Rudolph revisited

First of all... Yes, I did take the time to paste a Santa hat on the picture to the right - in "Paint," no less. You're welcome. Now...

Forget the condescending "all-his-songs-sound-the-same" h8ers. Jack Johnson (new album, "Sleep Through the Static," coming out in February... Oh boy!) is, in fact, The Man. For proof to that end, check out the lyrics to his cover of "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" from a few years back. His original additions to the traditional song are in italics at the end:

Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer,
Had a very shiny nose.
And if you ever saw it,
You might even say it glows.
All of the other reindeer,
Used to laugh and call him names.
They never let poor Rudolph,
Join in any reindeer games.
Then one foggy Christmas Eve,
Santa, he came to say,
"Rudolph, with your nose so bright,
Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"
Then how the reindeers loved him,
As they shouted out with glee,
"Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer,
You'll go down in history!"
But Rudolph, he didn't go for that.
He said, "I see through your silly games."
How could you look me in the face,
When only yesterday you called me names?
Well, all of the other reindeers man,
Well they sure did feel ashamed.
"Rudolph, you know we're sorry.
We're truly gonna try to change."

Good stuff, right? You can listen to the track on YouTube here, posted - I think - by a German-speaker. That looks like German to me, anyways, I dunno.

Merry Christmas, everyone/anyone who reads this!

A really great idea.

During my freshman year at Iona College, blessed with relatively simple classes and not yet involved with the Ionian, I played basketball 3 or 4 times a week. Less often, but still on a semi-regular basis, I'd run on the treadmill conveniently located in the basement of my dorm.

In doing these things, I effectively avoided the dreaded freshman 15 - and actually dropped a few pounds from move-in day in late August to the last day of finals in May.

The subsequent year-and-a-half, however, have been... a little different, and I've decided that this winter break is the time for me to start getting back into shape - or something vaguely resembling it, anyways.

Faced with this task, and observing lately how my sister now frequents a local gym, I've been reminded of an idea that I've had for quite some time. And it needed to be unleashed into the blogosphere, so here it is.

Remember the Discovery Zone? You probably do. I don't think anyone could have forgotten the ridiculously catchy jingle from their old commercials, at the very least. But back in the day, DZ was - to state it plainly - the best place ever. Every moment spent in DZ's hulking maze of tunnels, slides, nets, ball pits, moonwalks, etc., was a moment of pure, unfiltered joy.

My parents took some home video of one birthday party I had at DZ. And aside from the obligatory footage of me blowing out the candles on my cake, there's a brief glimpse of my friends and I breathlessly darting back and forth throughout the aforementioned maze, huge grins plastered on our faces the whole time. Watching, you realize that - not only were we having a blast - we were getting a pretty good workout, too.

Question: Would that kind of a workout still be that fun, post-childhood? My answer: Yes. And my idea that logically follows: Someone needs to open up something like the old Discovery Zones - but this time, for adults.

No, time passed at a "DZ4A" (as I'd call it, assuming copyright/trademark legality) wouldn't provide the structured kind of exercise possible at a more traditional health club. But for those of us not too concerned with targeting specific muscles using specialized machines and things of that nature, it would be - to state it plainly - the best place ever.

Meditating on Manny

Here's my latest Ionian column (coming out tomorrow!) since I haven't had any new posts for quite some time. Click here to see the whole paper online...

Oct. 21 was – by any standard – a pretty good day in Boston sports history.

On the gridiron, South Florida’s loss to Rutgers the previous Thursday allowed the unbeaten Boston College Eagles to slide into second place in the BCS standings, and Tom Brady threw a team-record six touchdown passes as the New England Patriots continued an unbeaten season of their own, trouncing the Miami Dolphins by a final score of 49-28.

Overshadowing these accomplishments, however, were those of the beloved Boston Red Sox. As the day came to a close, the Sox were putting the finishing touches on a dramatic Game 7 win over the Cleveland Indians, capping off an improbable comeback in the AL championship series and punching their ticket to this year’s Fall Classic (sound familiar, Yankee fans?).

And there he was, right at the center of the on-field celebration at Fenway Park: Manny Ramirez. His long braids flailing wildly behind him, Ramirez – who had bounced back from a sub-par regular season to become Boston’s most consistent threat at the plate in the playoffs – leaped gleefully into the arms of teammates Jonathan Papelbon and Jason Varitek. It was hard to believe that, just days earlier, the man was being scrutinized about his will to win.

“It doesn’t happen, so who cares?” was the damning question Ramirez had posed with his team trailing three games to one. “There’s always next year. It’s not like it’s the end of the world or something.”

An Associated Press story forebodingly taunted Ramirez, “Try telling that to all those people in New England.” Well, on behalf of “all those people in New England,” I think everything turned out just fine.

We all know Manny Ramirez likes to stay loose. He never loses sight of the fact that – despite the extreme fervor of Red Sox Nation – baseball is still just a game. Sometimes Ramirez’s attitude rubs fans the wrong way, but should we really want him to change? Consider the other end of the spectrum, as personified by Beantown’s newest star, Boston Celtic Kevin Garnett.

Upon Garnett’s arrival in town this summer, Boston Globe columnist Jackie MacMullan gushed that KG “plays hard, plays long and plays with an intensity that has been sorely lacking around here,” adding, “He desperately wants to win.”

There is a famous interview Garnett gave on TNT during All-Star weekend in 2004-05. John Thompson spoke of various aches and pains Garnett was playing through at the time, and asked, “What’s driving you?”

“That I’m losing,” Garnett replied, his voice trembling. “That I’m losing. (A pause.) I’m losing. (Another, longer pause.) I’m losing.” The big man failed to contain his emotions from there, explaining that he was crying “tears of pain,” and that “this (expletive deleted) is killing me.”

“I hate that I’m like this in front of you right now, man,” Garnett confessed to Thompson, who quickly replied that he respected Garnett, calling his waterworks “refreshing” and “a sign of strength” rather than “a sign of weakness.” My take: How about a sign for concern? I love KG, but when ESPN.com columnist Bill Simmons regularly joked about the inevitability of him one day turning homicidal on his teammates – and it didn’t seem particularly farfetched – perhaps he’d ratcheted up the intensity a bit too high.

Meanwhile, the facts are these: Garnett has made it past the first round of the NBA playoffs once in his career, while Manny was the 2004 World Series MVP, and, now, three years later, might have a crack at it again.

In the final analysis, in a world of robberies, burglaries and staph infections, is a pro athlete who sees the big picture in life the worst thing to be?

Six years later

Below are a couple of pretty well-known articles that I thought were definitely worth revisiting on the six-year anniversary of 9/11...

"Make it Green"
By Roger Ebert
September 14, 2001

If there is to be a memorial, let it not be of stone and steel. Fly no flag above it, for it is not the possession of a nation but a sorrow shared with the world.

Let it be a green field, with trees and flowers. Let there be paths that wind through the shade. Put out park benches where old people can sun in the summertime, and a pond where children can skate in the winter.

Beneath this field will lie entombed forever some of the victims of September 11. It is not where they thought to end their lives. Like the sailors of the battleship Arizona, they rest where they fell.

Let this field stretch from one end of the destruction to the other. Let this open space among the towers mark the emptiness in our hearts. But do not make it a sad place. Give it no name. Let people think of it as the green field. Every living thing that is planted there will show faith in the future.

Let students take a corner of the field and plant a crop there. Perhaps corn, our native grain. Let the harvest be shared all over the world, with friends and enemies, because that is the teaching of our religions, and we must show that we practice them. Let the harvest show that life prevails over death, and let the gifts show that we love our neighbors.

Do not build again on this place. No building can stand there. No building, no statue, no column, no arch, no symbol, no name, no date, no statement. Just the comfort of the earth we share, to remind us that we share it.

"God Angrily Clarifies 'Don't Kill' Rule"
From the Onion
September 26, 2001

NEW YORK—Responding to recent events on Earth, God, the omniscient creator-deity worshipped by billions of followers of various faiths for more than 6,000 years, angrily clarified His longtime stance against humans killing each other Monday.

"Look, I don't know, maybe I haven't made myself completely clear, so for the record, here it is again," said the Lord, His divine face betraying visible emotion during a press conference near the site of the fallen Twin Towers. "Somehow, people keep coming up with the idea that I want them to kill their neighbor. Well, I don't. And to be honest, I'm really getting sick and tired of it. Get it straight. Not only do I not want anybody to kill anyone, but I specifically commanded you not to, in really simple terms that anybody ought to be able to understand."

Worshipped by Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike, God said His name has been invoked countless times over the centuries as a reason to kill in what He called "an unending cycle of violence."

"I don't care how holy somebody claims to be," God said. "If a person tells you it's My will that they kill someone, they're wrong. Got it? I don't care what religion you are, or who you think your enemy is, here it is one more time: No killing, in My name or anyone else's, ever again."

The press conference came as a surprise to humankind, as God rarely intervenes in earthly affairs. As a matter of longstanding policy, He has traditionally left the task of interpreting His message and divine will to clerics, rabbis, priests, imams, and Biblical scholars. Theologians and laymen alike have been given the task of pondering His ineffable mysteries, deciding for themselves what to do as a matter of faith. His decision to manifest on the material plane was motivated by the deep sense of shock, outrage, and sorrow He felt over the Sept. 11 violence carried out in His name, and over its dire potential ramifications around the globe.

"I tried to put it in the simplest possible terms for you people, so you'd get it straight, because I thought it was pretty important," said God, called Yahweh and Allah respectively in the Judaic and Muslim traditions. "I guess I figured I'd left no real room for confusion after putting it in a four-word sentence with one-syllable words, on the tablets I gave to Moses. How much more clear can I get?"

"But somehow, it all gets twisted around and, next thing you know, somebody's spouting off some nonsense about, 'God says I have to kill this guy, God wants me to kill that guy, it's God's will,'" God continued. "It's not God's will, all right? News flash: 'God's will' equals 'Don't murder people.'"

Worse yet, many of the worst violators claim that their actions are justified by passages in the Bible, Torah, and Qur'an.

"To be honest, there's some contradictory stuff in there, okay?" God said. "So I can see how it could be pretty misleading. I admit it—My bad. I did My best to inspire them, but a lot of imperfect human agents have misinterpreted My message over the millennia. Frankly, much of the material that got in there is dogmatic, doctrinal bullshit. I turn My head for a second and, suddenly, all this stuff about homosexuality gets into Leviticus, and everybody thinks it's God's will to kill gays. It absolutely drives Me up the wall."

God praised the overwhelming majority of His Muslim followers as "wonderful, pious people," calling the perpetrators of the Sept. 11 attacks rare exceptions.

"This whole medieval concept of the jihad, or holy war, had all but vanished from the Muslim world in, like, the 10th century, and with good reason," God said. "There's no such thing as a holy war, only unholy ones. The vast majority of Muslims in this world reject the murderous actions of these radical extremists, just like the vast majority of Christians in America are pissed off over those two bigots on The 700 Club."

Continued God, "Read the book: 'Allah is kind, Allah is beautiful, Allah is merciful.' It goes on and on that way, page after page. But, no, some assholes have to come along and revive this stupid holy-war crap just to further their own hateful agenda. So now, everybody thinks Muslims are all murderous barbarians. Thanks, Taliban: 1,000 years of pan-Islamic cultural progress down the drain."

God stressed that His remarks were not directed exclusively at Islamic extremists, but rather at anyone whose ideological zealotry overrides his or her ability to comprehend the core message of all world religions.

"I don't care what faith you are, everybody's been making this same mistake since the dawn of time," God said. "The Muslims massacre the Hindus, the Hindus massacre the Muslims. The Buddhists, everybody massacres the Buddhists. The Jews, don't even get me started on the hardline, right-wing, Meir Kahane-loving Israeli nationalists, man. And the Christians? You people believe in a Messiah who says, 'Turn the other cheek,' but you've been killing everybody you can get your hands on since the Crusades."

Growing increasingly wrathful, God continued: "Can't you people see? What are you, morons? There are a ton of different religious traditions out there, and different cultures worship Me in different ways. But the basic message is always the same: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Shintoism... every religious belief system under the sun, they all say you're supposed to love your neighbors, folks! It's not that hard a concept to grasp."

"Why would you think I'd want anything else? Humans don't need religion or God as an excuse to kill each other—you've been doing that without any help from Me since you were freaking apes!" God said. "The whole point of believing in God is to have a higher standard of behavior. How obvious can you get?"

"I'm talking to all of you, here!" continued God, His voice rising to a shout. "Do you hear Me? I don't want you to kill anybody. I'm against it, across the board. How many times do I have to say it? Don't kill each other anymore—ever! I'm fucking serious!"

Upon completing His outburst, God fell silent, standing quietly at the podium for several moments. Then, witnesses reported, God's shoulders began to shake, and He wept.

The greatest text msg exchange ever.

(From last night around 11:00)

Some number I don't recognize: "R u awake?"

Me: "Im awake. Who are u?"

"Man of your dreams"

"Its charlie rose?"

"No new player"

"Seriously who are u? I think u have the wrong #"

...The end, and you're welcome.

Exclusive sneak preview!!

The following is the unedited version of my first Ionian column of the semester. The issue hits newstands worldwide (but mostly on Iona's campus) tomorrow...

It was the last, precious Friday before I came back to New Rochelle for the start of the semester, and a couple of my friends from home and I did what we so often do on clear, beautiful, summer nights: we blew $10 each to sit inside and watch a movie.

There I was, comfortably slumped in my heavily-cushioned seat, mindlessly enjoying the hodgepodge of advertisements and Hollywood trivia that come before the previews. Then, one of my buddies, looking around the small, packed theatre, observed that we were quite possibly the oldest people in attendance. I scoped out the crowd myself, nodded in agreement, and quickly returned my attention to the big screen, waiting impatiently for the feature presentation, Superbad, to begin.

As I expected, Superbad was extremely funny, the rare breed of movie that elicited such intense laughter from the audience that, at various points throughout its 114 minute runtime, the film’s dialogue became temporarily inaudible, drowned in a sea of incontrollable guffaws. So I liked Superbad, and I knew that I would. After all, any movie produced by Judd Apatow (of 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up fame) and starring Michael Cera (immortalized in the role of George Michael on the short-lived Fox series Arrested Development) was easily pegged as a can’t-miss sure-thing in my book, going in. But by the time the show ended, the credits started rolling, and the lights brightened, I felt something else on top of that simple, sweet satisfaction of a summer night – and a crisp, clean Alexander Hamilton – well-spent. As much as I don’t want to overstate it, Superbad left me feeling just a little bit queasy, as well.

I only turned 20 years old this past March, so I know that it’s strange for me to say that Superbad left me worried about the impact it might have had on the formative minds of teenagers watching. But it did. And as I walked up the aisle and out the exit of the Dedham Showcase Cinema that night among a flock of high school-aged guys and girls – half of whom undoubtedly had to purchase tickets to the G-rated Mr. Bean’s Holiday, for example, before sneaking into Superbad – I tried and failed to shake that angst that I felt.

What was the source of my angst, you may wonder? Those of you reading along who’ve seen Superbad might be mulling over the possibilities.

Was I shaken by the script’s total saturation with crude language, particularly the constant repetition of a certain four-letter word that begins with an “f” and rhymes with “hockey puck”? No, I’m really not the type of person to get worked up over some cursing – or a truckload of cursing, for that matter.

Did I fail to connect with the movie’s barrage of extreme bathroom jokes and slapstick humor? No, some of my hardest laughs of the night came during Superbad’s most outrageous shock-value moments or during the especially ridiculous physical comedy sequences.

Was I, then, bothered by the fact that the whole story revolved around teenagers angling to have sex by scoring booze for a party fueled by underage binge drinking? No, this basic plotline wasn’t it, either – although alcohol was a part of it.

It should be noted that one of the most often-repeated sentiments praising Judd Apatow’s movies has been an expression of admiration for his ability to create characters who struggle, as Nathan Rabin of the Onion A.V. Club has written, between “the pleasures of eternal adolescence and the relentless pull of adult responsibility,” producing an overall “big-hearted” feeling to his work.

Superbad, for the most part, follows this formula. We watch high school seniors and best friends Seth and Evan – Evan, especially – grow up and mature, ever so slightly, over the course of the film. The aforementioned issues of an all-consuming hormonal sex drive and excessive consumption of alcohol are confronted in the course of this maturation and, therefore, presented with a subtle but important and appropriate level of complexity. Driving drunk, on the other hand, is a virtual constant throughout Superbad, with two sloshed cop characters behind the wheel of a cruiser for the better part of the movie, and this fact simply isn’t approached with any sense of moral complexity or caution at all.

Have you ever seen any national statistics on drunk driving? Of course you have, but I’ll list the big one here, anyways. In 2006, 17,602 persons were killed in alcohol-related accidents. Have you ever nevertheless heard anyone rationalize the legitimacy of driving after having drank? Unfortunately, you probably have. I know I have.

I’m not the type of person who obsesses over the impact of movie content on the youth of America. For example, I won’t divulge here the sort of maneuvers I was tempted to pull driving home in my mom’s Ford Taurus after having seen the Bourne Ultimatum, also this summer – but, plain and simple, I knew better. With a proper upbringing, so would anyone else. Still, we have to acknowledge the desensitizing effect movies can have, and, for a movie that was clearly geared largely towards the high school demographic – regardless of its R-rating – the casual depiction of drunk driving in Superbad was at best an unfortunate oversight, and at worst, reckless.

How I scooped the A.P. (by 2+ years)

I came across an Associated Press story the other day which discussed how police are increasingly overwhelmed by "suspicious item reports," many of which "can seem silly in hindsight."

The article provided the eye-catching statistic that, in New York, the number of such reports has jumped from 814 in 2002 (the first year for which a total was recorded) to 37,614 last year. And, of course, the article also made an obligatory mention of the infamous Aqua Teen Hunger Force, Lite-Brite crisis in my own Boston back in January.

Essentially, the article seems to have been written as an exploration of the post-9/11 world and the drawbacks of a culture often shaped largely by fear. It makes mention of the New York Metropolitan Transportation Authority's "If You See Something, Say Something" campaign, and seems to grapple with the positive and negative results of such campaigns, in general.

Well, faithful readers, you should know that I just so happen to have beat A.P. reporter Mr. Brian Westley to the punch on this issue. Here's a look into the archives of my high school newspaper, the venerable Knight Insight, for proof to that end. Enjoy...

"Fear Factor"
March 11, 2005

Something decidedly creepy – or annoying, at the very least – has been taking place on MBTA buses over the past year, and I cannot remain silent about it any longer.

I can still remember the first time I heard the recording...

I was riding Bus number 52 to school, bright and early, for the 18-millionth time (approximately) in my CM career. As usual, I was slumped down in my blue, plastic bus seat, peacefully nodding off for a short, morning nap. All of a sudden, a booming, computerized voice cut in without warning and ended my restful slumber, urging me to "please report any unattended bags or suspicious behavior to the bus driver." Ever since that fateful day, I have had the pleasure of hearing this delightful message from our friends at the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority a minimum of three to four times a day, excluding the occasions I drive or get driven to school. It remains as mildly unsettling now as it was that first time.

I understand that we live in a changed world since the events of September 11th, 2001, and that the Madrid, Spain train bombing last year raised legitimate questions about the possibility of a similar attack here in the US. However, I am fairly certain that it is still entirely unnecessary to remind commuters, on twenty minute intervals every day, to keep a watchful eye out for the presence of Al Qaeda on their bus. In fact, as surprising as it may be, it is my understanding that these nagging requests for citizen vigilance have not led to the uncovering of one, singular terrorist plot to date. Accordingly, I would appreciate an end to this vaguely Orwellian tactic, ASAP.

Plus, I really need my morning nap, and the hordes of rambunctious middle-schoolers on the 52 already present enough of a distraction.

The trade

There's been a TON (I measured, and it came out to exactly 2,000 lbs.) of discussion and debate since last Thursday as to whether the Boston Celtics' big draft day trade for Ray Allen was good or bad for the franchise.

Personally, a week later, I still vote "good."

It seems I hold the minority opinion and that most people have judged the deal to have been desperate and shortsighted, but I don't know... I think Ray probably has a couple more All-Star caliber years left in the tank, and I think that it's important that Paul Pierce has gone from the brink of demanding a trade out of town to describing himself as "thrilled to death" about the status of the team. Anyways, that was a long, wordy sentence that didn't get to the point of why I'm writing this post.

I'm writing this post not to praise Danny Ainge's latest move, but to mourn the loss of Delonte West in Celtic green.

Basketball-wise, my biggest problem with the trade is probably a nagging fear that Jeff Green or someone else we could've snatched with that 5th pick will become an NBA mega-star down the line and haunt us for the next decade-plus. But as an emotionally involved fan, my biggest problem with the trade is that I'm going to miss the hell out of Delonte West. I hope Sonics fans enjoy and appreciate one of my favorite players I've watched over the years.

It's not just that Delonte always played hard and tough, that he's a Great (with a capital "G") shooter, or that he's the rare guard who has a real knack for blocking shots. On-court attributes aside, D-West's also just about the coolest guy ever. And I'll close these ramblings with the following evidence to that end...

- The infamous Valentine's Day piece from ESPN.com
- "Delonte West, Uncut" on FSNE
- Delonte on the new ball/old ball controversy
- "WIAHHHHH HANGAHHHHH" commercial
- Delonte's contribution to the series of FSNE commercials with Lucky
- A YouTube mix - watch the whole thing for the clips of Delonte talking ("COOKIES!")

Nothing says "happy birthday!" like a blog!

Back during this past spring semester at Iona, I was keeping this blog for my Online Journalism class, and I had to come up with two new posts every week. Often, I'd end up putting together both of these required posts right before my deadline of Wednesday night - check back for proof - and this kind of last-second crunch left me repeatedly struggling to come up with topics about which to write.

Many times, in these situations, I turned to my lovely girlfriend Kathy (see: right) for help. Her consistent suggestion was, simply, "Write about me."

Surprisingly, perhaps, I never did use this idea. But today is her birthday. And, as we all know, nothing says "happy birthday!" like a blog! The title here even says so.

So this little blog entry is humbly dedicated to Kathryn Anne McIntyre. She turns 20 years old today and embarks upon her third decade on this planet. On behalf of the planet, I'd like to say that we're pretty darn excited about what lies ahead. Or most of us are, anyways.

[Insert laugh track, mentally.]

Happy birthday, Kathy! Can't wait to see you again Monday...

Final note: With Kathy's brief appearance here, this blog just got about 100x more awesome. Which is pretty phenomenal, when you think about how awesome it already was.

So, where are you from?

Anyone who hails from the suburbs of a big city knows the horror of the question posed in the title of this post.

The facts are these: When your place of origin is suburbia, USA, and someone asks you where you're from, you have two basic options to choose from in crafting a response. You can say, "I'm from [insert major American metropolis here]," and sacrifice accuracy. Or you can say, "I'm from [insert actual hometown here]," and elicit a blank stare from the person with whom you're conversing.

You can also take the middle path, explaining that [insert actual hometown here] is, in fact, a suburb of [insert major American metropolis here]. But that's generally an unpopular choice, because: A.) it's kind of clumsy and B.) if you go this route, your hometown is probably going to be instantly thought of as boring and lame and everything else associated with the stereotyped picture of a drab, cookie-cutter, bedroom community. And that's kind of annoying, regardless of whether or not it's accurate.

I'm not from Boston - the capital of Massachusetts; "the Hub"; "Beantown"; the home of the Red Sox, Celtics, and Bruins; and the birthplace of America (don't listen to people who say it's Philadelphia just because they drew up the paperwork down there). It's true that I was born in Boston, but, as soon as I was released from the hospital there, newborn-baby-me was brought to nearby Watertown, a small city which lies just north of Boston and measures a mere 4.2 square miles in area (see: above). I've lived there ever since (discounting, of course, the fact that I'm often found now at college in New York).

Watertown does have its own claims to fame - some more modest than others. Being a huge nerd, I know most of them. For example, history buffs could tell you that Watertown acted as the seat of the state government in Revolutionary times during the British occupation of Boston. You know Eliza Dushku, of Bring it On and Buffy the Vampire Slayer fame? Yes, she is indeed a Watertown native. Harvard University isn't contained entirely in Cambridge; it expanded its reach into Watertown just a few years back. And if you've ever enjoyed a frozen pizza, you can thank Charles Mosesian, who made the very first frozen pizza in the land of H2O. Mosesian, by the way, was an Armenian immigrant. And Watertown, of course, was one of the primary destinations of the Armenian diaspora that occurred following the Armenian Genocide of 1915 to 1917. We even have the Armenian Library and Museum of America on Main Street in Watertown Square.

But none of these things matter when someone asks me where I'm from. I face the three aforementioned choices, each decidedly unsatisfying, just like everyone else from the 'burbs.

But it didn't have to be that way.

You see, another one of Watertown's claims to fame is a song. It's a classic rock song, specifically, the kind of ultra-famous track that just about everyone seems to know. Even those not well-versed in popular music who don't know the song by name would almost certainly perk up if someone simply hummed the tune of its chorus.

The song I'm describing is the immortal "More Than a Feeling."

"But wait!" you think. "Isn't the band that played that song called 'Boston'?" That's exactly right, faithful reader. But not only did the band known as Boston never actually live in Boston but rather Watertown, (drumroll...) "More Than a Feeling" was actually recorded in Watertown, as well, in the basement of band founder Tom Scholz's house. And herein lies, for me, the source of unspeakable outrage and despair.

Do you see the forest through the trees? Do you understand where all of this is leading? Boston shouldn't be Boston. Boston should be Watertown (see: right)! And if Boston was Watertown, then I would have the perfect response to the question of where I'm from. "You know the band Watertown?" I'd ask, confident and composed. "Well, I'm from there." It'd be much more evocative than simply saying I'm from Watertown, as things stand. It'd be much more truthful than saying I'm from Boston. And it'd also be exponentially cooler than saying I'm from one of Boston's suburbs.

But alas, Boston is not Watertown; Boston is Boston.

Nuts.

Should I stay or should I go? (I'll stay.)

So my semester from "H" "E" double hockey stick (vintage) is officially in the books. I got the last of my grades the other day, and, after slapping up a perfect 4.0 in the fall, my GPA kind of took a nosedive.

Notably, I came away with a B in Online Journalism - the class for which I started this thing. That mark could've been better, but it also could've been worse. For example, I earned the first C of my college career in Biology.

Ah well. It's all behind me now.

But is D Tram's Awesome Blog behind me, too?

Obviously, I haven't posted anything here in almost a month. That's because, for the past month, I've no longer had any two-entries-per-week course requirement bearing down on me.

Still, I've enjoyed my stay in the blogosphere - my first, outside of a brief foray on MySpace a while back. I just like to write, I guess, and I think I'm going to stick around here, at least for the time being.

So, Professor Wass and my fellow Online Journalists, are you still out there? Are you reading this, Penelope Trunk? Is anyone reading this, for that matter?

If a tree falls in the forest but no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

I guess I'm going to find out.

I wish my skull was a semipermeable membrane.

Because then, instead of spending my precious waking hours reading and studying and whatnot, I could just put lots of books under my pillow before I went to bed at night. And then, as I slept peacefully, knowledge would just seep into my brain, because there's a lower concentration of knowledge in there than in the books. Yep, that would be pretty sweet. Like Sugar Daddy's. Which are delicious, by the way.

Back by popular demand: Logo observations

This has been bothering me for a few years now.

On the left is the team logo of the Minnesota Timberwolves. It debuted during the 1996-1997 NBA season.

Historical note for basketball nerds: That was the season the Wolves made the playoffs for the first time ever. Led by the promising young trio of point guard Stephon Marbury and forwards Kevin Garnett and Tom Gugliotta (Googs!), no less.

On the right is the team logo of the Memphis Grizzlies. It debuted during the 2004-2005 NBA season.

Historical note for basketball nerds: That was the season the Great Hubie Brown stepped down from coaching for the last time just a handful of games in, ending his 33-year career in the L. Mike "The Czar" Fratello took over.

I still remember reading the report about the Grizz's new logo on their website when it was first unveiled. The descriptions of its symbolism were hilariously over-the-top and long-winded (let's hear it for hyphenation!):

The new Grizzlies logo represents strength, power and courage. Character, tenacity and fearlessness. The Grizzly symbolizes Memphis basketball at its grittiest, at its toughest, at its best. It symbolizes Grizzlies players and the fierce passion they bring to the court every night. It symbolizes incredible leadership and their commitment to winning and class. It symbolizes the maturity of an organization that will settle for nothing less than the ultimate – success.

This kind of talk was even more laughable in light of the fact that the logo was such a blatant rip-off.

The striking similarities between the Minnesota Timberwolf and the Memphis Grizzly have never been discussed, as far as I know, and that's legitimately baffling to me. There's the darkened right side of the face; the lighter left side; the fierce, yellow eyes; and the menacing expression.

Just look at the pictures. It's not exactly subtle.

Crazy stuff, people. Crazy. Stuff.

The black hole that is "general biology"

For the past two semesters, I've spent five hours each week in my "General Biology" class. That's three hours in lecture and two hours in the lab every seven days. Today, we had a test in lecture on connective tissue and the Hardy-Weinburg equilibrium and lots of other stuff I never really needed to know, and in lab, we dissected a fetal pig. There's just a few weeks left before all of this is finally over, and my science core requirement for the Iona College Honors program is mercifully complete. With the light at the end of the tunnel right within reach, it seems like an odd time to dwell upon the profound waste of time, energy, and resources that my education in Bio has been. But just for a minute, in the privacy of my very own awesome blog, allow me to dwell. (Dwellingdwellingdwellingdwellingdwellingdwellingdwellingggggggggggggg). There we go. Now I feel better. Thumbs down for unnecessary required courses.

Vital information for your everyday life

I feel the need to refresh people's memory, if they need it: the title of this post is an allusion to a classic skit of the same name that used to run on the Nickelodeon sketch show, All That. "Vital information" was one of the best things ever seen on Snick, right up there with the "Log!" bit on Ren and Stimpy and whenever Clarissa somehow managed to design her own, sleek video games to illustrate her life's problems. Yes, Lori Beth Denberg dispensing her words of wisdom was consistently among the highlights of any given Saturday night spent on the big orange couch back in the day.

Browsing the new Iona Athletics website earlier today, I randomly remembered my first reaction to seeing the school's mascot back when I was just starting to look into coming to college on North Ave. I told everyone I talked to that the Iona Gael looked strikingly similar to the leprechaun mascot of the Boston Celtics - but jacked up on steroids and wearing maroon and gold.

Examining the two now, I stand by that original assessment. Although, in order to fully transform into "Killian," "Lucky" would have to do more than just get hooked up with Barry Bonds's people and change his wardrobe. He'd have to spend some time growing out that beard and getting some type of a tan going. And he'd also have to change his demeanor pretty significantly. The Gael's all about intensity, standing there with his chest puffed out and his hands on his hips. Lucky, on the other hand, personifies calm confidence, giving a sly wink while leisurely leaning on his cane. Lucky actually uses his cane for its intended purpose, by the way; Killian just seems to have it on hand in case he wants to whack someone over the head sometime in a wild fit of 'roid rage.

On a related note, whenever I look at Lucky, I think about an interesting point in the history of his cigar. For lots and lots of years, the Celtics logo was drawn only in black, white, and green. The other coloring in the vest, cane, basketball, and flesh came in the late 90's. The cigar, however, was left uncolored. I always wonder if maybe this was a conscious decision made in order to avoid attracting the eye's attention to the leprechaun's destructive vice. If the Washington Bullets were re-named the Washington Wizards in order to dissociate with gun violence around that same time, it doesn't seem far-fetched that this design choice was made to diminish the prominence of Lucky's nicotine addiction.

The man behind the massacre

After the Oklahoma City Bombing, there was Timothy McVeigh, and after September 11th, there was Osama Bin Laden.

Now, in the wake of Monday's tragedy at Virginia Tech University, there's yet another name that will forever be remembered in connection with an act of unspeakable destruction.

A day after the bloodshed in Blacksburg, the killer's identity was released.

And there he is: Cho Seung-Huim. That's the guy who carried out the deadliest shooting spree in the history of the United States of America. There's his face, and there are his two eyes staring out at us. He was just 23-years-old. A college senior. An English major. And for whatever reason, Cho made the decision earlier this week to leave this earth in a chaotic hailstorm of gunfire.

In my Humanities class right now, we're in the process of reading Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil. It's about the trial of Adolf Eichmann, an instrumental figure in the Nazi "Final Solution" during WWII, and it's an appropriate text to be delving into at this time. Our nation is desperately trying to come to grips with the sort of evil acts Arendt confronts - the sort of evil this young man pictured committed.

But was the young man himself evil? How could a human being commit such atrocities against fellow human beings? How do we confront and deal with something like this? Sometimes it seems like FaceBook is a window into the hearts and minds of our generation, so here are a few FaceBook groups that have recently been created on the subject...

"Cho Seung-Hui is pure evil"
"Cho Seung-Hui is a Fucking Dead Bitch Pussy!"
"Cho Seung-Hui if I see you in hell I'm beat your ass you crazy fuck."
"Christians should bless and not curse their enemies: Cho Seung-Hui"
"Rehumanizing Cho Seung-Hui"
"Cho Seung-hui: We Voice Our Selves Through Peace"
"Cho Seung Hui, if you had a myspace, Tom wouldnt be your friend."
"Cho Seung-Hui never got laid!"
"CHO SEUNG-HUI IS A MEAN DUMMYFACE"

...As you can see, people have responded with everything from hatred to vulgarity to forgiveness to humor. But I think the group that most accurately summed up my feelings was, simply, the following:

"Cho Seung-Hui What the hell where you thinking".

It's getting hot in herre!

The following is the original draft of my column for this Thursday's edition of the Ionian. Unfortunately, it runs much, much longer than usual, and I'm going to have to cut it down before it goes to print. Damn the traditional media and its space constrictions! So here's the whole thing, uncut and unedited...

I’d like to think that I’m a pretty intelligent guy. Still, I know my strengths and my weaknesses, and I’m not particularly adept in the world of the sciences—regardless of how many hours I spent watching Mr. Wizard and Bill Nye back in the day.

In fact, over the past semester-and-a-half, I regret to report that an introductory course entitled ‘General Biology’ has proven to be more than enough to stretch my scientific abilities to the max. It’s taken me a surprising amount of blood, sweat and tears to wrap my mind around the nuts and bolts of such basic concepts as diffusion (molecules like to have their space!) and photosynthesis (plants can cook their own food!).

Accordingly, when disagreements occur on topics in science that are far more complex than those I’ve just listed, I tend to feel a little helpless in determining what to believe on my own.

For the most part, then, I simply side with authority in these instances. If the established scientific community supports the theory of evolution, then it doesn’t seem unreasonable for me to trust them. I may not grasp all the intricacies of carbon-14 dating or DNA analysis, but I’m willing to accept the evolutionary tree mapped out by scientists using those tools.

It’s important to note that my willingness to embrace evolution is undoubtedly helped by the fact that, despite my Christianity, I was never raised to read the Bible literally. Even back at my Catholic elementary school, I was taught that the story of Adam and Eve was symbolic in nature. So, unlike fundamentalist creationists, I don’t have any real reasons to hesitate in trusting scientific authority about evolution.

But what happens when a scientific debate arises that I do have preexisting interests in? Then, it seems logical to believe that I’d be much more attracted to defying authority, if authorities went against my interests.

Such is the case with the theory that greenhouse gases are causing significant global warming, which the vast majority of scientists spanning the globe support.

The thing is, I like to drive. I don’t get to drive when I’m here at Iona during the school year, and driving is something I look forward to every time I go home to Watertown, Mass. And when I’m driving back to my house from a friend’s place or the bank or the grocery store or wherever it may be, sometimes I like to take a spin around the block once or twice before pulling into my driveway. And I really don’t like to think that the exhaust spewing out from the back of my mom’s Ford Taurus could be contributing to the trend that might send more and more Hurricane Katrina’s our way in the future.

The thing is, there’s only a very small range of temperatures I find comfortable. I like my house and my dorm room to be warm and cozy in the bitter cold of the winter, and I absolutely love to crank up the A.C. on the hottest days of the summer and enjoy a nice, artificial chill. But I don’t like to think that my excessive energy consumption could help lead to the continued melting of the polar ice caps and the permanent flooding of low-lying coastal regions around the world, including Manhattan. I like Manhattan, and, as I learned last weekend for the first time, first-hand, I’m not a big fan floods. I mean, flooding can be fun in a silly kind of way if the water recedes quickly and the damage isn’t too, too horrific, but that’s beside the point.

The point is that I’m not predisposed to being environmentally conscience, and I’m not thrilled about the idea that, barring a break from this predisposition, my everyday actions could be directly connected with a rapidly approaching apocalypse. So when I saw a headline last week that a very prominent hurricane forecaster had described former Vice President Al Gore as a “gross alarmist” for his work in advancing knowledge of the global warming theory, it caught my attention.

The forecaster’s name is William Gray, and a few quick internet searches told me how he’s been railing against the popular idea of global warming for years. An emeritus professor in the atmospheric science department at Colorado State University, Gray may be in the minority in thinking that observed warming results from simple ocean circulation patterns and that global temperatures will actually begin to drop over the next five to ten years, but his depiction of things seems perfectly plausible to me. Learning about Gray gave me the same warm, fuzzy feeling I imagine creationists experience when they hear of the rare scientist who questions the merits of evolution.

But as real as that warm, fuzzy feeling was, and as appealing as it may be to me to believe what Gray says, it seems to me, logically, that I can’t stray from authority on this issue. Too many scientists say the opposite of what Gray says, and the risks at stake in ignoring the mainstream opinion are much too high. I worry about the publicity Gray’s viewpoint has recently received because I’m sure that at least some people have neglected to view the situation the way I have, and, at the potential peril of the world, their reservations about burning too much gas in their cars or racking up too high of a heating bill have been eased.

I, along with many of my fellow Iona students who don’t frequent Cornelia Hall, may not have the scientific prowess to determine whether or not Al Gore is a “gross alarmist.” But, if we defer to authority here and assume he is not, it is imperative that we hear the message of which he is a spokesperson. I C Green, a relatively new club on campus dedicated to the environment and sustainability, is hosting a viewing of Gore’s award-winning documentary, “An Inconvenient Truth,” in Ryan Auditorium on April 24 at 7:30 p.m. I hope to see you all there.

Tragedy

This morning while I was walking to class, I saw Director of Residential Life Derek Zuckerman and Vice Provost for Student Development Charlie Carlson walking briskly past me back in the direction of the dorms that I had just left. They both wore solemn-looking expressions, and I worried that something might be wrong.

Later, I would find out just how wrong things really were.

I don't know any of the details yet, but I do know that an Iona College freshman passed away today. Circumstances notwithstanding, it's always extremely sobering - and even those words don't seem strong enough - when someone so young is suddenly taken away from us.

IIIIIIIIII don't know.

True Life...

...I'm 20 years old, and I still decorate Easter eggs.

It's easily one of my favorite holiday traditions, too, and I don't think I'll ever give it up.

(Note: Below are three snapshots from this year's experience, complete with accompanying stories. Feel free to pretend that each one constitutes an actual segment of an actual episode of the MTV show. For realism, you could even go to YouTube and watch commercials in between! You know you want to.)

EACH YEAR, A FAVORITE EGG EMERGES FROM THE PACK: This year, my favorite egg (pictured at right) was part of a category I call "concept eggs." These are eggs that don't follow the design instructions of any kit; rather, they are conceived spontaneously during the creative process of egg-decoration. This particular "concept egg" was born out of adversity. Due to the careless consumption of hard-boiled white eggs meant for decorating during lunch, my sister was given six eggs to decorate this year, while I was given only five. But I refused to be slighted like that, so I took a regular, uncooked brown egg from the refrigerator, dyed it red, and drew on it a "CAUTION: RAW" label, a concerned face, and the outline of a growing crack in the shell. Just like that, lemons to lemonade.

THE PROBLEM OF THE PURPLE DYE: Each year, my sister and I both have to face up to the unavoidable and infuriating problem of the purple dye. For some reason, the purple dye provided in every egg-decorating kit we've ever encountered yields a splotchy and uneven finish. To solve the problem, we often briefly dip our purple eggs into blue dye once they've spent a healthy amount of time soaking in the purple. While this fix does seem to sufficiently clear up most inconsistencies in the dye-job, it is not without pitfalls; "Fig. 1" offers ample evidence to that end. If one simply lets the dipped purple egg sit undisturbed and perfectly still during the process of drying, any and all excess blue dye will collect at the base of the egg. Consequently, an unsightly, blue, circular region will form, as is seen. Fortunately, I rebounded from such near-disaster this Easter and seamlessly integrated the blemish into a repeating painted pattern of blue circles. The stunning finished product is seen in "Fig. 2." Again and again, the egg-decorating process demands resiliency from the artist - but I'm a veteran in this game, and I was clearly up to the challenge.

MIXING IT UP: This year, once all my eggs were decorated and completed, I sat looking at the glasses and mugs filled with dye still sitting on my kitchen table. I felt a little sad that the yearly ritual was over and that the dyes would soon be dumped down the sink. Just then, I had a flashback to summers of my youth spent at Camp Cabot at the YMCA in Waltham, Mass. I could use the dyes to tie-dye... something! But what? Well, as can be seen above, I decided on an old pair of socks. My sister dyed one sock, and I dyed the other (hers is the bottom one with the purple). Good times all-around. This might have to become a regular capping-off activity to decorating eggs from now on.

Tanking like Michael Dukakis

My Boston Celtics are facing a rare must-lose situation, and it certainly seems they realize it.

Only two games separate us and the abysmal Milwaukee Bucks for the second-worst record in the NBA, and draft-positioning for sure-fire franchise players Greg Oden and Kevin Durant will be at stake tonight when the two cellar-dwellers do battle at the Bradley Center.

That's why I got so excited earlier today when I came across a news bulletin on Celtics.com which informed me that star forward "Big" Al Jefferson probably wouldn't be available to play tonight due to a "bumped knee." Several hours later, another story was added, explaining that the C's had inked to a 10-day contract a guy named Kevinn (yes, there are two n's - that's not a typo!) Pinkney, straight from the Bakersfield Jam of the Developmental League.

Simply brilliant.

Maybe I should be ashamed that my team appears to be tanking so blatantly, but I'm actually pretty okay with it. Let's do this thing. Goooooooo (other) team!

No time to say "Hello" - Goodbye! I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!!

It's been one full week since I last blogged. I never thought when I started this thing that I'd let that long of a gap come in between posts, but this past week has been completely and utterly insane.

Okay, so maybe it hasn't been "completely and utterly insane," but I've definitely had enough on my plate lately that things have been pretty uncomfortable and hectic.

This weekend we had the Ionian deadline (that's the school newspaper - I'm the News Editor). That was extremely time-consuming, as always. My roommates and I are still in the midst of our seemingly neverending quest to find housing for next year. That's been weighing pretty heavily on my mind - even when I'm not actually in the active pursuit of finding a place. And the workload for my classes has of course been plenty heavy, as well.

Throw in course registration for next semester and the increasingly urgent need to figure out what I'm going to be doing this summer (Working in produce at Shaw's again? Taking summer courses here at Iona? At home? Somehow finding an internship?), and I've felt a little like the White Rabbit in his first scene of Alice in Wonderland (see: post title and picture). Fun connection, right? I do my best.

So, faithful reader, you might now be asking: why did I need to know all of this? Well, I'm not sure that you do. But I somehow felt the need to explain myself and my recent lack of blog activity. It's not like I stopped posting because the networking thing ran out of steam; rest assured, I'm not a one-trick pony.

Hopefully things will calm down ASAP, and I can put my focus back where it belongs: on keeping this blog "awesome."

An open letter to Penelope Trunk

Dear Penelope,

I saw in your bio that you write columns for The Boston Globe. At right is a picture of me - albeit an extremely frightening one - sporting a Globe tee-shirt (Your world, unfolding daily!). I got it when I went on a high school field trip to your newspaper's headquarters on Morrissey Blvd. None of that really has any relevance to what I'm writing this letter for, but I thought it was a fun little connection anyways.

First of all, I'd like to apologize if I sounded like a jerk in my Yahoo! responds! post. That post obviously carried an obnoxious tone throughout - I thought it made for a more entertaining read - but I worry that you might have interpreted said tone as genuinely-obnoxious instead of faux-obnoxious. That would be unfortunate. And can I just say that I never for a minute thought you'd actually see what I wrote? But that's the internet for you, I guess.

(Speaking of the internet, because of its anonymity, I suppose I technically have no evidence to believe that the comment left on my post was authored by the real Penelope Trunk. Regardless, I'll push forward.)

As for the actual content of your response, you make some points that are undeniably true. Of course it feels good to give to other people. And of course I'd agree that "There is no getting through this world all by ourselves." I'm not like the pre-Help! Beatles, harboring some irrational sense of complete independence that's going to "vanish in the haze."

But still, my basic assessment of networking remains: doing kind things as part of a conscious career-positioning effort doesn't constitute true generosity. Maybe my use of the label "manipulative" that you used in your original article was a mistake. That word probably carries overly harsh connotations. But the label of "generous", I think, with its connotations of virtuousness, is equally inapplicable.

Any act of networking is a simple game of give-and-take, no different essentially than a bank offering a loan with the intent of profiting on interest later. If that's the upfront intent, there's nothing devious about it - but there's nothing particularly noble about it, either. You're just dealing with a different breed of business transaction. That goes back to the point I was trying to convey in my original post, that I'd never be able to vigorously view everything as a networking opportunity, because that sort of approach to life would eventually feel "soulless and impersonal." Am I missing something?

Anyways, thanks for finding my blog and giving it a read. I'll see you around the blogosphere - or next time I pick up a copy of The Globe back home.

Sincerely,
Dave aka D Tram

(note: Penelope's blog can be found here)

Yahoo! responds!

Seeing that my blog is just a few days old and has humble origins as an assignment for an online journalism class, it would seem odd if one of my posts had already caught the eye of a major media organization.

But, much to my surprise and delight, it's happened.

The top, featured story on Yahoo! is currently one titled, "Think you hate networking?".

There's no other explanation: Yahoo! has already discovered the awesomeness of D Tram's Awesome Blog. They're on top of things, as per usual. Kudos, Yahoo!.

Anyway, the author's introduction to the feature is a thinly-veiled condemnation of my ramblings about the guest speaker at the SGA meeting. She writes, "Today's careers are made and broken by one's ability to network ... That's the way the world is. You're not going to change it by whining."

Well okay then, Penelope Trunk. Nice name, by the way. I mean that.

From there, Trunk lists five reasons that supposedly show why "networking is actually a lot easier than you think." And, lo and behold, reason numero uno takes aim at yours truly: "You don't have to be a manipulator."

Trunk tells us that "Networking is about being nice." She warns us that it is merely "people who are ineffective at networking" who think that the process involves manipulation. Networking, in fact, involves generosity or, as she puts it, "adding value to peoples' lives."

But you know what? At the end of this explanation, she offers this clincher: "The more diverse a group of people you can help, the more diverse the type of help you can get."

That concept in and of itself may not be manipulation, per say, but it's certainly not an example of pure generosity - as she purports it to be - either.

And really, when you disguise something as generosity that's truly just a calculated, strategic attempt to add an advantageous contact to your network... how's that NOT manipulative?

D Tram's Awesome Blog, 1. Yahoo!, 0.

Climbing the imaginary ladder of success

Every Thursday at 4:15 sharp, I'm present and accounted for at the meeting of the Iona College Student Government Association. Normally, I don't have a whole lot to say about the proceedings, but the SGA E-Board has been trying to bring in lots of guest speakers as of late, and this week's was a woman named Kari Welch.

Ms. Welch works for a company called Headway, which she described as a "human resources support firm." Her lecture was about networking, the process of creating and maintaining useful "contacts." She told us how (approximately) 61% of jobs people get are through networking. She told us how there are (approximately) 1 million resumes posted on Google each year.

So all of this probably sounds harmless enough. But still, all throughout the presentation, I couldn't shake a really negative feeling towards what I was hearing.

Just about everything is a networking activity, we were told. From taking a plane trip to going to the gym to attending a Christmas party, whenever we come in contact with other people, we're presented with the opportunity to network.

We were given a set of steps to follow when networking. Before entering into a conversation, it was recommended that we have a predetermined "objective." We were also instructed to prepare an "exit strategy." The example given was, "Excuse me, I've got to go talk to my friend!"

The final step of the networking process was a "call to action," in which contact information - perhaps via business cards - was to be exchanged with the intent of following up on the given objective at a later time.

An easel in the front of the room served as a visual aid as Ms. Welch spoke. The writing on each page was peppered with the acronym "WIIFM?" ("What's In It For Me?").

So maybe I'm making it out to be a bigger deal than it was, but I don't think I'd ever be able to actively pursue networking like this. The whole thing just feels soulless and impersonal.

I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine isn't a way of life, right?

And so it begins.

I see big things for this blog. BIG. Things. Get pumpedddddd, with multiple d's for emphasis.