"Im in yr heartz steelin all yr hopes and dreamz"
That isn’t exactly from “cats on my stuff”, but perhaps it should be. As usual, I’ve been having a bit too much to think lately (and no I’m not very clever…), I’ll try not to get too much into it, maybe I can just lie down until it goes away. On a better note, last weekend was one of the better weekends I’ve had in a while (hence why the internet and I yet again spent a bit of time apart).
It was my co-worker Jose’s last day at the office last Friday (i.e. not yesterday), so we all went out drinking at Rivers. My firm doesn’t go out drinking too much- but it usually goes a little something like this- a few people will stay for one drink, more and more will fade out throughout the night and a few die-hards will drink for hours. It ends up eating away my money and my sobriety, but I wish we went out a bit more because most of the veneer of office politics and mundaneness gets stripped away and it’s just a bunch of people drinking and shooting the shit. Which is the social part of drinking I really love- it’s like all those deep conversations you had in college that you realize in retrospect weren’t all that deep, but at the time feel illuminating and freeing and wonderful. In the end it was only four of us, including a British computer consultant- the two of us ended up chatting about soccer forever (he’s a huge Bristol City fan and a casual Chelsea fan) which felt good at a time that I was reading Fever Pitch. Of course, teh grlz was brought by others- given Cesar (my supervisor) recent wedding, I’m one of the nearly extinct species of singletons at the firm- but somehow I’m always more reasonable and pragmatic about it with people older than me. I left pretty late and mildly drunk, a process I continued on the train and ended with me passing out on the couch after attempting to drink further with Adam, Jeff and Brendan C. back in the burbs.
The next night, Tom and I went to see the Sox game. That game began a current abysmal six game losing streak and brought up bad ideas inside me. Gavin Floyd got shelled (including giving up a grand slam to Yuniesky Betancourt…. I mean, Yuniesky Betancourt, really? Or as an exasperated fan near us exclaimed “We just gave up a Grand slam to a guy named Yuniesky.”) and the Sox were missing opportunities to score left and right (bases loaded and men on second and third in separate innings and no runs to show for it…)- then in the bottom of the 9th inning, the stadium erupted as I rarely seen it have when with nobody out, Josh Fields hit a monster Grand slam that Ichiro dejectedly watch sail over his head to make the score 7-6 with the middle of the order coming up. Then Thome lined out to right, Dye struck out and Erstad capped a miserable performance at the plate and ended the game by haplessly watching a called third strike go by (in fairness to him, he did look good in the field).
The reason I’m going into so much detail about the game (there’s method to my madness) other than to describe the disappointment is that immediately when it ended, my head was filled with cringe-worthy sports metaphors for personal romantic failure. Also, reading Fever Pitch- possibly the best sports book I’ve ever read- I’ve been paying more attention to how much following one team’s fortunes has consumed my life and drawing interesting parallels between myself and Nick Hornby at points in that book (aimless twentysomethings with writing talent but not much confidence madly in love with a team that disappoints us more often than not- there are a lot more, shame brought on by fans who don’t exactly have progressive sensibilities, shame brought upon the game, players coming and going- frankly, any die-hard sports fan or anyone interested in what the hell is going on in our heads, will love this book).
Back to the cringe-worthy metaphors, I can’t say I’ve completely moved beyond them, but I’ll be nice and spare you. After the game, I met up Joe Jaz, went drinking with him and crashed at his place, I haven’t seen him in a while and frankly, it felt good for the soul. We drank some scotch at his place and talked about our respective “it’s complicated” situations and I feel like somehow with Joe on that level, he gets me and I get him- we’ve moved beyond the mythical lie of “nice guys finish last” and most related emo-like crap, but are still perpetually in that frustrated “missed it by that much”, trying to reconcile caring just enough, but not caring enough to embarrass ourselves.
I guess I’ve spent the better of this year, trying to kill the romantic inside me, but realizing I can’t fully do it that the remnants will always be there and finding a way to accept that and use it to my advantage. And the cringe-worthy sports metaphors- both to baseball and soccer have been somewhat replaced by Harry Potter ones (horrorcruxes… don’t ask, I haven’t fully figured it out myself).
The next day, we met up with Joe and
rhapsodista' s Illinois Wesleyan crew (Mariano, Kat, Kelly, etc.) to go to a CSI exhibit at the Museum of Science Industry- it was kind of fun and interactive, but maybe not worth the $19- still the company was good and wandering the museum looking at all the now run down and old exhibits I had loved as a child brought some nostalgia in me. Joe and I went to dinner with Kat and ended up getting in a conversation with some very reasonable conservatives sitting at a table next to us. Of course, we walked on eggshells a bit, but they seemed like nice enough guys.
As for this week,
rough_edges and Kristina came through on their road trip back from New York- we all went to see Wicked (me for the second time around) and I was surprised how much I still enjoyed it the second time around. I still like the original cast better- although that’s probably just me being predisposed to feel that way- but the songs stuck with me better this time- “We deserve each other” sounded more haunting for some reason.
On another day, I tried to kiss a friend girl I hadn’t seen in a while, I think my timing wasn’t bad enough to wreck things and I think we’re cool- so I can’t particularly fault myself for still having guts (which has worked out for me more often than not lately). Still, there’s always the danger of the wrong idea coming across… yeah.
Alright, I think I’ve written enough and made myself vulnerable enough for one entry…
Hugs and kisses,
Steve.
It was my co-worker Jose’s last day at the office last Friday (i.e. not yesterday), so we all went out drinking at Rivers. My firm doesn’t go out drinking too much- but it usually goes a little something like this- a few people will stay for one drink, more and more will fade out throughout the night and a few die-hards will drink for hours. It ends up eating away my money and my sobriety, but I wish we went out a bit more because most of the veneer of office politics and mundaneness gets stripped away and it’s just a bunch of people drinking and shooting the shit. Which is the social part of drinking I really love- it’s like all those deep conversations you had in college that you realize in retrospect weren’t all that deep, but at the time feel illuminating and freeing and wonderful. In the end it was only four of us, including a British computer consultant- the two of us ended up chatting about soccer forever (he’s a huge Bristol City fan and a casual Chelsea fan) which felt good at a time that I was reading Fever Pitch. Of course, teh grlz was brought by others- given Cesar (my supervisor) recent wedding, I’m one of the nearly extinct species of singletons at the firm- but somehow I’m always more reasonable and pragmatic about it with people older than me. I left pretty late and mildly drunk, a process I continued on the train and ended with me passing out on the couch after attempting to drink further with Adam, Jeff and Brendan C. back in the burbs.
The next night, Tom and I went to see the Sox game. That game began a current abysmal six game losing streak and brought up bad ideas inside me. Gavin Floyd got shelled (including giving up a grand slam to Yuniesky Betancourt…. I mean, Yuniesky Betancourt, really? Or as an exasperated fan near us exclaimed “We just gave up a Grand slam to a guy named Yuniesky.”) and the Sox were missing opportunities to score left and right (bases loaded and men on second and third in separate innings and no runs to show for it…)- then in the bottom of the 9th inning, the stadium erupted as I rarely seen it have when with nobody out, Josh Fields hit a monster Grand slam that Ichiro dejectedly watch sail over his head to make the score 7-6 with the middle of the order coming up. Then Thome lined out to right, Dye struck out and Erstad capped a miserable performance at the plate and ended the game by haplessly watching a called third strike go by (in fairness to him, he did look good in the field).
The reason I’m going into so much detail about the game (there’s method to my madness) other than to describe the disappointment is that immediately when it ended, my head was filled with cringe-worthy sports metaphors for personal romantic failure. Also, reading Fever Pitch- possibly the best sports book I’ve ever read- I’ve been paying more attention to how much following one team’s fortunes has consumed my life and drawing interesting parallels between myself and Nick Hornby at points in that book (aimless twentysomethings with writing talent but not much confidence madly in love with a team that disappoints us more often than not- there are a lot more, shame brought on by fans who don’t exactly have progressive sensibilities, shame brought upon the game, players coming and going- frankly, any die-hard sports fan or anyone interested in what the hell is going on in our heads, will love this book).
Back to the cringe-worthy metaphors, I can’t say I’ve completely moved beyond them, but I’ll be nice and spare you. After the game, I met up Joe Jaz, went drinking with him and crashed at his place, I haven’t seen him in a while and frankly, it felt good for the soul. We drank some scotch at his place and talked about our respective “it’s complicated” situations and I feel like somehow with Joe on that level, he gets me and I get him- we’ve moved beyond the mythical lie of “nice guys finish last” and most related emo-like crap, but are still perpetually in that frustrated “missed it by that much”, trying to reconcile caring just enough, but not caring enough to embarrass ourselves.
I guess I’ve spent the better of this year, trying to kill the romantic inside me, but realizing I can’t fully do it that the remnants will always be there and finding a way to accept that and use it to my advantage. And the cringe-worthy sports metaphors- both to baseball and soccer have been somewhat replaced by Harry Potter ones (horrorcruxes… don’t ask, I haven’t fully figured it out myself).
The next day, we met up with Joe and
rhapsodista' s Illinois Wesleyan crew (Mariano, Kat, Kelly, etc.) to go to a CSI exhibit at the Museum of Science Industry- it was kind of fun and interactive, but maybe not worth the $19- still the company was good and wandering the museum looking at all the now run down and old exhibits I had loved as a child brought some nostalgia in me. Joe and I went to dinner with Kat and ended up getting in a conversation with some very reasonable conservatives sitting at a table next to us. Of course, we walked on eggshells a bit, but they seemed like nice enough guys.
As for this week,
rough_edges and Kristina came through on their road trip back from New York- we all went to see Wicked (me for the second time around) and I was surprised how much I still enjoyed it the second time around. I still like the original cast better- although that’s probably just me being predisposed to feel that way- but the songs stuck with me better this time- “We deserve each other” sounded more haunting for some reason.
On another day, I tried to kiss a friend girl I hadn’t seen in a while, I think my timing wasn’t bad enough to wreck things and I think we’re cool- so I can’t particularly fault myself for still having guts (which has worked out for me more often than not lately). Still, there’s always the danger of the wrong idea coming across… yeah.
Alright, I think I’ve written enough and made myself vulnerable enough for one entry…
Hugs and kisses,
Steve.