (cue light bulb).

I could deal with Phelpsmania. It was, after all, a good story. Like I said, the guy is a phenominal athlete, the best in the world and possibly world history. He deserved the attention and the attention he received, and the way it was presented to me, was second to none.

But then the attention started getting a little tired. Then boring and slightly annoying. Now it's just frustrating.

I probably wouldn't be as disappointed about this if I was reading about how phelps plans on training for the 2012 London games or how he's going to give back to his community and various charities with all the endorsement money coming his way. Instead, But I'm reading, instead, about how his father has yet to congratulate him on his accomplishments.

According to stories from the New York Post and the Baltimore Sun, Fred Phelps has been absent throughout most of his son's adolescence. Apparently, if you have an estranged son, you're supposed to reconcile and share the spotlight with him after he overachieves and the world falls in love with him.

But this guy hasn't even talked to his son, or most media members, during these Olympics. He has watched every race on TV, claiming to be "on pins and needles" the whole time.

This, apparently, is a problem for some people.

Just looking over the comments on Yahoo!'s story, I read, "irresponsible low life IMO" and "Grow a pair and head to Bejiing...sorry buddy too late!!"

Look, I'm no family therapist. I'm not saying this guy should win Father of the Year. I'm not condoning his 1993 divorce from Debbie Phelps. And I'm not even taking this in as any of my business.

But would it have been more honorable for Fred to show up (likely without an invitation from his son) at the Games, soaking in the spotlight and becoming a celebrity overnight? Before we label him as some gutless prick, can we not try to understand where he's coming from for a minute?

I mean, if I had a poor relationship with my father and won eight gold medals, I would feel more ripped off if he tried to come back into my life immediately after the fact (thinking of that scene from The Waterboy: We can be like Tiger Woods and his daddy!!!!!).

Taking nothing away from mommy Phelps, I'm a little tired of watching her sitting on the bleachers, crying and grabbing Chris Collinsworth's knee. It's a cute story, good for TV, but it's not really something I want to see the cameras cut to IN THE MIDDLE of a LIVE race at the OLYMPICS.

Without the cameras down at his house in Baltimore, how do we really know how Fred Phelps reacted, either? Maybe if there were cameras there, and NBC cut to them IN THE MIDDLE of a LIVE race at the OLYMPICS, we'd see Fred as he said, on pins and needles, quietly but excitedly cheering on his son, the greatest olympian ever.

After all, he did know Michael Phelps before Micheal Phelps won eight gold medals.

Now, those eight gold medals are hanging comfortably. The podiums have been taken down and the last notes of the national anthem have been played. The speedos are dry and Michael Phelps is through with this year's olympic games.

At least the games part.

His father declined multipe interviews with the press, claiming he wanted to keep the attention on Micheal.

How about we keep the attention on Michael (at a minimum, though)? This isn't fuckin' Maury Povich. It's the Olympics.

Keep it in the pool.

I do realize I'm hypocritically writing about things that are tired and unnecessary. I just hat how a feel good story always has to be felt until it starts to feel bad.

And my one uncle is Michael Phelps' distant second cousin or something like that.

So when is The New York Post going to do a feature on me? (This is the same paper that wrapped up the NL East a month early last year. It didn't turn out so well for them...)

***

Okay, so I read a few more comments on the Yahoo page. To be fair, there ARE people who do agree with the father's decision to not get involved

Tim's Question of the Day?

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 21:56:38 GMT

At what point does a model become a supermodel?

Is there official criteria or just some vague acceptance based on reputation? Does it have anything to do with what's being modeled (sp?)?

Now, I'm not looking to become a supermodel myself. And, even if want to at some point, I probably won't end up dating one. But I am curious about the technicalities of the industry.

It's like my ambition to become a senior writer, which has nothing to do with age.

What the Helmet

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 02:31:36 GMT

I went out to buy a helmet, and now I just want to repeatedly run my head into a wall.

This year's club hockey team is going to have a new look, hopefully attatched to a new attitude and a new commitment to actually winning a few games. New jerseys will actually feature the school's colors, along with matching sets of gloves, pant shells and socks. All of this will be included in the ridiculously high price of paying club ice hockey. Each player is responsible for supplying the helmet, though. According to league rules, players on a team must wear the same color helmet. Last year, our helmets were black. This year, the new-look uniforms call for a white helmet.

I was hoping to pack and get some reading/writing/art done, but today was a good day to get this helmet business out of the way and it was on the to-do list before Saturday. And so, with the sun setting and yours truly at the wheel (mom let me drive), we set out on yet another adventure.

We took a detour to the DMV so I could practice parallel parking on the course behind the shopping center. After a long line and a long wait, I attempted to pull the green 2002 Dodge in between those stupid orange barrels on that stupid concrete slab close to that curb and the cement stopper that sticks out from the curb.

On my first attempt, I was completely lost, hitting the curb, turning in and out. It was a disaster. After I finally straightened myself and the car out, I pulled out and tried again, this time to perfection. If only I can do that on my first and only try four months from now...

I pulled into the store partking lot. It was now dark and I shut the lights off. Reaching into the back seat, I pulled out my black Bauer helmet. I bought it a little less than four years ago. The inside padding was starting to come unglued and the cage wouldn't sit right in the clips that hold it in place, but I thought with some glue and adjustment work, it would be just as good as any helmet, worth a few bucks (they buy used equipment) or store credit for a white replacement. After all, it kept my head safe throughout my reckless, no-regard-for-my-health hockey career. Good times.

The guy at the counter said they had a lot of helmets in-stock already, so they weren't willing to buy it from me, but he did say I'd be able to trade it in for another one.

Then he took a closer look.

I had fixed the cage a little bit, but when he grabbed the helmet and unbuckled the straps, the cage popped out, still attatched by two screws in the front, though. He struggled trying to fix it and finally called over the man in charge. It was so uneven that they thought the cage was from a bigger model than the helmet.

While they were scratching their heads, trying to fix my helmet into a shape they'd be willing to accept, I took a look around to see what they had.

They didn't even have any white helmets.

"If someone hit them, it's going to break their nose," I heard the one guy say.

In the end, I didn't have a white helmet. And, as it turns out, I didn't have a black one anymore, either. Apparently, my helmet has suffered so much wear and tear, has endured so many hits, that it's not even safe to wear anymore.

That says a lot about how many times I've been hit in the head and how much confidence I should have in my equipment.

Equipment has always been a problem for me. I guess it starts with me not having a whole lot of knowledge on hockey equipment. I'm still not exactly sure what to tape where and how. I've had pieces fall out and off and have yet to figure out where they belong. I'm completely clueless with brand names and styles and intricacies like the flex on a stick or how much give there should be to the plastic that holds the skate blace.

This wasn't my first helmet problem. I haven't broken many sticks, but I went through a string of them two years ago. Over the course of my career, I've lost straps, broken clips and worn out gloves, I broke a house key trying to cut hockey tape off my stick. One time, I bought a jock strap that was too small. Now that's actually a good problem to have, but I ended up having to buy another one (since you can't really exchange those).

This helmet is just another piece added to the collection. Sometimes I wonder if these are all signs against me playing hockey. I stress over making enough money to afford it. I worry about whether I'm ever going to play, or I'm going to get tenured as the team's statistician. It's a lot of money, a lot of time.

It's a lot of unsuccessful trips to the sports store.

But no matter how many times I question, no matter how much it SEEMS like someone somewhere wants me to quit, I never doubt it. I never think about quitting. I never think about giving it up. Hockey's just what I do. All the issues surrounding it are just the things that go along with it.

It's still a little depressing, though. Instead of trading my old helmet in for another one (probably used), I'm going to have to buy or order a brand-new one, paying full price. I can't ever seem to catch a break here or there. I've had some good times over the past few days and weeks but right now everything seems to come back to what I can't do. And it's frustrating.

On the way home, we were stopped at a light Lifehouse's "Whatever It Takes" was on the radio, an ironic song for the night I was having. My mom asked my friends Matt and Mike were going back to school on Saturday.

"Yeah," I said

A long pause.

"Do you ever hear from Amanda?"

My mom doesn't know too much about Amanda and I. She knows about the flowers junior year. She once mentioned how nice Amanda's smile was. She doesn't know how much I liked her or how far apart we actually were. Tonight she dropped the A-Bomb out of completely innocent curiosity but at a pretty bad time. All this over something used to protect my head and here was an indirect shot to my vulmerable heart.

"Not really," I said.

When I parked along the street, turned the car off, opened the door and walked toward the house, I took a look up to the sky.

The stars were out. I smiled.

Olympic Watch '08

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 02:08:03 GMT

Okay, maybe fishing isn't an olympic event (not yet, anyway), but I'm definitely more gung-ho about this year's games in Beijing than I have been about any previous olympiad in my lifetime.

See what I did there? With the gung ho? Subtle.

I deserve the gold in puns.

Seriously, though. I'm having a great time watching. Maybe it's because certain people on a certain sports network (the self-proclaimed "Worldwide Leader in Sports") have told me they don't care about olympic events not named basketball, gymnastics or track and field- because Brett Favre in a Jets uniform and Manny Ramierez' dreds are much more important. Maybe this whole "college" thing really did shape me into a more accepting and cultured human being.

Maybe I'm just bored at the end of my summer vacation and need reason to sit in front of the TV 24/7.

No matter what, though, I'm eating these games up like Michael Phelps on his 12,000 daily calories.

So the guy's good at eating, too. Is there anything he can't do?

Okay, I'll be honest. I skipped out on watching the billion hours of opening ceremonies. Big deal. A few fireworks. Lip synching because the girl that actually could sing wasn't cute enough. Parades and cheering and bells and whistles and the perception that China's air quality is survivable. it was all a big show, anyway. I'm all about the games.

And boy, have I been treated well so far.

I have yet to tackle live web feeds of events, so my watching events is totally dependent on what the NBC family has to offer. They made the right choice Saturday afternoon. Let me paint the picture. Two in the p.m. (a.m. in the 'jing). I've just worked a hard shift at McDonald's and went through with a workout run to try and get that grease out of my system. After a shower and a breather, I turn on the tube.

Women's volleyball. This is good. But I change to the other channel to find what else is on tape delay.

Women's beach volleyball. Now that's a Saturday afternoon (before 5 o'clock Mass, where I pray for forgiveness of the rare dirty thought that may have crept into my mind while watching the Olympics).

Of course, I do appreciate the athletic prowess required to play volleyball. I've played volleyball and I could honestly say it wasn't on the level of those respectable, upstanding female athletes who could kick my ass any day of the week (consider this an open invitation, ladies).

I'm still a bit upset with Misty May, though. Marrying a catcher for the Marlins? Though such things give a guy like me hope...

Like most of the olympic events, volleyball isn't really a sport that I'm going to appreciate outside of ninth grade gym class.

But that's the beauty of these two weeks. People I've never heard of in sports I don't care about. Except right now I'm obsessed with them.

Perhaps the athletes intrigue me the most. No, I'm not talking about ladies with fit bodies in skimpy volleyball unis. Actually, I am, but not in the regard you'd think. What has caught my attention most is the passion these athletes exude when they're doing their thing and the camaraderie they have with their teammates. High-fives and hugs among volleyball players between EVERY POINT, gymnasts cheering and squealing for each other on the sidelines. It's refreshing to someone whose sporting spectrum usually revolves around people trying to make headlines and money, athletes concerned of nothing but themselves.

My interest also roams from the athletes and their teams to the sports they play that are actually cool when you take a good look at them.

Handball? Handball is cool. Add some water and you've got yourself water polo. I approve. Two very entertaining events I've watched, even without an understanding of the nuances and technical aspects.

Boxing is, for the most part, dead in this country. I took in a few rounds of 'lympic boxing and wasn't that impressed. Mostly because half of it was the commentators complaining about the scoring system. Sadly, none of the commentators have mentioned Brett Favre.

On a similar note, Tiki Barber has to go (He was a Giant). So does Chris Collinsworth (I never saw him play. I just can't stand him as an analyst).

As a heterosexual male, I took in Saturday's qualifying for the men's gymnastics final. Turns out those male gymnasts aren't a bunch of puny, weak nancyboys. I'm not sure what exactly they were doing, but they did it well enough to surprise the world (and me, a temporary amateur gymnastics officianado) with a bronze medal two nights later.

Conversely, last night's women's gymnastics final broke my heart. I was shaken when Alicia Sacramone's falls on the vault and floor exercises took the USA team out of the running for gold. Apparently, China had left it open. You can't help but feel for the girl, you know. Working so hard your whole life for that chance and losing it just like that with a difficult attempt at a (not even going to attempt trying to get the name of the move...but it was TRICKY and I know I would never be able to do it). My heart really went out to her.

While she and the team settled for the silver (nothing to sneeze at), they managed to get me to watch - and care about - gymnastics for a night. And that's laudable in my book, especially since it kept me occupied while the Phils blew another one.

In between the women's volleyball Saturday and the gymnastics last night, I watched parts of the handball, water polo, boxing, baseball, softball, a few sets of tennis, a few seconds of an obscure basketball game and about half a round of the clean and jerk (which gets my vote for dirtiest-sounding event).

And that Phelps character who eats a lot is also a big deal. I've watched a lot of the men's and women's swimming. Covering the swimming teams last year, I'm actually familiar with some of the swimming lingo. I'm practically an expert (but not really). I can't say I'm on the Phelps bandwagon, but his performances in the pool have been phenominal. He's definitely one of the most dominating athletes I've ever seen.

But with Phelpsmania to die down after his final race Saturday, a lot of the attention and hype surrounding this year's Olympic games is sure to cool off. But I hope I'm still game for them throughout. It's been fun attaching myself to sports and athletes and concepts I'm vaguely familiar with. These summer games have launched me off the starting block and into the pool; they've thrown me onto the pommel horse and between the uneven bars; I've been on pitching mounds and in the paint, on the court and in the sand, admiring the world's greatest athletes and the love and respect they have for their respective countries.

These Olympics I've watched on TV and read about in the paper. I've talked about them with friends, family and co-workers. I've dedicated some quality time in my waning summer hours to experience them, albeit on tape delay on the other side of the globe.

And now I'm writing about them.

USA! USA!

A sloppier version of last night's post (destroyed when I accidentalhit the 'backspace' button)

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 21:34:56 GMT

It was a frustrating opening shift at McDonald's yesterday. Waking up at 4:30 in the a.m. (4 o'clock sharp today) isn't always a fun summer activity, especially when I had to single-handedly cook and prepare everything in the store within the hour. The only other driving-age teen employee without his license finally earned his Friday. He came in to work at six, along with two other grill workers. Though his licensed presence did wonders for my already shaky self confidence, he was part of unusually large team of employees this early on a Sunday. We finally had enough people to keep up with the weekend crowd, the hungry pilgrims heading off to their various churches.

It was maybe the slowest Sunday I ever worked.

On my break, my breakfast burrito contained pieces of either plastic or some inedible plant. Disgusting.

And I had just made that burrito ten minutes earlier.

But alas, as with any other shift I've worked these past few weeks, I was in survival mode. By lunchtime, the much-anticipated hour of one, my clockout time, approached ever-so slowly. I was on side two, stuffing buns in the toaster. Talk of raises bounced around the grill area. I looked at the clock. 12:20. Only 40 minutes to go.

Then I looked out beyond the front counter. It was as if I had just seen a ghost. No, three ghosts. And a skeleton, half rotted.

But all I saw was a witch.

Rachel, my once and only girlfriend, was strolling in, left to right, wearing a green t-shirt, Her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. A sketchy-looking guy hovered over her shoulder. Yeah, it was her all right.

Logically, I wasn't surprised. Shouuldn't have been, at least. It made sense that I would've seen her somewhere at some point around these parts. But, for some reason, my body went into alarm mode. It wasn't the alarm that sets off red flags or bubbly hearts. It was an alarm I've never experienced before.

Upon seeing her, I felt like a bolt of lightning had hit me, from the lump in my throat down to the bottom of my abdomen. I felt like my insides were spilling out onto the prep table, creating an emptiness dep within me.

I broke out into a sweat, took on a headache. When I reached out to grab some regbuns, I could feel my hands shaking. Not in fear, not in anger, not in excitement.

They were just shaking.

I was alarmed, not by seeing the girl I once dated, but by my own reaction.

There was no thought process or emotional connection to this reaction, either. My mind didn't shoot back to the thrills of being with her or the countless episodes of heartbreak I suffered. I wasn't filled with any kind of emotion; my hypothetical guts seemingly took all my emotions with them when they fell out.

I kept looking up to the front counter. I looked into her eyes, hoping they wouldn't look back. I didn't want her to see me. Part of me did, though, just to see what kind of reaction she would have. I don't think she noticed, though.

Each time I looked back at her, hands shaking, body and mind like jell-o, I didn't see her anymore. This girl's face was a bit lighter, her blonde hair a little lighter. And when I looked into her eyes, I didn't see any sign of stimatism. If Rachel changed her looks, she didn't change them in the liberal manner I had expected. No purple hair or nose rings.

By the time she finished paying for her meal, pulling out a handbag devoid of skulls and chains, I realized this wasn't even Rachel. Despite the overwhelming surprise and anxiety I felt, despite my body going into freakout mode, I realized I would've recognized the only girl I ever dated.

This wasn't her.

She left and I wondered what had brought on this unusual reaction within me. Why something so typical could have caused something so extreme. It's almost four years now since we broke up and I've let go of all the controllable feelings I have for this girl. She's gone and I've moved on. But yesterday I saw her, even if she wasn't there. From that angle at that time, Rachel was walking not 10 yards in front of me. My response, surprised and confused me to say the least.

Life is full of surprises.

***

Today, Facebook treated me to a wonderful set of pictures of Amanda vacationing with the boyfriend. Bathing suits, clear, sandy beaches. Fun-looking boat expeditions. And that incredible smile, shining without the faintest of thoughts of yours truly. I can't care about this girl, anymore, but it hurts to see someone who meant so much to me cruising away with "some guy" on a tropical vacation.

Sometimes I wish I was "some guy," standing there and smiling with her.

She didn't like the roller coasters, anyway.

Not that it makes me feel any better.

Thanks, Facebook.

I want to kiss on a coaster

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 06:20:58 GMT

She takes one final, elegant sip from the plastic bottle. The last drop of $3 water rolls down her soft, moist lips and settles for a moment on her tight, pointed chin. In one smooth motion, she drops the bottle into the recepticle and wipes the moisture from her chin, revealing a refreshing smile.

The temperature has dropped since the afternoon began, the crowds thinned significantly. The final remnants of daylight were fading, purple and red, into the darkness of a pleasant night sky, along the hills a majestic backdrop to the flair and excitement held within the walls of the amusment park.

A short line. A brief wait. Then the gates open, slow and deliberate, to the momotonous, inaudible droning of the ininerary recording.

I don't hear a word. No, instead, over the droning and the buzzing and the half-dozen voices of children that remain, I can hear my heart beating a slow, steady beat.

And it's about to beat faster.

The adrenaline hasn't kicked in yet. The roller coaster's hills, its shaky tracks, its promising speed haven't even crossed my mind.

That mind, this ride, this night. They belong to her.

She enters the gate first, crossing over the car's padded seats to the bag-check station. She stradles the dividing hump and undoes her barette, letting down hair still wet from the log flume's cruelly refreshing splash. She tosses the barette over to where she placed her bag and slides comfortably into her seat.

I climb in beside her, reach my arm deliberately around her waist to toss the seatbelt around the both of us. She flinches when my hand subtly caresses her exposed lower back.

A buzz, a hiss. The lap bar leans down and in toward us, securing our place in this ride.

Her ride.

For a few seconds, We're sitting there, her and I, buckled into a roller coaster car. As the teenage attendant makes his rounds, checking seat and lap belts, the world inside our coaster car is still. I look over at her, admiring the person beside me. The smooth skin on her bare shoulders is moist with a light sweat. It seems to make her skin shine under the dim lights of the coaster's station. Every breath I take in rewards me with a fresh scent. A slight hint of perfume masking her naturally sweet scent.

I reach over with my right arm and softly rub her right shoulder. She lets out a slow, relaxed breath as I pull her closer to me.

Looking into her eyes, I can see the effect this day has had on her. They reflect an early wake, a long drive, a busy day of waiting in lines for rides built to wear down the body and spirit.

Though weary, they still reflect the beauty of her unwavering excitement. They reflect the fun she's had and the fun she hopes for in this ride. Her ride.

Our ride.

A close, intimate look into her eyes. I can see myself in them, smiling right back.

I slide my left hand over her hands, comfortably resting on the lap bar. The light sweat on her hands makes them feel smoother, softer as she gently wraps them around my hand. Still smiling, II slowly turn my head toward her, one last look at her beautiful face in the light of the station.

"Ready?" I ask.

"I'm ready." A soft, angelic voice.

Another buzz, one last inaudible drone. The coaster jerks once, drawing a giggle from the both of us.

Our ride begins.

The coaster rolls out of the station and into the first slow turn onto big hill.

I turn to look at her. She's still facing forward and the white Christmas lights strung up on the side railing illuminate her features. She's sitting, calm and content, an angel making her way toward the heavens.

I turn for a moment to look at the stars dotting the night sky. The click, click clicking of the track's chains are pulling us closer to them. I'm approaching the stars with an angel, the girl of my dreams in my arms.

The first car reaches the summit, pauses for a nanosecond before gliding down the track. Each car after follows suit until the last car, our car, reaches its peak. For that split-second, I look at her, glowing under the stars, between the lights. She's as beautiful as she ever was and as beautiful as she will be for the rest of our lives. For that split-second my heart stops beating, my lungs stop breathing, my mind stops thinking.

For that split second, we are higher than the world itself. For that split second, it is just her and I, sitting at the top of the hill in each other's arms beneath the stars.

The drop.

In front of us, some throw their hands triumphantly in the air; some unleash screams of fear or amusement. Around us, lights flash and objects spin.

We don't notice any of it.

We lean toward each other gracefully in our free fall. My lips lock onto hers. The usual coaster-queasiness in my stomach is displaced by a horde of butterflies. The adrenaline finally kicks in.

The chemistry between us is strong. An attempted kiss on the hill of a shaky wooden roller coaster has broken noses and chipped teeth written all over it.

But we're in perfect harmony.

Our kiss is slow, deliberate, soft but powerful. The car rocks with the force of the fall, the wind rushes through her delicate hair. Our lips press firm against each other and, as we hit the bottom of the first turn, they separate.

A kiss of 2.5 seconds. A kiss of a lifetime.

We both let out a cheer and throw our hands in the air with the rest of our train. Once again, I reach around her and hold her hand in mine. Throughout the rest of the ride, we connect with a few more soft kisses.

Finally, the coaster hits the brakes. It returns to the station.

Her hair is dry now and all over the place. Her lips, soft and warm, part once again with a smile. She shifts her gaze in my direction and breathes a quick, satisfied breath. I squeeze her tight in my arms. Our ride is a success.

***

Tonight, my lips are dry and chapped. A few clouds interrupt the stars in the sky. The seat beside me on the roller coaster car is empty.

But I still can dream. I can get on that there roller coaster and always ride up that hill, waiting and hoping for those dreams to come true.

As the click click clicking of the track's chains pull me closer to the stars above the amusement park.

Weekendish Update: The Aftermath

Wed, 06 Aug 2008 03:33:50 GMT

It looks like I won't have a license - or even a permit - at the end of the summer. I failed the road test, failed it good, too. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I ended up moving on faster than I would've via car and ended up having a string of awesome days.

Right after I bombed the test, we went out to my mom's cousin's annual summer picnic. It was a light turnout this year, but most of the usuals on my mom's side - even some of the unusuals - attended. It was fun, sitting and socializing and eating with the family. After a steady rain came and went, I went outside with Charlie, who discovered the thrill of playing in puddles. He had a great time jumping, splashing and sitting in puddles and rolling a basketball through them. I don't think my aunt and uncle were too happy with me after I let him soak his only set of clothes and put puddle-wet fingers in his mouth (that I at least tried to stop).

Toward the end of the festivities I organized a whiffle ball game. They're always fun, especially with the number of people we had. I ended up being the all-time pitcher.

I would have forgotten about the icense-lay if Steph, my 13-year-old cousin from Philly hadn't given me a hard time about it. "Timmy, you FAILED?" was the first thing she said to me. Later, she pointed out that Charlie was running PARALLEL to one of the games. I finally gave in and told her to park it (that fist bump thingy) because I knew I couldn't.

It's good to be able to laugh at yourself.

Waking up to go into work at 5 on Sunday wasn't a lot of fun. I did manage to leave early to go to church with the out-of-towners, but I wasn't early enough to shower in between. I guess God doesn't really care if you're coated with sweat and grease in His house.

After church, we hosted a lunch party. We ordered subs and hung out with Uncle Bob's family, Grandma and Pop-pop, Uncle Mark and, visiting from IL, Katie and Joey and Molly with two-month old Allia. Most of us napped in the afternoon. Later, Uncle Mark and I joined the Illinois folk in a few rounds of speed solitaire, I had one positive round.

"Aunt" Katie put the baby in my arms while she went to eat dinner. I wasn't really ready to hold her, but I enjoyed it.

We watched the Phillies. They won.

Monday, we went out with the Chicagoans, Uncle Mark and Greg, Jeff and Nick to the Barnstormers game. They lost but we all had a fun time.

Today we went to Roots with only a little bit of debate over how it's pronounced.

So I've been keeping myself busy and have been enjoying the company, especially the family I don't see too often. I've been battling some kind of stomach virus and I'm a little tired and a little annoyed. But at the bottom of it all, I'm happy, and that's what matters to me.

Tomorrow is another busy day with a trip to Hersheypark. My last trip to Hersheypark was one of the best times I've ever had.

Here's hoping that trend continues.

D(MV)-Day: The Results Show

Sat, 02 Aug 2008 18:43:31 GMT

fail

D(MV) Day

Sat, 02 Aug 2008 01:58:15 GMT

A long time ago, Amanda said I'd be a good driver because I care about people. I was never entirely sure what she meant by it, but it was one of the few genuine compliments I've ever received from her.

Tomorrow, I'm going for my license, three years, eight months and one week since my sixteenth birthday..

Not only will this be my first crack at mastering the road skills test, but it will be my only shot before I go back to school, before my permit runs out, before the tedious, inconvenient process begins all over again.

If I pass, I'll most likely get a car (Pappy's black 1999 Mercury Grand Marquis). A whole new world will open up for me on the road. I could take a job or an internship somewhere beyond walking distance. I can get together with friends without being a dependent. I'll be able to take a day trip to the mall without cross-referencing the city bus schedules.

But the prospect of having a license, for me at least, goes well beyond the independence, the sense of a new kind of freedom. For me, having my license would mean finally putting to rest all the troubles I've had on the road to acquiring it. I could finally sit back and laugh at the things that have stood in my way. An epic failure would become an epic story.

And I'd finally feel like I'm 16 years old.

I wasn't the kid who woke up on my sixteenth birthday and rushed down to the DMV to land a permit. No, I was patient. I had the rest of my life to drive; why hurry into it? Why not wait a few months.

And I've survived without one (obviously). But those few months turned into almost four years. Four years of some DMV employee telling my eyes didn't work. Four years of brain farts and lost paperwork. Four years of scrounging for loose change to pay for the paper my learner's permit was printed on.

Four years of disappointment and frustration.

Four years that, hopefully tomorrow, will be present in the rear-view mirror only.

With a license, I'd have an actual proper form of photo identification. I'd have a right that I've worked for, with patience and determination.I'd have one less headache. My life would be a little less inconvenient.

I don't want a license to drive myself anywhere. I don't want a license to be like everyone else. I want a license to be through with it, because I deserve it.

Tomorrow, I'll either be an accomplished driver wirh a right, a priviledge that I deserve, or I'll add yet another painful, disappointing and embarassing chapter in the lengthy tome of Why I Don't Have a License at (age).

A-Camping We Did Go

Mon, 28 Jul 2008 21:08:00 GMT

Not one of the most memorable camping trips ever, but certainly a better alternative to whatever else I could've done this weekend.

In itself, camping is a paradox. Sure, being out there in nature is relaxing and refreshing, but at the same time, there is a lot of work involved with it (not to mention being hot and dirty the whole time). It's hard to sleep on the floor of a warm, damp tent, its plastic sheet and a sleeping bag the only things separating your body from the rocky ground. Covering up means intolerable heat, whereas anything else subjects you to a horde of hungry mosquitos that have been buzzing around your ears the entire night. One even made a beline for the back of my throat while I breathed in for a half yawn Friday night.

But give me nine straight days of the morning shift and one night to iron out the inconveniences and I'll sleep well no matter what, like I did Saturday.

The company was light, just us and Aunt Brenda's family, but we enjoyed some good stories by the fire. Saturday, they watched Across The Universe on JoAnna's portable DVD player. It looked like a good movie from what I saw, but I had no desire to watch it on a small screen in the woods.

I read a lot over the weekend, finishing one book and going well into another. I didn't really write, though. In fact, I didn't even think a whole lot, which is odd for me and not necessarily bad. I didn't have any bold epiphanies by the fire, but while I was there, I was...well, there, not all over the place. And that felt good.

We missed one of the biggest thunderstorms ever by 15-30 mintues. I'm glad we were all packed up before it hit..

I wish women were as attracted to me as the bugs are.

Unpacking in my room, I saw a big spot on the right side of my right shin. Thinking it was a scab, a piece of dirt/ash, I peeled it off. Inspecting it, I saw legs. It was a tick. Instinctively, I threw it down. On my floor. It's still there, probably.

Speaking of bugs, my dad's worker bee mentality was frustrating. The second I picked the last bit of food off my plate, he'd have the plate folded up and in a garbage bag. And it's hard to help someone who thinks he's the only person fit for the job,

I sure ate a lot this weekend, though.

Also, the buzzing of the bugs was a lot more tolerable than the buzzing on my brother's phone. He gave up on finding a signal, and, for two days, that damn phone wasn't part of his anatomy. Thanks, nature.

We swam in the Chesapeake Bay. The water was warm and filled with seaweed and algae.

After the weekend trip, I'm tired but refreshed. Not everything's purged from my mind, but it helped to get away for a little. I wish I was joining the rest of the family for the next camping trip in October.

****

In other news, I have a beard, kinda, sorta. I felt like leaving it go for the weekend, desiring that manly woodsman scruff. When we got back, I found my electric razor unplugged and uncharged. It's not a full beard, but more than the 5 o'clock shadow I always have. I'll probably shave tomorrow.

That same tomorrow is my first real "off" day, and I'm planning nothing beyond sleeping as long as I can.

Saturday is my road test. It's my first time taking it, but my last chance to get my license before I go back and before I have to go through the stupid permit process again. So much rides on what I do Saturday afternoon, and I'm crossing my fingers everything works out (for once).

A-Camping We Will Go

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 02:24:34 GMT

The summer of uncertainty has gone a lot better these past few days/weeks. My co-workers at Mickey D's adore me and the way I work (tomorrow is my ninth consecutive day of work, though...); the church picnic last Sunday was a surprisingly good time and, as some of my friends have, I've found my own little niche exercise to get/keep myself in shape. I'm looking forward to starting a new chapter back at Bonas in less than a month, but I've been home long enough to miss it.

Just a little bit.

That said, I've kind of hit another lull over this past week. Some things and someones have been bothering me, my work and work-out schedules have made me exhausted and achy and I've lost a lot of momentum as far as reading, writing and being productive go.

As there probably wasn't a better time for me to go to Schroon Lake last month, This weekend's camping trip should go a long way to reinvigorate what's left of the summer.

I can't think of a better place to go to clean out all the gunk that's been building up in my mind. I can't wait to sit there in the woods by the campfire and unload some of the baggage that's been weighing me down, can't wait to look up once again at the stars, relaxing and taking a deep, refreshing breath or two.

This trip won't have the cast of characters found at the lakehouse (just my family and aunt Brenda's family), but it'll still be a nice getaway.

And a nice getaway is exactly what I need right now.

Hopefully, it'll set a nice pace for the home stretch of my summer 2008.

One of the Good Bonds of Baseball

Fri, 18 Jul 2008 03:38:41 GMT

He darted across the living room that July 5 afternoon. His thin, brown hair, trimmed since I last saw him, it wisped against the thick, humid summer air. His white USA shirt, decorated with red and blue stars, it subtly waved as an American flag outside quietly danced in the breeze. His light-up Sesame Street sneakers, featuring Elmo and Cookie Monster, flashed and thudded like fireworks on the living room carpet.

Charlie, my two-year-old cousin from Boonton, N.J. was on the move and in the spirit of another lively family party. Those Sesame Street shoes were destined to take that boy wherever his joyfully innocent smile was willing to go.

Perhaps Charlie was making his rounds before joining the rest of the little cousins, sharing his youthful energy with those who still "got it." Or maybe he'd settle in with the adults, basking in the endless attention they were willing to give.

Instead, he was moving in my direction.

I was sitting on the couch, weary from work and full from downing a cheeseburger, a polish sausage, roughly a metric ton of chips, pretzels and nachos, all washed down by maybe 500 gallons of Coke. The Phillies game was on, and I was ready to cheer them on with a few of my kin.

There, on the living room couch, I wasn't a kid. Wasn't quite an adult, either. But, hearing those footsteps come my way, I was something I hadn't been for a long time.

I was wanted.

"Tim-mee!"

A few weeks ago, he didn't even know my name.

"Timmy's watching baseball," warned my uncle.

It didn't stop him.

Charlie stretched out his arms and, with the sunset seeping through the living room windows, he climbed onto my lap, just in time to watch Jamie Moyer throw the first pitch.

"Watch him throw the ball, Charlie."

From the little I knew of him and the few times we spent together, I had found throwing the ball to be one of his favorite activities. Charlie could throw a ball for hours with impressive speed and accuracy. In fact, Charlie and I threw a ball around earlier that afternoon.

And now we were watching larger-than-life athletes throw the ball on TV.

"YAH!" Charlie yelled.

And there we sat, two cousins separated by seventeen years and two states, both completely content filling that space in that period of time with smiles on our faces. There wasn't any childish act employed, and we couldn't hold an intellectual debate. In fact, neither of us had much to say.

We didn't need to.

he sat there, weightless on my lap. I myself felt weightless. I felt 19 years melting down to a collection of positive feelings. I felt proud; I felt calm; I felt a little surprised and, for the first time in a while, I felt completely relaxed.

For a brief period of time, I felt closer to my cousin. I felt closer to all my cousins, my brothers, my parents, my aunts and my uncles. I felt closer to Pop-pop and his ridiculous beard and to Grandma, whose birthday (July 3) overshadowed that of our nation as the reson to celebrate.

I felt closer to myself, even.

There's an elusive satisfaction in a bonding experience, something that can't be written in pen, can't be typed onto a computer screen. It can't even be spoken in verbal language. It can't be bought, can't be earned.

But it can be found in the hopeful eyes and quiet smile of a two-year-old content watching baseball with you at the family's Fourth of July picnic.

I pointed out to Charlie the pitcher's throw, the batter's swing, the runner's speed. I taught him some cheers and how to boo the Mets (you have to teach a young Philly fan right, you know).

We only watched one inning before I was recruited to a dominos game. Charlie, too, went on his way, darting across the living room, hair wisping, shirt waving, sneakers flashing and thudding. We went back, as we are now, in our two separate worlds, two states and seventeen years apart. But we'll always have that one moment when those worlds blended together, when we sat on the couch and watched the first inning of the Phillies game at the family's Fourth of July party.

I'm going to be a great father someday.
...that someday can wait for a decade or so.

Thu, 03 Jul 2008 22:16:40 GMT

"All our dreams can come true-if we have the courage to pursue them"
-Walt Disney

"Don't forget this: It's the law of the universe that the strong shall survive and the weak must fall by the way, and I don't give a damn what idealistic plan is cooked up, nothing can change that"
-Walt Disney

Vacation '08

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 21:45:50 GMT

The family trip to Schroon Lake was the vacation I desperately needed.

A few highlights:

-Probably the most prominent image in my head is from night one. It was dusk and everyone had just eaten. I walked down to the lake to see all of the cousins lining the shore, throwing rocks at the buoy floating 15 yards out. It captured all the simplicity and innocence I was hoping to find during my retreat.

-I dropped more food on the floor in one week than I probably had in the previous year. I guess I took a vacation from being careful. But all the food we had there was delicious.

-Didn't do any fishing (I usually freak out whenever I actually catch one, but I do enjoy the leisure of the sport), but it was amusing enough to watch Uncle Dave and Uncle John in a week long fish-a-thon. They'd be out there early in the morning and, a few times, in the dark of night. Uncle Dave edged out my godfather by one.

-The houses we stayed in were beautiful. My family slept in the older one with the nicer beach. I slept on the sofa in the kitchen. Actually, I didn't sleep because it was rather uncomfortable. The last few nights I was used to it, though, and I liked the privacy of that secition of the house. The other house looked brand-new and was the place to be for dinner.

-Apparently, the summer season doesn't begin until the Fourth of July, so there were hardly any people out on the lake. We spent one day on the public beach and were almost the only ones there. I prefer not having a lot of people around. It contrasted the horrendous crowds at the Jersey Shore and enhanced the get-away feeling to the secluded area we occupied.

-I would've like to have seen more bikinis, though.

-My two-year-old cousin Charlie is very entertaining. He even does what my Democratic uncle calls the "Barack (fist) Bump." This, of course, led me to deliver some It's Always Sunny quotes (Come on, Charlie. Bump it.").

-The water was cold, but not too cold to swim in. There were showers and thunderstorms in the forecast almost every day but, for the most part, we had awesome weather.

-I really enjoyed the campfire every night. The last one was rough because Adam and most of my cousins stayed up late, which kind of encroached my only real social privilege of hanging with the adults late at night (all the little cousins started to shun me a few years ago, and the adults don't really care what I'm doing, so i'm kind of in a social limbo with my family).

-I came in second place in our game of Dominos, losing by two points. A more accurate tally says I lost by a lot more, but I'd like to think I only missed by that much.

-We watched George Carlin's tribute on HBO2. I, of course, had been shielded from his comedy my whole life. In fact, I only knew him from his stint on Thomas the Tank Engine and Friends. But I enjoyed his thought-provoking, ruthless comedy bits. All of the adults laughed at his "Fuck the kids" rant. I even heard my mother's distinct laugh when he said, "This is coming from Mr. Conductor himself."

-My family's joke of the week was taking something someone said and preceding it with "Your face..."

-I refused to go on a late-night cruise on a speedboat, despite the best efforts of some drunk relatives. My one aunt gave me a whole speech about how I'd never have the opportunity again and I'd regret not going for the rest of my life. It actually would've been fun to go out and look at the stars on the lake, but I was tired, had a headache and felt that I needed to stay on the shore and make sure they made it back to the dock alright.

And now a little ditty about the stars

Tuesday and Wednesday were extremely clear nights. With a small population and very little industry, I had a chance to see the stars with no light pollution or smog. They were amazing. I felt like I was in a planetarium looking up at clear, computer generated images. But they were real. Aunt Kelly had built up seeing the stars there all week and she was right. We all sat out on the dock and took in the beauty, watching for shooting stars and satellites. We saw plenty of both. And, of course, the stars always lead my head and my heart toward a certain person, and I could see her smiling face in the plethora of lights in the sky. It wasn't quite the romance I would've felt maybe a year ago, but it was definitely enough to bring back the dreamer. Words can't express how beautiful the stars were, and how much they mean to me. It would've been a very different experience if I wasn't single, but I've still managed to fall in love with the stars once again.

So now I'm home, relaxed and refreshed but not too rested. That's okay, though. The summer has taken on a little bit of a different tune, and I'm ready to give her hell the rest of the way.

Go get 'em.

To A Different State (Of Mind)

Sat, 21 Jun 2008 06:09:00 GMT

By the first day of summer last year, I had graduated, gone to HersheyPark, attended game one of the Calder Cup Finals, visited the house of the girl of my dreams (all in a span of 48 hours). By the first day of summer last year, I spent a week at the Jersey shore and won a street hockey championship.

When the first day of summer 2007 came around, I was on top of the world.

I've been singing a bit of a different tune to summer 2008.

Maybe it's a proverbial hangover. Maybe I'm still feeling the inevitible letdown after such an incredible series of events last year. Or maybe the stress and the worries have finally caught up to me.

Whatever it is, it has churned up feelings I'm not so used to. For the first time in a very long while, I have to admit I'm not happy (or at least not as happy).

For the first time, I feel like I need a vacation.

And that's exactly what I'm going to get.

Later this morning, the family's heading up to northeastern New York. The relaxed mountain atmosphere should offer the perfect setting for me to get away and clear my mind in a sense.

For the next week. it's no work, no school, no bills and no social obligations. No facebook and no flyrzphan LiveJournal entries (friends pages rejoice!).

Just me, the lake, the bonfire, the fresh air, some reading material and a few notebooks.

And 21 other family members.

Summer 2008 officially kicks of this weekend, and I'm hoping to welcome it with open arms and a big ol' smile.

Not That I'm About to Live the Vegan Life for a Month...

Wed, 18 Jun 2008 04:09:39 GMT

FX's 30 Days has been a hit-or-miss show for the past three seasons. At times, I think host Morgan Spurlock can be a little too full of himself, and, like any television shows trying to teach a lesson (who needs that, really?), the most extreme examples are always presented. I've turned off episodes because the characters (particularly the "devout Christian family" from last season) were just too overbearing.

It can have the feel of a University 101 class (without the side shows). But it didn't tonight.

Tonight's episode featured George, a charicatured hunting redneck man from North Carolina with Larry the Cable Guy's voice. he was sent to live with a family of vegan animal activists...for...30 days.

It began with the typical judging and ad hominem attacks, which is probably the entertainment the fine people at FX want to impose on us viewers. George was on the defensive even before the one lady compared his attitude toward animals to the Nazi's attitude toward Jewish people.

But, as the episode progressed, its general focus, as well as George's mindset, shifted away from the animal rights protestors and toward what they were protesting.

George went along with an abused farm animal rescuer to investigate and dispose of dead baby cows left on the side of the road. He watched in horror as ranch workers dragged the living babby cattle out of their "homes" (4'x4'x4'crates) and into a truck, literally, by their tales.

The abused animal rescuer turned to George and said, "If that was a puppy, these men would be going to prison."

He has a point, even one that a stuck-in-his-ways redneck could see.

George's 30-day epiphany also took him to a fur protest, an anti-animal testing doctor (She explained the new science that could-and should-make animal testing obsolete) and an animal shelter, where he had the privilege of watching an unwanted dog's euthanization.

In the end, he didn't decide to dine solely on salad or to give up hunting, but George left his 30 days a more informed person. And, after about 40 minutes of an episode, I felt a little more informed as well.

Of course, the humane treatment of animals has always been part of my hypothetical platform. I took the confirmation name Francis, in part, because the saint was known for his relationship with the animal kingdom. When I find a spider in the house, I a) try to leave it alone or b) make an attempt to move it outside. I even get a little choked up when I see roadkill.

However, I don't know if I could ever go "cold turkey" on eating meat.

I know and respect people who have, though. I even consider it to be a good thing as long as I'm not being told I'm a bad person as I bite into a cheeseburger.

But my carnivoric nature doesn't mean I don't care what happens before that meat finds its way onto my plate.

I think society as a whole abuses its ability to cut corners. The food industry is no exception. Instead of treating the animals "the right way" before making them dinner, it shoves them into confined spaces and injects them with drugs.

If a cow, pig or chicken is going to make "the ultimate sacrifice" for my consumption, shouldn't it be granted some kind of ethical treatment beforehand? I mean, aren't criminals on death row granted a meal fit for a king before they go (which means a lot of animal product, I know)? It might save money, but it loses my respect, whatever that's worth.

I've grown up going to "The Dairy," a small dairy with cheap milk and great ice cream just outside of the city. We always used to go check out the "cute baby cows" in their pens. We never went inside the big building in which the rest of the cows were kept, and we usually just drowned out the noises of the farmer yelling at them. However, there is an open field across the street for cows to roam and graze.

As far as the animal shelters, we visited one a few years ago in search of a kitten. The place around here is one that I'd love to help out at but am afraid of. I'd probably get attatched to the eventually euthanized cats and dogs and ten minutes of the agonized barks and meows were plenty for me to handle. I used to think spaying and neutering was kind of inhumane, but when alternatives are considered, it's probably best.

I'm just glad my family has been able to give three cats full, happy lives. We couldn't stand seeing Ginger suffering there at the end, but she was at least given a decent home and a lot of care during her time. And I sometimes wonder what Ruby would've been like had she not come to us from the farm. She sure is spoiled now.

As far as wearing animals, well, I don't even think I could afford to if I wanted to.

I don't think that animal ranches or suppliers should go out of business, but I am hoping the government can institute some legislation limiting the abuse of the cattle in the field and the chickens in the crowded cages. Again, it seems like a moot point and I'm probably a hypocrite, but if an animal has to die, make its life a little more comfortable and its death a litle more painless.

This part of Pennsylvania is known worldwide for its puppy mills. Thankfully, the governent cracked down on them a year or two ago. And last year I worked at "Joyful Rescues," a place that takes in abused and neglected dogs, gives them "normal" lives and puts them up for adoption into a home that they make sure will treat them well. With about 70 dogs living in a house, it's a little overwhelming and the lady might be a little crazy, but I admire what she does. She's a saint and I'm glad I could visit and work with her a few hours last year.

Hopefully, I can get back there this year.

So, my eyes have been open, but probably for only a few hours. Tomorrow, I'm going to work at McDonald's (Rnald hates baby cows) and will probably bite into a warm, juicy double cheeseburger or indulge into some chicken nuggest on my break, more thinking about how much I like the food more than I care about how it got there.

But it's not because I hate animals or anything. Ethical treatment for animals is an issue I find worth fighting for, and maybe someday I'll make up for being a carnivore, volunteering or pushing for better legislation and/or law enforcement.

i\It's time for me to get off my rambling soapbox. Doesn't make me much taller, anyway.

But I'd definitely recommend watching this episode of 30 Days. Look it up.

The Carnival

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 22:11:51 GMT

My high school's annual carnival kicks off tonight with food, rides, games and fireworks. It's a pretty big deal in Lancaster, a solid atmosphere for people of all ages to go out and socialize. Attending the carnival was always the first big summer event for me, a chance to go out with the family and meet up with friends. While I was in high school, I volunteered to work there to compensate the mandatory service requirement that came with the maximum tuition discount I received each year. Even thouigh my taste for carnival excitement has been lost in crowds of teenie boppers and hooligans, some of my favorite summer memories took place there at the football stadium and practice fields.

Especially when Amanda was there.

The year was 2005, and I had just finished my sophomore year of high school. After working my first-ever summer day shift at McDonald's, I went over to the school to knock out some service hours in the carnival's food tent.

The weather was typical for a summer evening in central Pa., warm and muggy with plenty of sunshine.

More sunshine was on the way.

I sat there in the food tent, taking in the atmosphere or another good old-fashioned carnival. Looked like the school would get another good turnout, at least for a Tuesday. I gazed out into the mass of guys in baggy clothes and girls in short skirts, perusing the stuffed animals and miniphotos obtained at the game stands and hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl I had developed a major crush on.

The relatively slow night at the food tent picked up when that very girl and a group of friends stopped in to chat with the guys I was working with. Standing there in the awkwardness of being the lone guy that was "just there," I looked over to Amanda. To my surprise, she was looking at me.

And she was smiling.

I had fallen in love with that beautiful smile over the past year. Maybe I appreciated it even more because we rarely talked. Maybe that smile meant so much to me because it was pretty much all she ever gave me. And it was pretty much, well, pretty.

Our eyes met and I gave her a return smile, much less impressive, a nod and a little wave. Soon enough, the ladies took off and it was back to work for the rest of us. It hardly felt like work to me, having been graced with Amanda's special smile.

It wouldn't be the last time I saw it that night.

On my break, I wandered out among the masses, feeling like nothing special. I'm a guy that doesn't command a whole lot of attention. I can get lost in a crowd and, when I do, I don't really expect people to find me, especially a girl who has better things to do. Amanda wouldn't notice me.

I felt like I flew well under her radar.

Once again, i caught her out of the corner of my eye, walking in my general direction. Then, I couldn't really believe it, but she was walking with me and, of course, smiling. This time she greeted me with her voice, sweet and soft with a pleasant musical tint.

One of the "little things" I found attractive about Amanda was the way she said my name in that sweet, soft voice. She always made it sound better, right off the tip of her tongue. Not too loud or too soft and with jsut the right amount of emphasis. I know how a girl says your name isn't really a big deal, and it's not something that can make or break a relationship, but it's something I pay attention to. Again, just one of the little things I appreciate.

Of course, I liked her for other reasons, too, like the way she kindly took the time to chat with me at the carnival.

Being the quiet person I am, I always have a fear that, when I do actually want to open up to someone, I won't know what to say. But it wasn't the case in her presence that evening. With the girl of my dreams just inches away from me, giving me her undivided attention for perhaps the first time, I actually felt relaxed and calm by the humble elegance, just happy to be there with her. And more than happy to talk as the sun was setting on a beautiful summer evening. We talked about our summers, our jobs (she volunteered at the hospital) and how our vacations were shaping up so far.

To most people, it woud've just been a normal conversation, one of many that happen throughout any given day. Just two to three minutes, that was it.

But to me, for those three minutes, I felt like I was in heaven, talking to an angel.

As with any angel I encounter, I offered her a beaded necklace, jokingly comforting her by saying I wouldn't ask her to show me anything in return. She laughed.

When Amanda talks to you, she gives you the feeling that you're the only thing in the world that matters to her. It's a feeling that I didn't experience too often during the four years of high school I spent with her. In fact, that conversation at the carnival might've been the most one-on-one time ever I had with her.

Which makes it even more special to me.

Soon enough, another guy came along and took her away, back into the chaos of the carnival. We said our goodbyes and she hurried off to join back up with the rest of her friends. Meanwhile, I made my way back inside the food tent to work the rest of the night.

I haven't seen Amanda in over a year now. She has moved on and apparenlty now has a boyfriend. On the surface, she never gave me much. But what she did give me -the occasional smile, the laugh, the friendly hello- it meant the whole world to me.

It still does.

And that simple, three-minute conversation we had at the carnival few years back is something I'll remember and cherish for the rest of my life.

It still gives me goosebumps.

As any good carnival experience should.

Another tibit of Tim history (or Timbit, if you will):

I purchased my first pair of hockey skates at the carnival. The summer between my sixth and seventh grade years, I bought an old, worn-out pair of Coopers in the white elephant yard sale tent for $2.

Pappy's Funeral

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 04:11:35 GMT

One week ago tonight, we found out Pappy was in the hospital.

This afternoon, we buried him.

The day wasn't so bad and didn't take the emotional toll I was expecting at my first-ever funeral. The home was quiet, tinted in what seemed like warm colors that felt cool, or cool colors that felt warm. I couldn't really tell. My family was the first to arrive outside of my step-grandmother and some of her family.

I'm not exactly sure what to call my great-grandmother, Claudette. Mom calls her Claudie. Dad calls her Claudia. Either way, she is now a two-time widow, and I was surprised and impressed by her ability to stand and greet us. Her eyes were puffy and red, and her voice shook as she addressed us. We could tell she wasn't herself. One can only imagine the thoughts that have been racing through her mind this past week and hope similar thoughts never have cross one's mind.

The rest of the day, she seemed okay. She didn't fill the room with mournful outbursts at intervals. Rather, she stood in a quiet stupor, eyes at a constant water, receiving the words and wishes of those in attendance. At the end of the service, I heard her ask to be left alone with Pappy as the rest of us filed out. I think I'll remember that part the most.

As for Pappy, he was there in a sense. There's nothing like walking into an empty room and staring into an open casket. There was a body in there, sure, but it was a weak body, pale and thin, stretched out and quietly placed in its final position of comfort here on earth. It wasn't the Pappy I remember. Those who visited him in the hospital said he looked a lot better today (obviously), but he sure didn't look like the man whose life we were celebrating.

He wore a white turtleneck under a black coat. Claudette told us that there was a running joke about it. I think she once yelled at him because he always went out in that shirt, even after she bought him some new ones to wear. She told him she never wanted him to wear it again. But she and Aunt Karen thought it appropriate to bury him in it.

Most of my dad's family was there. Uncle Dave and Aunt Karen and all my cousins sans Angie and Lauren. Nanny even showed up to pay respects, which I think meant a lot to my dad and Uncle Dave. They remained pretty steady, the two sons. They don't show emotion, but I remember looking into my dad's eyes. They weren't teary or weak, but I could see in them a sense of loss.

A lot more people came than expected. Pappy belonged to a bunch of clubs and befriended a lot of people as he made his rounds. Listening in to the viewing line, I could hear nothing but remarks of surprise and, "he and I really had some good times/laughs/memories together." That made me feel good, being able to see, of at least perceive, that side of my grandfather come out in people who knew him better than I did. One of those people was my first baseball coach. Small world.

My dad introduced me to everyone as "Timmy." But most would shake my hand and say, "It's nice to meet you, Tim." I thought that was kind of amusing. Must've been the suit.

The service itself was a huge disappointment. Pappy didn't belong to or attend any church, but the speaker basically just threw a sermon/Sunday school lecture on "belief" and "eternal life." I consider myself to be extaordinarily devout (or gullible), so if anyone would've appreciated that tone, it would've been me. But I was actually offended by it. I just felt like the man used my grandfather's death as a platform for delivering a generic, impersonal Christian speech. I guess that is a reverend's job, but I didn't find it appropriate whatsoever. And I don't think Pappy would've appreciated it.

In the maybe four times the pastor even mentioned him in his circular, repetitive sermon, he used my grandfather's first name, not the middle name he preferred. Plus, he misread the date of birth. I expected a nice, areligious talk about how much Pappy influenced the lives of others and the things he enjoyed in life. Instead, I felt lectured.

At the cemetary, I was one of the pallbearers, along with Adam, Davey and Derek (the male grandchildren), someone I wasn't familiar with and Pappy's brother, Bob, who, unlike the body in the casket, looked a lot like Pappy, but a little taller and thinner. The casket was pretty heavy, but we made it. After a short prayer, some small talk, and a visit to Aunt Cherri's grave, we went to the luncheon at the VFW, a place Pappy frequented.

The food was nice and the atmosphere very sociable, just what a post-funeral gathering should be. I heard a little laughter coming from Claudette's family's table and laughed a little myself over some anecdotes my great uncle Bob told. I didn't really talk to anyone from the family. For one, I'm a listener by nature. I prefer soaking everything in over commanding the spotlight. And, on this occasion, I really didn't know what to say to anyone. My dad's family is rarely together at the same time. I wanted to join in the discussion among my cousins, but they're all older and seem to have a pretty strong bond among themselves. My cousin Lori is heading to China (again) through her job, but I haven't been in the mood to discuss China lately.

I also wanted to talk to Uncle Dave, but I didn't really know what to say to him. I hate small talk and I didn't really have anything to discuss with him outside of school. And Uncle Bob's wife, Aunt Sharon, already talked sports with me (after finding out I wanted to be a sports journalist). Like any Eagles fan nowadays, she gave me the whole anti-McNabb speech. I don't really understand the anti-McNabb sentiment around here, but that's for another post.

I may not know what to call her, but I did talk to my step-grandmother Claudette as we left. She told me she might stop at McDonald's some morning. She lives in the area and told me she loves the Egg McMuffins.

On my break tomorrow, I'll make sure to order one and think of her.