FRUSTRATION. Two weeks' worth of business travel have halted my forward motion on the 30x40 weight loss/exercise plan. Traffic/transit snarls Friday and today, plus the feeling of a cold coming on, wrecked my plan to see a back-to-back Godfather and Godfather Part II showing in the city. And the downside of fall — wet chill in the air and rain — draped the morning in gloom and further stymied my desire to get out and enjoy a Manhattan autumn Sunday.
I decided to sleep off the cold as much as I could. I'd been visiting the gym regularly since my return from River City, so skipping one day out of the past six wouldn't be a problem. Instead, I set the alarm clock for noon and curled back up beneath the covers. I heeded the clock's screech and ate breakfast, feeling less like I was getting a cold than actually getting over one: stiff joints and muscles, slow thoughts, and cabin fever. The day was still grim outside, which cut my desire to venture forth for a paper. Instead, I munched Grape Nuts and spent the rest of the noon hour doing chores I'd been catching up with since escaping from the black hole of business travel.
As always, things could be worse, even on the lonely, Sunday side of a three-day weekend. I'm just bitching. I did get to watch the Giants stomp the Seahags like roaches. The cold didn't feel much worse, and perhaps was just the side effect of leaving the windows open last night. Throat still feels a bit scratchy, though. On the social front, I've got the beginnings of a plan to see a friend of mine, with whom I recently reconnected after quite some time, some time later this month. And Jen and Steve will host the traditional Halloween party on the Saturday just after 10/31. No idea how I'll trump last year's award-winning costume, but I've got a few weeks to try.
So the goals for next week are (a) somehow dodge getting a full-blown cold, (b) resume my full-scale exercise and eating routine, and (c) enjoy as much of autumn as I can. I'd hate for the switchover this year to be straight from heat to dreary late-November rain.
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label football. Show all posts
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Last Week's Work Travel
I SHOULD NOTE A FEW facts about last week's travel, before zapping off for another dose of it this week. After which, successful trip or not, I'll be quite ready to settle in for a few months.
Getting to the airport: Because flights to Central City on Continental are far less frequent than those to Las Vegas, I needed to awaken at 3:15 to get to the airport for a 6:15 flight. Oh, both of those are ante meridian. In a radical cost-cutting move, and to avoid having another narcoleptic chauffeur from the company's standard car service, I drove my own car to the airport. I decided to bet on there being little traffic, and that I would have no problem leaving my car untended in one of the medium-term lots at Newark for 2 full days.
The one hitch was food. Neither of the local bagel joints were open. I didn't feel like Dunkin Donuts (heresy to some readers here), so I got on the road without further local exploration and pulled into the McDonald's after the Route 3 exit on the Garden State Parkway. There, I ordered the only edible thing on the menu, hash browns. A guy who appeared to be the only employee in the joint asked if it was okay if it took a few minutes to get the two of them cooked, as he had none under the hot lamps; I said no sweat. As if to apologize for the very short wait, he gave me what felt like an extra one. I thanked him profusely and began digging them out one by one, shoveling them in as I drove with my knees. It turned out he gave me five of these steamy little grease slabs! I finished wolfing them down while navigating the little dippity-do through local streets to get from the GSP to 78 East, as I'd seen numerous car-service drivers do on past Vegas airport runs, and was, in record time, zooming onto airport property with an oil-scorched tongue and greasy fingers.
Parking: I left my car somewhat close to the entrance of the airport-wide monorail in one of the medium-term parking lots. I figured the closer to the Air Train entrance, the more often the airport security patrols would pass my car. There were plenty of spaces, actually, and probably even more in the cut-rate long-term lots. I didn't want to experiment while on such a tight schedule. At any rate, the lot was virtually dead. I took a picture of the nearest sign with my cellphone, and hefted my bags over to the escalator to wait for the train. Aside from a change of monorail cars halfway through, this process was quite simple, and I soon found myself at Continental's Terminal C.
Security: The streak of all but cartwheeling through the TSA gauntlet continues unabated. By this point it was about 5:00 or so, and the checkpoint was a ghost town. It might even have been that ersatz Rock Ridge from Blazing Saddles, complete with prop-up plywood TSA staff. With no computer, and all fluids obediently parceled in 3-oz. doses, I had nothing of interest to them. Putting my shoes and belt back on took longer than the whole scan of both me and my gear.
Now we wait: In addition to no bagel stores being open near home, the other flaw in my plan was that newspapers had yet to be delivered to the airport. Considering there had been big weekend financial news, I was hoping to read about the last living moments of Lehman Bros. I would have to wait until I arrived in Central City for a Web-based refresher. So I gritted my teeth while listening to the airport CNN and inane phone conversations of my fellow passengers. (Who the fuck was awake at that hour to take a call?) Boarding of our surprisingly full plane commenced on time, and we pushed away and lofted only about 10 minutes late. Flight was quick and smooth.
Lodgings: It was still way too early to check in at my hotel, but it was across the street from the Central City HQ, so I did duck in to check it out. Seemed nicer than the place I'd stayed the first time. I made my way up to the office, found a rest room to change into garb a bit businesslike, and accompanied one of the Central City magazine staff to my temporary cube. Aside from a computer set up for me to help close the issue in house, the cube was entirely empty. Considering my cube in the NJ office was strewn with many hastily unpacked piles from our move several weeks ago, I gazed on the blank walls and desk surfaces with envy.
Meetings and more meetings: One of my teammates estimated that we spent 5 hours in meetings that Monday. Brutal. The two meetings that mattered most were more or less painless, but I was numb by the end of the two days. Between meetings, I reviewed copy for the issue in production and harassed friends via email.
Night of the living Jesus freaks: Fortunately, my only night out there was a Monday night, so I had the Cowboys–Eagles game to watch. It turned out to be a barn-burner of a match. I caught part of the first quarter over mediocre Mexamerican food at a nearby Chili's. The scoring never stopped in this game; I missed one touchdown while calculating the tip, and a turnover while scouting out the restroom.
I scurried back to my hotel after eating to watch the rest. The lobby, previously empty, was seething with the members of some sort of Christian religious organization. A tour bus or two must have dropped them off. People of all ages, with matching religious medals on their chests, were standing around chatting. Some looked like high schoolers; I wondered how children could get sucked into a sect like this so young. Through the parents, perhaps. A whole clutch of these clowns was fussing over a fundraising sale in one of the small conference rooms, scrutinizing jewelry that made the knockoffs on Canal Street look like the contents of Tiffany's windows. I had to excuse myself twice to edge past one fervent pilgrim buttonholing a priest with the following query: "Does the prayer say, 'Now and at the hour of our death,' or, 'Now and at the hour of our deaths?'" Keep counting those pin-dancing angels, true believer.
I arose late the next morning; between watching the entire game and the luxury of a 2-minute commute, I could afford to sleep in. I wandered out sometime around eight for the hotel's breakfast. In the lobby and lounge, what looked like the entire group of Jesus freaks was congregating for a morning ceremony of some kind. As I sat in the adjoining restaurant area, I watched the harried hostess try to stop the worshippers from taking the chairs away from the tables into the lounge. Each time a new person came down from his or her room to attend the Mass, he or she would try to steal a chair, forcing the hostess to repeat her polite, wordy request not to take chairs from paying restaurant customers. So much for the Eighth Commandment.
One of these zombies tried to shuffle off with my chair while I was toasting a bagel. I rejected the hostess's apologetic approach and merely grabbed the chair to arrest his retreat, saying, "This is mine." The hostess caught up with us and she eased the thief away with her standard apology, sparing me the effort of escalating to threats of a broken pelvis. Apparently this crowd clots the joint a number of times a year. Assuming this poor hostess therefore had to repeat this act each visit, I tipped big.
After showering and dressing, I hauled my shit out to the front desk, having to thread through these pinheads once again. This time, they were all focused on something happening up by where the priest might be. Those not in the lounge seemed distracted, as did the hostess, temporarily drawn from her chair-guarding duties. I found out why. As exited the hotel, an ambulance pulled up, followed closely by a second emergency vehicle. Someone must have been stricken in the short time I was in my room. Well, at least this trip would be memorable for them.
Escape from Central City: My boss kindly drove me to the nearby airport, where — at about 5:15 p.m. — there was no security line whatsoever. I cruised through that, then bought a Wall Street Journal to read about the fast-moving collapse of Lehman for an hour or so. The flight back through beautiful stratospheric twilight took about another hour, and deposited me in Newark on time. There, to my relief, my car sat where I'd left it. I burned rubber for home, where I dropped my luggage and slept deeply, happy to be back in my own bed again.
Getting to the airport: Because flights to Central City on Continental are far less frequent than those to Las Vegas, I needed to awaken at 3:15 to get to the airport for a 6:15 flight. Oh, both of those are ante meridian. In a radical cost-cutting move, and to avoid having another narcoleptic chauffeur from the company's standard car service, I drove my own car to the airport. I decided to bet on there being little traffic, and that I would have no problem leaving my car untended in one of the medium-term lots at Newark for 2 full days.
The one hitch was food. Neither of the local bagel joints were open. I didn't feel like Dunkin Donuts (heresy to some readers here), so I got on the road without further local exploration and pulled into the McDonald's after the Route 3 exit on the Garden State Parkway. There, I ordered the only edible thing on the menu, hash browns. A guy who appeared to be the only employee in the joint asked if it was okay if it took a few minutes to get the two of them cooked, as he had none under the hot lamps; I said no sweat. As if to apologize for the very short wait, he gave me what felt like an extra one. I thanked him profusely and began digging them out one by one, shoveling them in as I drove with my knees. It turned out he gave me five of these steamy little grease slabs! I finished wolfing them down while navigating the little dippity-do through local streets to get from the GSP to 78 East, as I'd seen numerous car-service drivers do on past Vegas airport runs, and was, in record time, zooming onto airport property with an oil-scorched tongue and greasy fingers.
Parking: I left my car somewhat close to the entrance of the airport-wide monorail in one of the medium-term parking lots. I figured the closer to the Air Train entrance, the more often the airport security patrols would pass my car. There were plenty of spaces, actually, and probably even more in the cut-rate long-term lots. I didn't want to experiment while on such a tight schedule. At any rate, the lot was virtually dead. I took a picture of the nearest sign with my cellphone, and hefted my bags over to the escalator to wait for the train. Aside from a change of monorail cars halfway through, this process was quite simple, and I soon found myself at Continental's Terminal C.
Security: The streak of all but cartwheeling through the TSA gauntlet continues unabated. By this point it was about 5:00 or so, and the checkpoint was a ghost town. It might even have been that ersatz Rock Ridge from Blazing Saddles, complete with prop-up plywood TSA staff. With no computer, and all fluids obediently parceled in 3-oz. doses, I had nothing of interest to them. Putting my shoes and belt back on took longer than the whole scan of both me and my gear.
Now we wait: In addition to no bagel stores being open near home, the other flaw in my plan was that newspapers had yet to be delivered to the airport. Considering there had been big weekend financial news, I was hoping to read about the last living moments of Lehman Bros. I would have to wait until I arrived in Central City for a Web-based refresher. So I gritted my teeth while listening to the airport CNN and inane phone conversations of my fellow passengers. (Who the fuck was awake at that hour to take a call?) Boarding of our surprisingly full plane commenced on time, and we pushed away and lofted only about 10 minutes late. Flight was quick and smooth.
Lodgings: It was still way too early to check in at my hotel, but it was across the street from the Central City HQ, so I did duck in to check it out. Seemed nicer than the place I'd stayed the first time. I made my way up to the office, found a rest room to change into garb a bit businesslike, and accompanied one of the Central City magazine staff to my temporary cube. Aside from a computer set up for me to help close the issue in house, the cube was entirely empty. Considering my cube in the NJ office was strewn with many hastily unpacked piles from our move several weeks ago, I gazed on the blank walls and desk surfaces with envy.
Meetings and more meetings: One of my teammates estimated that we spent 5 hours in meetings that Monday. Brutal. The two meetings that mattered most were more or less painless, but I was numb by the end of the two days. Between meetings, I reviewed copy for the issue in production and harassed friends via email.
Night of the living Jesus freaks: Fortunately, my only night out there was a Monday night, so I had the Cowboys–Eagles game to watch. It turned out to be a barn-burner of a match. I caught part of the first quarter over mediocre Mexamerican food at a nearby Chili's. The scoring never stopped in this game; I missed one touchdown while calculating the tip, and a turnover while scouting out the restroom.
I scurried back to my hotel after eating to watch the rest. The lobby, previously empty, was seething with the members of some sort of Christian religious organization. A tour bus or two must have dropped them off. People of all ages, with matching religious medals on their chests, were standing around chatting. Some looked like high schoolers; I wondered how children could get sucked into a sect like this so young. Through the parents, perhaps. A whole clutch of these clowns was fussing over a fundraising sale in one of the small conference rooms, scrutinizing jewelry that made the knockoffs on Canal Street look like the contents of Tiffany's windows. I had to excuse myself twice to edge past one fervent pilgrim buttonholing a priest with the following query: "Does the prayer say, 'Now and at the hour of our death,' or, 'Now and at the hour of our deaths?'" Keep counting those pin-dancing angels, true believer.
I arose late the next morning; between watching the entire game and the luxury of a 2-minute commute, I could afford to sleep in. I wandered out sometime around eight for the hotel's breakfast. In the lobby and lounge, what looked like the entire group of Jesus freaks was congregating for a morning ceremony of some kind. As I sat in the adjoining restaurant area, I watched the harried hostess try to stop the worshippers from taking the chairs away from the tables into the lounge. Each time a new person came down from his or her room to attend the Mass, he or she would try to steal a chair, forcing the hostess to repeat her polite, wordy request not to take chairs from paying restaurant customers. So much for the Eighth Commandment.
One of these zombies tried to shuffle off with my chair while I was toasting a bagel. I rejected the hostess's apologetic approach and merely grabbed the chair to arrest his retreat, saying, "This is mine." The hostess caught up with us and she eased the thief away with her standard apology, sparing me the effort of escalating to threats of a broken pelvis. Apparently this crowd clots the joint a number of times a year. Assuming this poor hostess therefore had to repeat this act each visit, I tipped big.
After showering and dressing, I hauled my shit out to the front desk, having to thread through these pinheads once again. This time, they were all focused on something happening up by where the priest might be. Those not in the lounge seemed distracted, as did the hostess, temporarily drawn from her chair-guarding duties. I found out why. As exited the hotel, an ambulance pulled up, followed closely by a second emergency vehicle. Someone must have been stricken in the short time I was in my room. Well, at least this trip would be memorable for them.
Escape from Central City: My boss kindly drove me to the nearby airport, where — at about 5:15 p.m. — there was no security line whatsoever. I cruised through that, then bought a Wall Street Journal to read about the fast-moving collapse of Lehman for an hour or so. The flight back through beautiful stratospheric twilight took about another hour, and deposited me in Newark on time. There, to my relief, my car sat where I'd left it. I burned rubber for home, where I dropped my luggage and slept deeply, happy to be back in my own bed again.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Selfish Sunday
ORDINARILY, I EAT DINNER at my parents' house each Sunday night. They live only one town over, so it's a simple commute, even if it's snowing. During the past 2 weeks, though, I've been over there repeatedly, both for Christmas and New Year's Day, and the subsequent rounds of leftovers, plus a random taco night thrown in for good measure. I needed some time for myself, and this weekend, I took it.
Yesterday was spent doing chores: setting up folders for 2006 paperwork, getting the dry cleaning I thought I would be able to pick up last Monday (it was closed for New Year's Day), doing some shopping, and cleaning here and there. Not a lot of heavy lifting, except at the gym, where I got a good session in. My gym "week" starts on a Saturday with back and bicep exercises, followed by shoulder and thigh work Sunday. Monday is aerobic-machine day, followed by legs on Tuesday and chest/triceps on Wednesday. I am thinking about making Friday night an aerobic night, and leaving Thursday — poker night – wide open so I can get enough sleep on Wednesday night.
I continued my progress today with my shoulders (which comprise about 4 grams of muscle tissue connecting my arms to my torso) and the pair of machines that target the outer and inner thigh muscles. Neither of these displays the user in the most favorable light. Sweatpants are a wise idea. Both groups of exercises went well. The gym continues to be more full than normal for that time and day. I wasn't held up by large clots of resolution-minded folks, though. Many of them are beginners, and therefore use the XpressLine circuit of exercise machines, which I don't rely upon for most of my workouts.
At 1 p.m. today, the Giants were due to face off against the Carolina Panthers. This went ill. They were stomped like radioactive roaches. Enough said about that.
As weekends go — especially the recent holiday weekends – my nutrition was stellar these past two days. I was also able to cook some food for next week's lunches and dinners. For lunch tomorrow, I have whole-wheat penne rigate and steamed broccoli, to which I'll add a small can of tuna. Dinner tomorrow, and lunch or dinner for the next two days, will be baked chicken teriyaki (with roasted sesame seeds and a few dashes of crushed red pepper) over short-grain brown rice. I had one of the four servings I made of that tonight. Excellent. I am looking forward to coupling solid exercise with these sorts of meals again. I fell off the wagon during the holidays, under the constant onslaught of free junk food from the vendors and dinner at my parents'. I also want to get as much progress done before Las Vegas, where — I am realistic enough to know — forward motion toward fitness will be stalled.
I had planned to hit a food store today, but after preparing so much ready-made food, I didn't feel like I needed any more actual rations. I've got plenty of breakfast stuff, too, and I can buy fruit or salad greens in the city. Besides, I didn't want to be tempted by some of the snacky-type crap I knew I might find at the store. I wanted to get a firm start this weekend. I have also designated a specific time to cheat: The 27th of every month (the date of my birthday) will be a food free-fire zone. I picked this idea up from the documentation for my George Foreman Grill, and why would a jovial shmoo like George Foreman lie?
All right. I'll hit the hay soon, because the holiday season also played havoc with my sleep schedule. I am becoming more catlike in that I find I need a solid 8 hours each night. If I manage to polish off 9 tonight, so much the better. Next week is gonna be a deathmarch of five full workdays leading up to a 3-day weekend, followed by two days of absolute insanity prior to the Vegas trip. I have a few fires to put out before I leave my desk for 4 straight workdays. I do know if I go into it with a good workout schedule and decent eating, I'll feel far more positive and in control of things. Being able to mount the steps out of the PATH station without panting will be a bonus as well. Wish me luck.
Yesterday was spent doing chores: setting up folders for 2006 paperwork, getting the dry cleaning I thought I would be able to pick up last Monday (it was closed for New Year's Day), doing some shopping, and cleaning here and there. Not a lot of heavy lifting, except at the gym, where I got a good session in. My gym "week" starts on a Saturday with back and bicep exercises, followed by shoulder and thigh work Sunday. Monday is aerobic-machine day, followed by legs on Tuesday and chest/triceps on Wednesday. I am thinking about making Friday night an aerobic night, and leaving Thursday — poker night – wide open so I can get enough sleep on Wednesday night.
I continued my progress today with my shoulders (which comprise about 4 grams of muscle tissue connecting my arms to my torso) and the pair of machines that target the outer and inner thigh muscles. Neither of these displays the user in the most favorable light. Sweatpants are a wise idea. Both groups of exercises went well. The gym continues to be more full than normal for that time and day. I wasn't held up by large clots of resolution-minded folks, though. Many of them are beginners, and therefore use the XpressLine circuit of exercise machines, which I don't rely upon for most of my workouts.
At 1 p.m. today, the Giants were due to face off against the Carolina Panthers. This went ill. They were stomped like radioactive roaches. Enough said about that.
As weekends go — especially the recent holiday weekends – my nutrition was stellar these past two days. I was also able to cook some food for next week's lunches and dinners. For lunch tomorrow, I have whole-wheat penne rigate and steamed broccoli, to which I'll add a small can of tuna. Dinner tomorrow, and lunch or dinner for the next two days, will be baked chicken teriyaki (with roasted sesame seeds and a few dashes of crushed red pepper) over short-grain brown rice. I had one of the four servings I made of that tonight. Excellent. I am looking forward to coupling solid exercise with these sorts of meals again. I fell off the wagon during the holidays, under the constant onslaught of free junk food from the vendors and dinner at my parents'. I also want to get as much progress done before Las Vegas, where — I am realistic enough to know — forward motion toward fitness will be stalled.
I had planned to hit a food store today, but after preparing so much ready-made food, I didn't feel like I needed any more actual rations. I've got plenty of breakfast stuff, too, and I can buy fruit or salad greens in the city. Besides, I didn't want to be tempted by some of the snacky-type crap I knew I might find at the store. I wanted to get a firm start this weekend. I have also designated a specific time to cheat: The 27th of every month (the date of my birthday) will be a food free-fire zone. I picked this idea up from the documentation for my George Foreman Grill, and why would a jovial shmoo like George Foreman lie?
All right. I'll hit the hay soon, because the holiday season also played havoc with my sleep schedule. I am becoming more catlike in that I find I need a solid 8 hours each night. If I manage to polish off 9 tonight, so much the better. Next week is gonna be a deathmarch of five full workdays leading up to a 3-day weekend, followed by two days of absolute insanity prior to the Vegas trip. I have a few fires to put out before I leave my desk for 4 straight workdays. I do know if I go into it with a good workout schedule and decent eating, I'll feel far more positive and in control of things. Being able to mount the steps out of the PATH station without panting will be a bonus as well. Wish me luck.
Monday, October 24, 2005
How Our Enemies Will Defeat Us
I JUST LOVE THIS. I put on the Jets–Falcons game, and just before New York's first possession, I start to do some dishes. While I washed, the Jets somehow screwed up their first snap, in a way I don't know yet, and BOOM—the Falcons have the ball. Oh, I am happy this is a Monday game, which guarantees I will fall asleep before the bitter end. And now, just as I have been typing this, Testaverde lost the ball on a sack, which fell into the hands of a Falcon. Challenge is in and review is pending. Just a gay night out with Gang Green.
Verdict: Fumble. Atlanta ball.
God, I'm glad I don't bet on sports.
I have a short week ahead of me. Thursday and Friday are mine to enjoy. I am tempted to take a trip to Atlantic City, grab a cheap motel room somewhere along the White Horse Turnpike, and sleep over instead of packing two long drives into one day.
My parents were enthusiastic about the idea, especially the sleepover part. They worry when I take long drives. I am inclined to agree with their overprotectiveness in this specific situation. Nearly 3 hours on the road both ways, the second trip after anywhere from 3 to 6 hours of poker. And that drive doesn't get any more fun if it's a losing session. At least in Las Vegas, I have a shorter drive (or even walk) back to the hotel or a restaurant after a loss. From either AC or Foxwoods, I have a goodly stretch to meditate on the situation.
I am not committed to the idea of a trip. I have few vacation days left. I had hoped these days in October would allow me to enjoy the fall weather. But now it seems like we will get some more rain this week, as a result of Hurricane Wilma. Interestingly, in the 2 weeks or so since Wilma was named, I haven't heard a single Flintstones joke. People are no doubt sensitive about extreme-weather humor after the ravages of Katrina.
There will be no jokes about the name of the storm that just made tropical storm status. After running through the regular roster of names, we are now burdening the otherwise innocent Greek alphabet with the names of our kill-storms. So sometime later this month, we may have Hurricane Alpha ravaging what intact coastline we still have somewhere on the continent.
At this point, you really wonder if paranoid conspiracy theorists are too far off the mark when they mutter breathlessly about the weapon designs of electricity genius and madman Nikola Tesla. He claimed to have developed machines that could start earthquakes and influence the weather. All this with late–19th Century technology, not computers or even radar. Is this what we were trying to destroy 3 years ago at Tora Bora — not merely the al Qaeda leadership, but also a subterranean trove of whirring, Victorian-era weather gadgets, poised to spread drought across our nation's breadbasket, drive floodwaters into our river valleys, and plunge our cities into darkness with massive blackouts?
No, far too obvious The enemy will surely use far more subtle means, like causing Vinny Testaverde to fumble for a third time just now and drop a ball virtually into the arms of a fleet-footed defender for another touchdown. Make the day following Monday Night Football into a second Monday, and demoralize a nation. Or at least the Jets fans in it.
Lucky it's a short week.
Verdict: Fumble. Atlanta ball.
God, I'm glad I don't bet on sports.
I have a short week ahead of me. Thursday and Friday are mine to enjoy. I am tempted to take a trip to Atlantic City, grab a cheap motel room somewhere along the White Horse Turnpike, and sleep over instead of packing two long drives into one day.
My parents were enthusiastic about the idea, especially the sleepover part. They worry when I take long drives. I am inclined to agree with their overprotectiveness in this specific situation. Nearly 3 hours on the road both ways, the second trip after anywhere from 3 to 6 hours of poker. And that drive doesn't get any more fun if it's a losing session. At least in Las Vegas, I have a shorter drive (or even walk) back to the hotel or a restaurant after a loss. From either AC or Foxwoods, I have a goodly stretch to meditate on the situation.
I am not committed to the idea of a trip. I have few vacation days left. I had hoped these days in October would allow me to enjoy the fall weather. But now it seems like we will get some more rain this week, as a result of Hurricane Wilma. Interestingly, in the 2 weeks or so since Wilma was named, I haven't heard a single Flintstones joke. People are no doubt sensitive about extreme-weather humor after the ravages of Katrina.
There will be no jokes about the name of the storm that just made tropical storm status. After running through the regular roster of names, we are now burdening the otherwise innocent Greek alphabet with the names of our kill-storms. So sometime later this month, we may have Hurricane Alpha ravaging what intact coastline we still have somewhere on the continent.
At this point, you really wonder if paranoid conspiracy theorists are too far off the mark when they mutter breathlessly about the weapon designs of electricity genius and madman Nikola Tesla. He claimed to have developed machines that could start earthquakes and influence the weather. All this with late–19th Century technology, not computers or even radar. Is this what we were trying to destroy 3 years ago at Tora Bora — not merely the al Qaeda leadership, but also a subterranean trove of whirring, Victorian-era weather gadgets, poised to spread drought across our nation's breadbasket, drive floodwaters into our river valleys, and plunge our cities into darkness with massive blackouts?
No, far too obvious The enemy will surely use far more subtle means, like causing Vinny Testaverde to fumble for a third time just now and drop a ball virtually into the arms of a fleet-footed defender for another touchdown. Make the day following Monday Night Football into a second Monday, and demoralize a nation. Or at least the Jets fans in it.
Lucky it's a short week.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Sorrow and the Pity: Jets Week 1
I have become a football fan in recent years. I lived under a roof with a father who once had Giants season tickets, and went to a college that produced one of the 1980s' more celebrated quarterbacks, but it never sank in. Only after I spent four years as the roommate of a Jets fan, including the dark years of 1995 and 1996, did I begin to absorb the sport. By the time the Jets had turned things around at the end of the millennium (aka, the thousand-year period between Herman Edwards's ascent as coach and Super Bowl III), I was hooked. I have no deep understanding of the sport, but it is now part of my autumn experience — and autumn is my favorite season.
I spend football Sundays at the gym. I park my doughy ass on an aerobics machine and watch the 1:00 game, which has the questionable effect of improving my health while inviting a heart attack. Such a cardiovascular quandary was in the offing today, with the Jets's season opener against the Kansas City Chiefs. Thus far, the season should have stayed closed.
Explaining New York's series (thus far; the game is in the late 3rd quarter) of missed opportunities and flat-out foul-ups cannot be placed solely on it being an away game. It's like watching the Jets from 2003, not the team that came within a couple of playoff games of the Super Bowl last year. Fumbles, turnovers, and at least one KC TD that could have been taken off with a review. Aside from Vilma, new acquisition Ty Law, and McCareins, they're acting like they're in training camp.
KC, by contrast, has been on fire. They've been crashing through the bemused Jets defense like Red Army tanks through the smoldering suburbs of Berlin. As if to underscore this, they just scored again. The extra point will be the 27th unanswered point on the board.
This could all be my fault. While on my most recent Las Vegas trip, I bought Felix — the Jets fan cited above — a ticket for the Jets to win by 3. This bet can still win if they lose by no more than 2. Now, at the beginning of the fourth, this would be the reversal of the weekend.
Might be a long season. We shall see. There's always . . . er, what's that sport with the ice?
I spend football Sundays at the gym. I park my doughy ass on an aerobics machine and watch the 1:00 game, which has the questionable effect of improving my health while inviting a heart attack. Such a cardiovascular quandary was in the offing today, with the Jets's season opener against the Kansas City Chiefs. Thus far, the season should have stayed closed.
Explaining New York's series (thus far; the game is in the late 3rd quarter) of missed opportunities and flat-out foul-ups cannot be placed solely on it being an away game. It's like watching the Jets from 2003, not the team that came within a couple of playoff games of the Super Bowl last year. Fumbles, turnovers, and at least one KC TD that could have been taken off with a review. Aside from Vilma, new acquisition Ty Law, and McCareins, they're acting like they're in training camp.
KC, by contrast, has been on fire. They've been crashing through the bemused Jets defense like Red Army tanks through the smoldering suburbs of Berlin. As if to underscore this, they just scored again. The extra point will be the 27th unanswered point on the board.
This could all be my fault. While on my most recent Las Vegas trip, I bought Felix — the Jets fan cited above — a ticket for the Jets to win by 3. This bet can still win if they lose by no more than 2. Now, at the beginning of the fourth, this would be the reversal of the weekend.
Might be a long season. We shall see. There's always . . . er, what's that sport with the ice?
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