The (Re-)Action Post

I tend to be far more reflective than I should be. (Which is probably part of the reason why I have this blog in the first place, but never mind that.) So when the week nears its end, I like looking back and seeing how things have gone, in the interest of both self-improvement and maintaining regular posts on this purportedly regularly-updating blog. (Naysayers be preemptively damned: Dickens got paid by the word, so if he can justify writing for quantity's sake, so can I.)

My two main threads of the week have boiled down to education and music, though there are lots of branch-offs to each of them. Perhaps the reason education is so much at the forefront of my mind is the fact that this week, workwise, has been unbelievably stressful, and it's my own fault. My trip to Jersey last week gave me the opportunity to put some extra work in on my annotated bibliography (which was due on the 17th but I was allowed to hand in yesterday), but the downside is that work came at a rather late moment in the process.

In my own defense, it wasn't entirely the fault of laziness. The major problem was a conflict of messages: my professor admitted that the whole thing was a rather derivative exercise, and that, in order to make it meaningful, I should connect it to a project I would write for another class. At the time, this worked out fine because I had been planning to write the paper for Reinventing the 19th Century on Tom Stoppard's brilliant play Arcadia. In the time since the bibliography turned into something I could no longer easily ignore, my topic changed to writing on a much more recent text -- Shari Holman's The Dress Lodger -- about which no critical writing existed. That, coupled with the fact that my sci-fi paper is shaping up to be more about music than about any of the texts we're reading, didn't give me a whole lot of critical material to read and annotate (the requirement was 10 sources). So while I did save much of the work until the last minute, it was a function of having to do a project that was less than important and also not about something particularly relevant or interesting to me or my potential research.

In a word: bleh.

What the whole experience has highlighted for me is just how much work I need to do on improving my time management skills. I had conjured up a rudimentary strategy for getting all my work done in a timely manner a few weeks ago, but after missing the first three days of my schedule, it fell by the wayside -- because it's always easier to let the abandon the sinking ship than to try and patch the holes instead. The result, though, is a decent amount of forethought but little execution: thus, I write much of my annotated bibliography in the post-midnight evening hours. This is a problem for my sleep schedule (which I've become rather fond of lately) but it's an even larger problem, I learned, for Danielle, who notices my insane level of stress and gets very upset by it, even if my demeanor doesn't necessarily change that drastically while I'm under said stress. The last thing I want to do is have my shitty work habits affecting those around me, and especially not her, so I really need to get to work on this.

It doesn't help, though, that I constantly feel like the work I do in the classes I teach is equally insufficient. Granted, I could probably do more prep for my classes, but what I've noticed with the college students as opposed to the high school students is that there's less pressure here: you do what you need to do, and the time manages to find itself slipping away -- when you think the introduction to your class has taken 5 minutes, it's actually taken 15. The plus side is that I'm not wasting time disciplining students who didn't want to be there, like I frequently did with the high schoolers, but the other side of the coin is that I feel infinitely more responsible when they don't do well now. I get the sense that, while the annotated syllabus and other supporting materials are helping me from day to day, I just don't feel like I'm doing enough to help them become better writers, and I'm frustrated by what I think is an insubstantial job on my part. I'm going to take a far more hands-on approach to this next paper and hope for the best, but my irritation is beginning to reach a fevered pitch.

Reflecting on my teaching, though, has got me thinking about my old teachers, like Mrs. Leogrande, Mr. Moore, Prof. Wolfson, and Prof. Knoepflmacher, many of whom I'd sworn to keep in touch with after I left their classrooms. In fairness, I've been doing pretty well at keeping up (at least on an annual basis) with Mr. Moore, but it seems like the others have fallen somewhat by the wayside, and it feels like shit. It feels just as shitty as the realization that many of the friends I've had over my life have, in some way or another, become marginalized or, worse, marginalized me. It's not a good feeling, and I have to believe that I'm not the only one who feels so bad when people you knew and cared about start slipping away. On the other hand, it seems to happen so often that I guess people know how it goes and can deal with it -- does that mean I can't? Should I have to? And what can I do about it if I'm just as guilty myself?

Amidst this mass of insecurities, I've found a little bit of solace in my music. This week, I acquired two CDs I've been anxiously awaiting for some time: the new Coheed and Cambria disc, No World for Tomorrow, and the new Jimmy Eat World release, Chase This Light. I can't really comment extensively on either, as I haven't given them especially thorough listens, but they each do radically different things for me, even though my initial gut reactions to both have been markedly similar.

In both cases, I've felt a bit disappointed, particularly because these are two bands I very much like and think are capable of truly wonderful things. But on both of these discs, I sense a certain amount of complacency, as if they've done these things before and, most disturbingly, done them better. Yet I feel totally contrary feelings about each disc.

I listen to the Jimmy Eat World CD and I struggle to try and quickly learn the choruses and verses to sing them aloud. Danielle, who's not a big fan of either band, was subjected to some of Chase This Light the other day and noted that, while she thought it sounded like everything else Jimmy Eat World has done, she was glad it made me happy. And it does. Sure, it doesn't really do anything radically new, but it settles rather nicely into a sort of comfort zone that feels genuine and warm, and it's what's drawn me to Jimmy Eat World all along.

The Coheed and Cambria disc, however, frustrates me because I find that I've yet to find a disc that's lived up to the expectations I had since I was blown away by In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3, their second album but the first to which I was exposed. Missing from this disc (and, in my opinion, from their last disc, the interminably titled Good Apollo I'm Burning Star IV, Volume One: From Fear Through the Eyes of Madness) is the sense of being in a true epic, with long, intricately composed songs and bombastic riffs and arrangements that feel huge. Instead, on No World for Tomorrow (which technically is Volume Two of Good Apollo), I feel a bunch of tracks that have very classic rock-style riffage, but nothing especially epic or deep. Song structures are, at their core, A-B-A-B-C-B, with little interesting variation, and no especially memorable solos or lyrics. There's nothing like the title track of In Keeping Secrets..., an 8-minute long epic that navigates styles and tempos with ease and features an abundance of crushing guitar parts. Even the single, "A Favor House Atlantic," refused to follow simple verse-chorus form, instead traversing a less-mundane A-B-A-B-C-B-C-C form -- not so here. While I promised I wouldn't go into full-blown review mode, I feel let down by what strikes me as something far more simplistic than what Coheed and Cambria typically promise with their album concepts. But maybe I need a few more listens.

I feel like I'm whining a bit too much now, so even though I feel like I have more I meant to say, perhaps it's time to step away from the keyboard. I'm sure I'll reflect even more upon whatever's on my mind before the next time I sit to post again -- and, hopefully, I'll have found myself seeing things from a slightly brighter perspective.

Exeunt Delectation

After several weeks of thousand-page average reading assignments in my seminars, I've finally hit the long-awaited point of respite I'd been anticipating since the first day of the semester. For the next two weeks of my sci-fi seminar the "readings" largely involve listening to music -- crazy fucked-up jazz, trip-hop remixes, and straight-up funk, anyone? -- and, starting next week, my 19th-Century seminar will be tackling primarily the same text for three straight weeks.

You're looking at a calmer, somewhat happier Dave.

Which is not to say that he was totally miserable for the past couple of weeks. Okay, call my bluff and the truth will come out that things haven't always been coming up roses recently. In fact, I'd planned to blog last Wednesday, the 17th, a post that I'd hoped would reflect the joy and satisfaction of realizing the end to my traffic ticket fiasco.

For the uninitiated, here's what went down: back on July 21, move-in day, I was traveling westward on I-80 just past Rockaway Mall. I was in the fast lane, with my cruise control set to 65 since my car had less than 400 miles on it at the time. Behind me, a state trooper quickly turned from a speck in my rearview to a vehicle close enough that I felt it was best to get out of his way. I sped up a bit and came over, apparently not lifting my turn signal high enough to register it.

Said officer proceeded to get behind me and pull me over after a mile of suspense. He told me I was doing 80 mph (bullshit) and that I'd come over without a blinker. I explained it to him in the precise manner I just explained, insisting that I was only trying to get out of his way and that I thought the blinker had gone on. He returned with a ticket, and a maddening explanation: he could have given me two tickets worth six points, so I should be appreciative that I ended up with what I got. Oh, and have a nice day.

It goes without saying that my rage was palpable. I hadn't even thought to give the guy my PBA card because I didn't even know why he was pulling me over, and I personally felt like it was a little bit of entrapment. So I decided not to pay it, but to fight it. I was given a court date of October 17th, in Wharton Borough court, a date that came, at last, this past week.

Which brings us back to...

Instead of driving home after my 2:00pm court date, tossing back a celebratory beer and enjoying a delicious steak dinner cooked in honor of the prodigal son finally returning home again, I was instead muttering, cursing, and trying to down the brews as quickly as I could to drown my sorrows.

See, when shit like this happens to me, it's nice to know I've got some friends in decently high places that can help me out -- after all, I don't just have a PBA card for nothing, right? In this case, I enlisted the help of two friends, one police officer and one retired State Trooper. Both offered me a great deal of help and advice, and when I went to the court, I was assured that everything was "taken care of."

If by "taken care of," you mean "arranged such that I would plead down to a charge that'll cost five times what the original ticket would have (albeit with no points) and will make prison inmates jealous of the gaping maw that was my asshole."

The Dave of this past Thursday was an exceptionally livid Dave. Sure, the license was technically still clean and I had pled down to a lesser charge, but the fact that I hustled back to New Jersey, skipped a pretty important class, and worried for three months about this thing for it to cost me what I feel is an obscene $445 didn't, in the end, feel worth it. Not by a long shot. And what was even more maddening was the idea that I was swallowed up by a ridiculous bureaucratic machine. Granted, I'm the last person to be debating politics, particularly the politics of small, North Jersey municipalities, but the fact that it cost me one-third of my original charge just to bring the case to court is absurd. It's as if the bureaucracy is set up to bend you over and force you to accept the heavy-handed word of law, even if there is a reasonable explanation and especially if you're not in a position to fight it appropriately. I'm not naïve enough to think that the justice system every actually works in favor of the people, but you'd think for stupid shit like traffic claims it wouldn't be such a damn hassle. Poor innocent me.

Lesson learned, though. If a cop gets behind me again, fuck 'im. Let him wait till I get by, and if he pulls me over again, I'll be sure he gets my PBA card, along with an under-the-breath oath about where, anatomically, he can put it.

On the plus side, I've been trying to channel the rage into a slightly more productive venture: the on-campus fitness center. After weeks of weight fluctuations finally stopped and settled me at the high end (isn't it always?) of the weight range I'd been wavering amidst since August, I got pissed off enough to finally do something about it -- a strategy that, in the past (including but not limited to weight-loss attempts), has worked rather swimmingly for me.

So since Thursday, I've been to the gym every day for a half-hour, cycling and elliptical-ing in an effort to get my cardiovascular fitness back to my old height and start burning off the fat. I've been making attempts to watch what I eat -- in fairness, I've been more concerned with quantity, not quality, as I don't really eat too poorly in the first place, but I do eat way too much -- and have aimed for somewhere between 300 and 400 Calories a day, seven days a week, in the hopes that the gym will take away at least 2500 Calories a week. The way I figure, since a pound of fat is 3500 Calories, all I have to do is cut out a measly 150 Calories of consumed food per day to have a net loss of over 3500 Calories a week. Which should, in a perfect world, lead to me losing a pound or so a week.

Of course, I could get somewhere close to two pounds a week if I were able to correct the abysmal eating schedule I've adapted. While sleeping in four days a week is a pretty sweet deal, what I've found is that they've caused me to shift my meals to later times. Breakfast occurs around noon; lunch happens around 5:00-6:00pm, and dinner (or what feels like a midnight snack) occurs around 10:00pm or 11:00pm. Which means I'm putting shit right into my stomach just before I hit the hay. And then I don't want to eat breakfast on the 6:45am days, so I just skip it and keep pushing the schedule back. If I could get myself back to the point where my last major meal was around 6:00pm -- and, in an ideal world, fix it such that my largest meal occurred in the afternoon, before I go to the gym -- I'd be much better off. Fingers crossed, and I'll keep all three of my readers updated on my progress in future posts.

But really. In a world where Joe Torre is no longer the coach of the Yankees, the Red Sox are in the World Series, and the geneses of my end-of-semester projects remain elusive and cloudy, can you really blame a guy for needing to down a roast beef sub at 10:00pm? I didn't think so.

What's the Big Fucking Deal?

It will become obvious in a few sentences that the title of this post is wordplay to a fault, but let's forgive the ribaldry and punnification for just a moment.

As a writer and reader, I find myself surfing a limited number of blogs on a regular basis -- some because they're well written, some because I know the author, and some for no apparent reason other than the curiosity afforded by the often-frightening anonymity the Internet provides to satiate our voyeuristic tendencies. During one of these ventures (inspired, in the interest of full disclosure, by that final motivation), I ran into this link, and it has set my bullshit meter flying.

The author of the post in which I found this link, the moderator of a coaster enthusiast website I frequent, made haste to dispute the validity of a program like this on purely economic terms, and he's pretty much exactly right. If the research shows that there's no link between the existence of abstinence-only sex education programs and abstinence itself, then a closed-minded continuation of such a program is a waste of taxpayer money. As a taxpayer, I'm insulted.

But as a human being, and a relatively open-minded one at that, I'm even more insulted. The implication inherent in programs like these is twofold: firstly, that complex issues with multiple viewpoints and perspectives can be unquestioningly reduced to a simple case of black versus white; and secondly, that within that oversimplified binary, one of the two choices can be, also unquestioningly, reduced to being "right" while the other is "wrong."

There are more things wrong with this kind of thinking than I could ever dare to tackle in one sitting at my computer. Let's consider for one moment the danger and hypocrisy of what happens when the moral imperative of the government is presumed to be the ethical standard against which all citizens are judged. We criticize the hell out of Middle Eastern governments, claiming that they're too swayed by their ideologies, but our own government tells us that if we fuck before we're married, we're somehow second-class citizens. Is that any better than the Iranian government condoning and sanctioning the assassination of Salman Rushdie because his novels offended the sensibilities of Islam? Is the call to arms to kill any less unethical than the call to keep it in our pants until we're wedded? Maybe the comparison isn't quite apples to apples, but in both cases a government is latching itself inexorably to a certain moral ideal and basing its decisions and its funding on the supposed need to edify those who refuse to go along with that ideal. How is that not akin to brainwashing?

I for one refuse to believe that not abstaining from premarital sex makes me any less of a flag-waving, freedom-loving citizen than the virgin next door. There is no education going on here, just mindless proselytizing. Facts are replaced with opinions, the moral weight of which is expected to guilt "offenders" into unflinchingly switching gears and joining the cause. And because our government is behind it -- specifically, an administration that has made its name by disguising the rhetoric of fear, control, and manipulation beneath the veil of patriotism -- people stand behind it and don't question it, don't get pissed off about it enough for anything to change. The research has shown that this is not the status quo, so where are the actual facts that could and should be delivered to that populace? Why is the preferred nomenclature that of condemnation instead of education?

(That's a question we should be asking of all of our government's decisions, particularly those that restrict the freedoms our founding fathers fought and died for: "Those who would give up ESSENTIAL LIBERTY to purchase a little TEMPORARY SAFETY deserve neither LIBERTY nor SAFETY." --Benjamin Franklin)

But I think, despite some of the political posturing I just excised from my system, that there's something even more disturbing at play here. Anyone who's tapped into the cultural machine of American life -- and really, can any of us fully escape from it? -- understands that while we sit in health classes and proclaim the evils of sex, we walk outside the school to find a gorgeous, buxom woman bikini-clad on a billboard urging us to purchase, for instance, a certain brand cologne. The psychology at work here is fairly transparent: the ad responds to our primal sexualities and suggests that the scantily-clad hotties of the world will find us infinitely more desirable if we are caught with the eau du Yves St. Laurent emanating from our persons. Frankly, this isn't such a bad thing. Sex sells. What's bad is the diametrically opposed messages we're receiving from the media and government, one of which is urging us to indulge our sexual impulses while the other mandates that we should suppress them until we've satisfied some other artificial social construct that "defines" our apparent readiness to participate.

Basically, it's all bullshit. Much like the ruling parties of our national and local governments have become outrageously polarized in the last few years, so too are our views of sexuality. There is no middle ground between Hollywood hedonism and all-American abstinence. And the polarization between the radical left and the radical right -- because at this stage in the game, only the radical voices are heard on Capitol Hill, a terrifying concept in its own right -- ensures that the sexual polarization of our country will remain intact: speak of the need for sexual education and abstinence critics will contend that it equates to silent consent of premarital sex, and vice versa. We're caught in a land of dialectics, and there's little conceivable room for a happy medium.

I'm scared for what this may imply, and even more frightened by the fact that I've seen some of my own fears already palpably present in my classes. During a conversation with my freshmen students, I tried to coax out of them that a certain ad (appropriately, for Yves St. Laurent perfume) was appealing to its audience by selling sex. No one wanted to say it, as if it was a dirty word. So I wrote in three huge capital letters that covered half the board. And still, no one wanted to even mention it besides me. In another class, this one a seminar filled with graduate students, one fellow colleague cringes at almost every suggestion of even the most benign sexuality in the texts we read. What is it about sex that has become so frightening, so cringe-worthy, as to elicit "eww"s and "gross"es from twentysomething grad students that already hold collegiate degrees? Are we really that naïve, or simply uneducated.

I fear, as I've said all along, that it's both. I see no reason why sexuality, which is a natural and normal part of human nature, is something that can't be openly and freely discussed -- even if that means speaking at the most clinical level in order to make the conversation as accessible as possible. I'm not expecting everyone to be as comfortable with dicks, pussies, and fucking as I am, but I don't think it's expecting too much to be able to discuss penises, vaginas, and intercourse if the topic needs to be discussed. Sure, there are certain sexual taboos that should probably be followed in the interest of civility and decorum, but that sex itself has become a self-serving taboo sets an unfortunate and uncomfortable precedent.

We don't need ads and programs telling kids to keep their pants zipped until the reception's over. We need people who aren't afraid to tell them why -- in practical, not moral, terms -- they should consider abstinence, and what avenues are available to them if they opt not to. They're not second-class citizens, and they shouldn't be treated like they are. But they should be allowed every opportunity possible to make an enlightened and informed decision about sex, and the neo-Puritanism that has overtaken our sensibilities at the sight of an errant bare breast is stifling every opportunity we have to make those conversations happen.

And that's more than insulting. It's downright dangerous.

There Is No Joy in Mudville Today...

Mighty Jorge has struck out. And with that swing goes the dreams of yet another season of hope pissed away in a postseason filled with empty hearts, broken promises, and dashed expectations. I suppose I have a lot of questions about why these New York Yankees -- the young, upstart, underdog Yankees that rallied back from a 21-29 start to come within a hairsbreadth of a 10th consecutive AL East title -- fell to the same undecorous fate of Yankees squads of recent years.

Why did the team that produced the most runs in the regular season fail to produce almost any runs in the three games in which they lost? Why were the Indians able to absolutely manhandle every Yankees pitcher that took the mound while the Indians staff seemed almost completely untouchable? What happened to the fire and the energy after falling behind 2-0 and needing to win three in a row to stay in contention, and why did that spark only last for one game? Why did this team need to be the team upon which the fate of so many core Yankees rested? Why did the most hard-fought game of the year, the game that clearly decided this series, come down not to timely pitching or defense, but an errant wild pitch amongst a swarm of malevolent gnats?

Why did fate shit on these Yankees this time?

Maybe I'm indulging my flare for the overdramatic a bit, and that's fair. I love baseball. It's a part of my soul and my very composition. And above all, I love my Yankees. Pinstripes have run through my blood for as long as I can remember, first consciously shown at the tender age of 4 in a story I'm only too happy to tell anyone who questions my allegiance. I have taken quite a shine to many sports over time, especially hockey and, most recently, the collegiate rendition of American football. But nothing, nothing, will ever take the place in my heart that baseball has held, with an iron grip, since the days of my childhood.

Hell, I still remember playing in Little League, never being a particularly good fielder or hitter, but having one moment in the spotlight: a warm summer day, my team down the whole game, a runner on third that represented the tying run and a runner on second representing the game winner against the best team in the league. I remember the pitcher tossing the ball and my bat somehow, miraculously, making divine contact, sending it screaming past the diving second baseman. It flew into the outfield, well within the reach of the astute right fielder, but far from being able to make a play at the plate happened. The ball was tossed back to the second baseman, who gloved it and tagged me as I rounded first base triumphantly and ran, arms in the air, without a care around the bases. The tag meant nothing. The winning run had scored from my bat, and as his glove touched my shirt, I swooped into a long turn, ran back towards the first base dugout, and leaped into the arms of my smiling, laughing coach, surrounded by a bunch of proud teammates.

That day, I took home the first of two game balls I earned in my entire Little League career. Long after my offensive success, I had adapted into the role of a pitcher -- along my bumpy baseball path, I eventually played every position, finding myself most at home, appropriately, at catcher, and also at third base -- and was given the ball in a fairly pivotal game. I had little skill and spotty command, but that day I was on. Almost every pitch I threw found the catcher's glove and the strike zone. At the end of the 6 inning match, I'd struck out 14 batters, almost 5 full frames worth of hitters, and walked only 2. That ball, with all its statistical integrity etched in faded Sharpie on the dirty leather, still sits in my room, prominently displayed on my bookcase. It was my one moment of truly dominant athletic triumph: for one glorious afternoon, the stage was mine and I'd performed virtuosically.

So yeah, I take this baseball thing a little personally.

And here's what I especially find disconcerting, among other things, about this Yankees season. Not so much that the bats went silent -- I've seen hot bats go silent in the postseason over the past few years, so it really wasn't something you couldn't expect -- but that everything else went silent too. The dominant pitching of Cy Young-worthy Chien-Ming Wang was nonexistent, left for dead amongst the regular season's final throes. Andy Pettitte, the stalwart veteran, pitched masterfully in Game 2, but could find no run support, and the typically stellar Joba Chamberlain lost his command at the worst time, sending the game into extra frames that were destined not to end in the Yankees' favor -- after all, how could they possibly emerge victorious amidst what looked like the plague of fucking locusts? And when the hitting really needed to be timely -- bases loaded situations, scenarios with men in scoring position -- they failed miserably, almost always leading to a rapid end of the rally.

Only in Game 3 did things take a turn, prompted, one has to assume, by George Steinbrenner's asinine threat of Joe Torre's job as manager.

Tangentially-Related Rant: George Steinbrenner, you're a fucking dickhead. You had to have known that comment would have riled everyone up, so why would you say it right before the most important game of the year? Sure, they won, and that's all fine and good, but did you really think spewing your useless vilification would actually change anything? Your comments alone made it abundantly obvious how out of touch you are with your own team: "We can hit." No shit. But when we don't hit, what else do we have to show for it? Nothing. Why? Because you won't invest in pitching, like columnists and fans have been begging you to do since 2001. Open your pursestrings for some quality pitchers, and maybe you won't have to make these classless empty threats that only insult the fans and the members of the organization they pull so desperately for. Like Joe Torre. Who doesn't in the least deserve to take the fall for your organizational fuckups and useless micromanagement. Bite the hand that feeds you, and see when the next time you make the ALDS comes around, jerkoff.

Whether the comments actually distracted the Yankees or not, it certainly drove them somehow, made them dig deep to find the old Yankees, the upstart underdogs of the regular season who rallied back and made it seem like it was a series again. But it was temporal at best: again, the curse of inconsistency reared its ugly head, and they couldn't make it work when it counted. One could've looked beyond the impressive offensive numbers throughout the regular season, seen the habits of high numbers of stranded runners, and predicted this. But we all thought they would have found some way of pulling through.

But alas, 'twas not to be.

The only good thing is that no one can blame Alex Rodriguez for all this. Sure, he wasn't the savior, the easy MVP that trounced pitchers throughout the Majors during the regular season. But then again, neither was anyone on the team, except, perhaps, for Johnny Damon. A-Rod, like everyone, sucked. And you can't blame him in the end: he hit relatively decently for the series, hit a dramatic Game 4 home run, and made some excellent defensive plays. Over the course of 162 games, one guy really can carry everybody for stretches at a time. But in the postseason, when every game counts, every player needs to be on his game. And they just weren't.

I can't explain why everything fizzled so outlandishly. I can't figure out why Joe Torre will likely never manage for the Pinstripes again, when he's done a masterful job leading them to the postseason in every single year of his tenure. He's working in probably the only town where that's not good enough, and that's a shame. He will be sorely missed, as will every free agent whose allegiance to Joe is sworn and who will most likely work elsewhere next year without that man in the clubhouse every day.

And so that memory -- a memory of failure, of shattered dreams, of unfulfilled promise, of the vile sputterings of a borderline-senile Machiavellian owner -- are what mark the end of this season. Next year's Yankees, sadly, won't be the same, and that leaves me entering this offseason with a far more poignant tinge of regret than in seasons past. Somehow, for days now, we've all known that the hammer was destined to fall. And now that it has, there's a great deal of uncertainty and disappointment that will pervade the souls of the Yankee faithful until the first vestiges of spring training rouse us from our hibernation. Then, we'll see what we can expect from the new Yankees, and we'll see if we can predict the same kind of stunning collapse that destiny leveled upon this team again this year. A year that was so full of hope. That's now full of emptiness. And with little consolation looming on the offseason horizon.

I'm a fan. Can you blame me for taking this shit seriously?

Everybody's Working for the Weekend

Funny thing about responsibility. We spend a great deal of our lives earning the rights bestowed upon those of elder age, and swallow the responsibilities associated therewith as a mark of pride, a way of showing we've made it. We embrace responsibility, but the sad truth is that, all too often, it takes us away from the things we truly enjoy.

Responsibility reared its ugly head and did just that to me last week, causing me to not only spend every day wishing that the week was over -- a tactic I thought I'd sworn, back in my undergraduate days, I'd never do again -- but also taking me away from the simple pleasures of life that I truly love. Such as, for instance, writing in this blog. You'll note it's been about a week and a half since I've updated, and this is not for lack of eventful, blogworthy happenings to note. On the contrary, the intervening 10 days have been filled with excitement and entertainment.

When last we left our intrepid amateur writer, he was on the cusp of a momentous moment in his young life. Just a day after the September 21 post, I awoke in Princeton, New Jersey, next to the most beautiful woman in the world, with whom I was celebrating the fifth anniversary of our dating life. Contrary to the opinion of several friends from high school who predicted that we simply wouldn't last, we have managed -- granted, not without our share of bumps in the road, but those bumps really do build character -- to survive five years together. Returning to Princeton, the site of many an anniversary past, was no accident, at least not after a short blurb in the Sunday paper revealed that the Great Grapes wine and food festival would be taking place on the very same day as our anniversary, September 22. It was just far too convenient and appropriate to forgo.

Of course, when traveling, one must ensure that one obtains the necessary accoutrements; namely, the basic human necessities of food and shelter. Food we knew would be no issue: notwithstanding the copious food samples available at the festival, we've compiled, over four years, a nice sampling of Princetonian fare that caters to our discriminating palates. Shelter, by contrast, would be a bit of a challenge: after recalling, much to my dismay, that I simply couldn't put Danielle up in my room anymore at Princeton, we realized that a hotel room would be necessary. And only shortly after this realization came the follow-up: that our "traditional" location of respite, a certain Hampton Inn in Somerset, was priced a little too richly for our poor (read: cheap-ass) grad student tastes.

At which point came arguably the great stroke of brilliance I've had in some time: Hotwire! See, Hotwire is a pretty craptacular resource if you're looking for a flight, as you can't know the airline or even the time of day of your flight before you book. But hotels are a totally different story: they give you the star rating, the relative location, and the amount you're saving on the rate. Which means, if you're savvy enough (and we, of the poor/cheap-ass grad student lot, most certainly are), you can go to another travel site (Travelocity, for instance) and be able to successfully deduce precisely which hotel you're paying for.

So when Hotwire told us we could get a hotel in the Princeton area at 3.5 stars for just $54/night, a little research told us that we would most likely be staying at the Wyndham at Forrestal Village. Good guess. We booked, ecstatically, and were greeted with precisely the expected location. The only thing we held our breath about was the possibility that we might end up in a smoking room, but when the night of the 21st came around and the woman at the front desk informed me that the entire facility was non-smoking -- and, oh, will a Deluxe King room suffice, or would we prefer two Queens instead? -- I knew we were in business.

The festival, and the weekend as a whole, was spectacular. We were able to enjoy lots of delicious free wine, meet Ted Allen (the food critic from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and Iron Chef America), spend a little time at Charter with my still-undergraduate friends, and even have a nice dinner at our favorite local Mexican restaurant, with a dollop of the best ice cream in town for dessert. All in all, it was a wonderful weekend.

As tends to happen on wonderful weekends, though, work doesn't get done, and this weekend, it fucked me big time. I'd brought three novels along -- The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman (275 pages); A Scanner Darkly, by Philip K. Dick (275 pages); and The Woman in White, by Wilkie Collins (625 pages) -- and read a total of 0 pages from them by the time Monday morning rolled around. Which meant I had to read all, oh, 1200+ pages during the week. Not to mention the fact that I had reading for two other seminars to do. Plus a response paper for one seminar. Plus a presentation on modern criticism of The Woman in White.

Plus 24 papers to grade, because I was a fucking slacker. Oh, hell.

Needless to say, last week was not fun. I did manage to get all of it done -- with the exception of my presentation, but I didn't finish that not because I didn't prepare for it, but because the books I'd taken out of the library as part of my research ended up, along with my notes, left on the Blue Loop and, promptly, vanished into the netherworld, from which I'm not sure they've returned (and if they haven't, I owe a shit ton of money to the library, on the first two books I ever checked out, which, in case you were wondering, has me psyched) -- but the result was little fun, even less sleep, and a whole lot of resentment.

Part of my problem, frankly, was that D and I had had plans for some time to visit Pittsburgh this past weekend, during which time one Charles Pence would be meeting up with his girlfriend, current Carnegie Mellon grad student Julia Philip. We were to have a weekend of reminiscing, partying, and generally good times -- a sort of reminder that, though we've all gone past our undergraduate days, the times that bound us remain strong.

Despite a certain fear that things wouldn't quite be the same, I was pleased to see things slip quickly back into the old ways when we arrived in Pittsburgh. We sat and chatted for a while before heading out to dinner (Wendy's, always purveyors of gourmet expeditious cuisine, to put it kindly) and returning for an aperitif of Macallan 12 amongst the gentlemen. Ahh yes, some things hadn't changed at all. And that's more of a comfort than anyone could possibly know.

On Saturday, Julia attended a baby shower whilst the remaining trio took off in Charles's MINI Cooper (dubbed "The Professor") and went a-motoring. Though endlessly jealous of the fact that I never actually found myself behind the wheel -- after all, Charles's ownership of this car is owed in large part to the unsatisfied obsession I hold for this particular automobile -- I was able to provide a rollicking soundtrack as we motored through the hills and dales of beyond-suburban Pittsburgh, speeding past the world-famous Fallingwater and driving along narrow, curvy roads that led to nowhere. It was a supremely pleasurable experience, one to which I was able to provide what I felt was an adequate-at-best soundtrack from my humble iPod.

When we all returned to Julia's Squirrel Hill digs, we set out again, this time for dinner at Buffalo Wild Wings. It was worth the drive for the taste of Blazin' wings alone, but regret was quick to kick in on the drive home. See, we'd schemed to spend the evening at (also world-famous) Kennywood Amusement Park, partaking in the seasonal joy of what they dubbed Phantom Fright Nights. But here's the problem: B-Dubs is by the airport, which is to the west of downtown Pittsburgh by about 10 miles or so; Kennywood, in West Mifflin, is right on the Monongahela River, but is several miles east of downtown. In total, they can't be more than 15 miles (or roughly 30 minutes driving) apart. But that time becomes exponentially increased when the Interstate that leads downtown decides it's going to be stopped dead several miles out. We improvised, using a number of maps and Julia's rudimentary knowledge of highways and biways, but the trips from the B-Dubs to Kennywood took almost 2 hours. (Of course, we did get to see what looked suspiciously like a drug deal transpire directly in front of us en route, so it was kinda worth it.)

Fortunately, the sight of the familiar Kennywood arrow eliminated any sense of frustration I'd felt. We parked, headed down the monstrous hill to the front gate, and entered a drastically different Kennywood than the one I'd remembered from two summers ago. Instantly, we were met with clouds of fog and lighting effects, as well as the sense that actors in frightening costumes could be lurking around any corner, even if we weren't in one of the many "haunts" scattered across the park. None of us, truth be told, like being scared, so we tried our best to avoid the haunts and make the most of park while not putting ourselves in a position to be taunted or frightened by any of the actors. Unfortunately, as an accidental trip through "Death Valley" taught us, this was far easier said than done.

Though we didn't get a PFN-specific map until about halfway through the evening, we managed to mostly avoid the haunts and simply soak in the traditional Kennywood experience. Jack Rabbit was just as air-tastic as I remembered, and the Racer was just as much of a hoot as it was in '06 (even if the bums on the other train were totally unwilling to slap hands around the long, sweeping turns). Once we survived Death Valley (which was, in fairness, only scary because a group of obnoxious teenage girls were screaming and pushing us forward into the fog and, thusly, into the actors themselves), we rode the Thunderbolt, which I remembered was truly the gem of the park. If you're a wooden coaster fan at all, and haven't been to Kennywood to ride the Thunderbolt, do it now. It would be a sin if I gave away why.

After finishing our run through the Kennywoodies, we decided to tackle the event's namesake, The Phantom's Revenge. This coaster continues to surprise me, with both the smoothness of the ride and the forcefulness of the airtime. However, much of the pleasure of the ride was sucked out of me by the realization that the exit put us smack dab in the middle of a haunt, with no way around it. We tried to play it cool, hustling as quickly as possible to the line for the SwingShot, and then watching carefully as an actor scared other teenage girls as we departed expeditiously from "Gory Park." We all agreed that a lap on The Exterminator, an indoor wild mouse coaster that was "extra-themed" for PFN and was at the far end of Gory Park, was a lost cause, and instead opted for a basket of Potato Patch fries (which lasted, as expected, for all of about 15 seconds) and one last lap on Thunderbolt before we left and I again bid farewell to Kennywood, which continues to work its way up my list of favorite small parks.

Sunday was a far more relaxing day. We slept in, took in a delicious lunch of fried seafood at Wholey's, the famous fish market in the Strip district, and then walked about a mile to PNC Park, where we watched the final game of the NL season between the Pittsburgh Pirates and the St. Louis Cardinals. The park, situated on the Allegheny just shy of the Three Rivers Point, is beautiful, with a wide, open outfield free of seating and open to the unusual but pretty Pittsburgh skyline. Our seats, roughly 25 rows back behind shallow left field, were wonderful, and left us susceptible to a number of near-miss foul balls. The game, though it started slow, became much more exciting by the end, and came down to the wire, though the Pirates ended up losing by 1. In the end, we had three important things to show for our journey to the park: a complimentary Pirates blanket (for fan appreciation day), a plastic helmet which once held a soft serve sundae but now was a memento of our sojourn, and the knowledge that my success rate at visiting Major League ballparks now stood at 20% (6 of 30).

For a weekend, not too shabby.

I hated to bid adieu to Charles and Julia, but State College called us back and we simply had to leave. So I spent much of today regretting that the weekend had gone so quickly, but also savoring the enjoyment of something that I'd been looking forward to for a whole week but was simply unable to touch. Because, really, it's these journeys, these entertaining endeavors, that make up the bulk of what we remember and value from our lives, not the hours, days, weeks, months, and years spent resorting to some sense of responsibility we've been burdened with. Yeah, that stuff is important, but it's the good times we'll remember when it's all said and done.

And sometimes, you need to say, "Fuck responsibility!" and do something fun, adventurous, and a bit uncharacteristic in order to truly appreciate what you have.

Which is why I finally decided today that a little purchase regret is a small price to pay for knowing I won't have to think about how badly I really want to get a Nintendo DS Lite.

But that's a story for another blog post, because right now I'm tired, and I have a lot to do tomorrow. So I should get some rest.

That is, after all, the responsible thing to do.