Sunday, February 3, 2008
Monday, October 1, 2007
Die, Downstate Scum
So hockey season is finally here again....Actually, it started last weekend, but I refuse to acknowledge regular-season games played on another continent. Or games played by the Kings in general. Anyhow...the Sabres open up tonight with a home-and-home vs the Islanders, and as a result my compatriots at Goose's Roost have declared this "Islanders Week." That's fine by me, 'cause if there's one thing I've got plenty of, it's hatred for Long Island.
Long Island.
The words themselves make my skin crawl.
As you may know, I'm a student at the University of Miami. What you may not know is that 52% of UM students come from outside the state of Florida. Probably a fifth to a quarter of UM students come from New York, and there's like three of us from the Buffalo area. The rest are from Long Island. That equals about 2,000 self-important asshats strutting around my campus on any given day, polluting it with their accents and their whole perspective on life in general.
I can't go to class without hearing two wife-beater-and-chain-wearing douchebags high-fiving about how "fuckin' sick A-Rod is bro!" I'm not even going to address that sentiment, because I don't want this to just turn into me railing on Yankees "fans."
Sports-related idiocy aside, the thing that really bothers me about the spawn of Long Island is their sense of fashion. It starts from the head down:
In conclusion, Islanders fans can kiss my ass. Last week, one of them thought it'd be a good idea to assault the Sabres uniforms. First of all, it says a lot about the knowledge level of the Islanders fanbase that their first line of defense isn't even to pull out the old 80's Islanders dynasty card, but to attack your team's jerseys. Not only that, but uh...glass houses, bro. And that's not even touching on the Worst Logo Ever. Now get me some fish sticks, bitch.
Long Island.
The words themselves make my skin crawl.
As you may know, I'm a student at the University of Miami. What you may not know is that 52% of UM students come from outside the state of Florida. Probably a fifth to a quarter of UM students come from New York, and there's like three of us from the Buffalo area. The rest are from Long Island. That equals about 2,000 self-important asshats strutting around my campus on any given day, polluting it with their accents and their whole perspective on life in general.
I can't go to class without hearing two wife-beater-and-chain-wearing douchebags high-fiving about how "fuckin' sick A-Rod is bro!" I'm not even going to address that sentiment, because I don't want this to just turn into me railing on Yankees "fans."
Sports-related idiocy aside, the thing that really bothers me about the spawn of Long Island is their sense of fashion. It starts from the head down:
- First and foremost, their stupid, stupid hair.
- Staying in the cranial region, there's the matter of hats. You see, men are generally practical creatures; most things we wear serve some sort of purpose. When wearing a hat, one can wear it forwards in order to keep the sun out of one's eyes, or it can be worn backwards for a variety of reasons (keep the sun off your neck, covering up the fact that your hair is all screwed up because you rolled out of bed 12 minutes before class started and are too hungover to do much but walk and breathe, etc). This, however, is not acceptable under any circumstances. There is a generally accepted theory that one can tell if a person is a douchebag or not by the positioning of their hat. As I've used my awe-inspiring Paint talents to illustrate here, the majority of Long Island clearly falls into the "Douche Zone."
In conclusion, Islanders fans can kiss my ass. Last week, one of them thought it'd be a good idea to assault the Sabres uniforms. First of all, it says a lot about the knowledge level of the Islanders fanbase that their first line of defense isn't even to pull out the old 80's Islanders dynasty card, but to attack your team's jerseys. Not only that, but uh...glass houses, bro. And that's not even touching on the Worst Logo Ever. Now get me some fish sticks, bitch.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Bucky Gleason is a No-Talent Ass Clown
Congratulations, Bucky Gleason. You've been trying all summer, and finally succeeded in proving that you're a complete asshole a true visionary among the nation's sportswriters. At a time when the athletic community has been rocked by a litany of scandals, one voice has the courage to speak out against the true villains: sports fans. That's right, kids...we've been very bad, and now Uncle Bucky is here to let us know that we will be held accountable for our sins.
Ron Mexico's dogfighting? Our fault.
Tim Donaghy betting on games he officiated? Our fault.
Barry Bonds* taking steroids? Our fault.
A-Rod getting paid $20 million per season? Our fault.
The Bills raising ticket prices? Yep, you guessed it. We did that, too.
Oh, and guess what? he got a whole 384 words into this column before bringing up his jihad against the Sabres' front office, when he chided all those not enlightened enough to share his opinions:
" Funny, but every time you hold people accountable in sports, you’re certain to hear from people who want to know why you’re picking on their favorite teams. Gee, I don’t know. My guess is that some of us are more interested in facts over self-serving fantasy."
Gee, Bucky...that was really subtle. Whoever taught your correspondence course in journalism must be so proud. Alright then, if that's how you want to play it, we can do that.
You want to talk about self-serving fantasy, Bucky? Let's talk about how your hard-on for Chris Drury makes it Darcy's fault that he wanted to play in the Garden.
How dare you preach to me, you sanctimonious prick? You legitimately think that you can somehow justify your ludicrous crusade by blaming and belittling us, the fans? If anything, you should be on your knees every night thanking whoever it is that you pray to for Buffalo sports fans; if you worked in a market like New York, Boston, or Dallas the fans would surely have lynched you by now for the rediculous shit you keep trying to force down our throats.
Oh, and Bucky? If you're really going to try and pull off a Rick Riley-style "the sports world is going to hell in a handbasket and we're all a little bit to blame" column? You should probably try to at least get through 600 words without directly contradicting yourself. You talk about how much you enjoy(ed) sports:
"For me, sports were a release from the real world. There’s nothing better than watching athletes do what they do best, seeing them react under intense competition and pressure."
And yet, the very next paragraph?
"And you know who else deserves blame? You do.
Sports have grown so much because you keep watching."
Interesting. So for you, there is nothing better than watching athletes do what they do. But for us, the common peasants, the fact that we watch sports makes us responsible for all of the sporting world's ills. You're right, Bucky. You are clearly the only one capable of appreciating pure athletic competition. I know that I watch the NFL not because I like football, but to support animal cruelty, drunk driving, and shooting bouncers in the spine.
We already talked about your penchant for "self-serving fantasy," so let's get to the facts. You're a bitter, middle-aged man who writes a sixth-rate column for a second-rate newspaper. Which part of that qualifies you to judge me, or any sports fan for that matter? That's a silly question, of course. Everybody knows you can't actually see individual people from way up on that high horse of yours. Maybe one day that wind tunnel affixed to the front of your head will provide sufficient thrust to knock you out of the ivory tower you seem to have taken up residence in...and you know what, Bucky? It's a long way to the ground.
So yeah, I'm going to keep watching sports. And I'm going to keep buying tickets. Nice try, but it's going to take a much better writer than you to convince me to alter my life in any way. But you did make one point in that column that resonated with me, which was rather like finding a dollar bill in the garbage; not quite enough to make up for the fact that you're digging through foul-smelling trash, but better than nothing. You intimated that we as fans should be put off by some of the salaries in sports. Well, there is one salary in the sports world that absolutely makes me sick to my stomach: whatever the Buffalo News pays you for that abortion of a column. To me, that's more outlandish than the paychecks of A-Rod, Rashard Lewis, and J.D. Drew combined.
In conclusion: get a real job, you fucking hack. God knows you're not any good at the one you have now.
Ron Mexico's dogfighting? Our fault.
Tim Donaghy betting on games he officiated? Our fault.
Barry Bonds* taking steroids? Our fault.
A-Rod getting paid $20 million per season? Our fault.
The Bills raising ticket prices? Yep, you guessed it. We did that, too.
Oh, and guess what? he got a whole 384 words into this column before bringing up his jihad against the Sabres' front office, when he chided all those not enlightened enough to share his opinions:
" Funny, but every time you hold people accountable in sports, you’re certain to hear from people who want to know why you’re picking on their favorite teams. Gee, I don’t know. My guess is that some of us are more interested in facts over self-serving fantasy."
Gee, Bucky...that was really subtle. Whoever taught your correspondence course in journalism must be so proud. Alright then, if that's how you want to play it, we can do that.
You want to talk about self-serving fantasy, Bucky? Let's talk about how your hard-on for Chris Drury makes it Darcy's fault that he wanted to play in the Garden.
How dare you preach to me, you sanctimonious prick? You legitimately think that you can somehow justify your ludicrous crusade by blaming and belittling us, the fans? If anything, you should be on your knees every night thanking whoever it is that you pray to for Buffalo sports fans; if you worked in a market like New York, Boston, or Dallas the fans would surely have lynched you by now for the rediculous shit you keep trying to force down our throats.
Oh, and Bucky? If you're really going to try and pull off a Rick Riley-style "the sports world is going to hell in a handbasket and we're all a little bit to blame" column? You should probably try to at least get through 600 words without directly contradicting yourself. You talk about how much you enjoy(ed) sports:
"For me, sports were a release from the real world. There’s nothing better than watching athletes do what they do best, seeing them react under intense competition and pressure."
And yet, the very next paragraph?
"And you know who else deserves blame? You do.
Sports have grown so much because you keep watching."
Interesting. So for you, there is nothing better than watching athletes do what they do. But for us, the common peasants, the fact that we watch sports makes us responsible for all of the sporting world's ills. You're right, Bucky. You are clearly the only one capable of appreciating pure athletic competition. I know that I watch the NFL not because I like football, but to support animal cruelty, drunk driving, and shooting bouncers in the spine.
We already talked about your penchant for "self-serving fantasy," so let's get to the facts. You're a bitter, middle-aged man who writes a sixth-rate column for a second-rate newspaper. Which part of that qualifies you to judge me, or any sports fan for that matter? That's a silly question, of course. Everybody knows you can't actually see individual people from way up on that high horse of yours. Maybe one day that wind tunnel affixed to the front of your head will provide sufficient thrust to knock you out of the ivory tower you seem to have taken up residence in...and you know what, Bucky? It's a long way to the ground.
So yeah, I'm going to keep watching sports. And I'm going to keep buying tickets. Nice try, but it's going to take a much better writer than you to convince me to alter my life in any way. But you did make one point in that column that resonated with me, which was rather like finding a dollar bill in the garbage; not quite enough to make up for the fact that you're digging through foul-smelling trash, but better than nothing. You intimated that we as fans should be put off by some of the salaries in sports. Well, there is one salary in the sports world that absolutely makes me sick to my stomach: whatever the Buffalo News pays you for that abortion of a column. To me, that's more outlandish than the paychecks of A-Rod, Rashard Lewis, and J.D. Drew combined.
In conclusion: get a real job, you fucking hack. God knows you're not any good at the one you have now.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Reports of My Demise Are Greatly Exaggerated
Hey, just thought I'd check in to let it be known that I'm still alive. Things have been...involving to say the least over at The Goose's Roost, but I'm still here.
I'm working some things up right now, and it's not going to be long before we're more-or-less running regularly with some sort of Canes talk or just general foolishness.
A couple of thoughts while I'm here, though:
That's all I've got at the moment. I'll try to get some good ol' summer foolishness going in the near future, so check back soon.
I'm working some things up right now, and it's not going to be long before we're more-or-less running regularly with some sort of Canes talk or just general foolishness.
A couple of thoughts while I'm here, though:
- Whaddya know, D-1A players don't have the market cornered on being dumbass hooligans.
- On second thought, the boys from the BCS conferences still know how to do it right.
That's all I've got at the moment. I'll try to get some good ol' summer foolishness going in the near future, so check back soon.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Elastic Hearts
Ever since the red light went on to end Game Five, and with it the Sabres' season, I've been struggling to put into words the incomprehensible yet familiar mix of sadness, disgust, and longing that's taken up residence between my ears of late. Last night it came to me, and I started digging through my old computer in search of the piece that triggered my deja vu.
At some point in high school, I remember reading a short story by John Updike that was originally a Boston Globe article around thirty years ago. Searching for it online hasn't turned up anything, but I did manage to find the paper that I wrote for the assignment that accompanied it. A cursory reading of the essay told me two things: Number one, my writing was a lot more verbose and fundamentally correct in 11th grade. But more importantly, the excerpts I took from the article confirmed that I was indeed thinking of the right piece.
That article was called "The First Kiss," and it was printed shortly before the BoSox season opener sometime between 1970 and 1980. Like most pre-title Sox writing, it was heavy on heartbreak and "woe is me." Which is fine, believe me. I'm Irish. Nobody appreciates a good dose of self-loathing and martyrdom like we do.
The thing about this article that really resonated with me, the reason that it suddenly popped into my head again this week after almost five years, was the way Updike described Boston's fans. Long before they became Red Sox Nation, International Consumer Entity, John Updike referred to Boston faithful as a "many-headed monster with an elastic heart." Every offseason they declare: "Enough...you'll never get us to care again, Red Sox." But that is, of course, a lie.
My point in all of this is the following: I'm slowly coming to the realization that it takes a special kind of person to be a Buffalo sports fan. You truly do need an elastic heart. Anything less and it would be impossible to move past the failures that have defined us as a sports city. This year's playoff exit was a gut-check, for sure. The sad reality is, we've been through far worse. I guess the thing that feels so foreign right now is that unlike so many other times, we saw this one coming. We had time to accept it and start moving on before the playoffs even ended. Even people who believed that coming back from 0-3 was a possibility acknowledged that it probably wouldn't happen.
So here we are, about a week into our offseason, and for the first time I can remember, I'm okay. I shouldn't be "okay" this soon. I should be railing on officials, thinking of creative ways to say horribly inappropriate and offensive things about the Senators, making Dany Heatly DUI jokes...but I'm not. I should be swearing off the Sabres for a while, and reconciling with them in a couple of months. But I'm not. I'm not doing those things, telling those lies, that normally come at the end of a season. I guess I'm wondering why that is...
Could it be that all of us, all of Buffalo, has just gotten used to it? Have our collective tragedies on the rink and on the football field really made our hearts, to steal from Updike, elastic? Maybe we know better, and maybe our hearts don't break anymore...they just sort of bend.
Actually, I don't really think that's it at all. I think it's more the case that we, as a city, have taken the sports world's best shot. Over and over again, square in the jaw. Right now, Buffalo is less like a perpetually heartbroken Red Sox Nation than say, Brad Pitt in Fight Club. You know the scene I'm talking about, the one where Lou discovers that his basement is being used for the titular club's meetings. He then proceeds to beat the holy hell out of Brad Pitt in an attempt to convince him to leave. Pitt doesn't leave, though. He just lays there, taking Lou's best shots and laughing. Finally, Lou realizes that this guy is indeed the kind of lunatic who is willing to sit there and get punched in the face until he gets what he wants. As he comes to this realization, Pitt grabs him and screams through split lips: "You don't know where I've been, Lou! You don't know where I've been! Just let us have the basement."
So if you've listening, sports gods, just...just let us have one, one of these years. You really don't know where we've been.
At some point in high school, I remember reading a short story by John Updike that was originally a Boston Globe article around thirty years ago. Searching for it online hasn't turned up anything, but I did manage to find the paper that I wrote for the assignment that accompanied it. A cursory reading of the essay told me two things: Number one, my writing was a lot more verbose and fundamentally correct in 11th grade. But more importantly, the excerpts I took from the article confirmed that I was indeed thinking of the right piece.
That article was called "The First Kiss," and it was printed shortly before the BoSox season opener sometime between 1970 and 1980. Like most pre-title Sox writing, it was heavy on heartbreak and "woe is me." Which is fine, believe me. I'm Irish. Nobody appreciates a good dose of self-loathing and martyrdom like we do.
The thing about this article that really resonated with me, the reason that it suddenly popped into my head again this week after almost five years, was the way Updike described Boston's fans. Long before they became Red Sox Nation, International Consumer Entity, John Updike referred to Boston faithful as a "many-headed monster with an elastic heart." Every offseason they declare: "Enough...you'll never get us to care again, Red Sox." But that is, of course, a lie.
My point in all of this is the following: I'm slowly coming to the realization that it takes a special kind of person to be a Buffalo sports fan. You truly do need an elastic heart. Anything less and it would be impossible to move past the failures that have defined us as a sports city. This year's playoff exit was a gut-check, for sure. The sad reality is, we've been through far worse. I guess the thing that feels so foreign right now is that unlike so many other times, we saw this one coming. We had time to accept it and start moving on before the playoffs even ended. Even people who believed that coming back from 0-3 was a possibility acknowledged that it probably wouldn't happen.
So here we are, about a week into our offseason, and for the first time I can remember, I'm okay. I shouldn't be "okay" this soon. I should be railing on officials, thinking of creative ways to say horribly inappropriate and offensive things about the Senators, making Dany Heatly DUI jokes...but I'm not. I should be swearing off the Sabres for a while, and reconciling with them in a couple of months. But I'm not. I'm not doing those things, telling those lies, that normally come at the end of a season. I guess I'm wondering why that is...
Could it be that all of us, all of Buffalo, has just gotten used to it? Have our collective tragedies on the rink and on the football field really made our hearts, to steal from Updike, elastic? Maybe we know better, and maybe our hearts don't break anymore...they just sort of bend.
Actually, I don't really think that's it at all. I think it's more the case that we, as a city, have taken the sports world's best shot. Over and over again, square in the jaw. Right now, Buffalo is less like a perpetually heartbroken Red Sox Nation than say, Brad Pitt in Fight Club. You know the scene I'm talking about, the one where Lou discovers that his basement is being used for the titular club's meetings. He then proceeds to beat the holy hell out of Brad Pitt in an attempt to convince him to leave. Pitt doesn't leave, though. He just lays there, taking Lou's best shots and laughing. Finally, Lou realizes that this guy is indeed the kind of lunatic who is willing to sit there and get punched in the face until he gets what he wants. As he comes to this realization, Pitt grabs him and screams through split lips: "You don't know where I've been, Lou! You don't know where I've been! Just let us have the basement."
So if you've listening, sports gods, just...just let us have one, one of these years. You really don't know where we've been.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I Believe
I've always thought that context is important, especially when reading someone else's writing. Motivation, biases, opinions. They all matter, and they all influence how you write. A guy from LA and a guy from Atlanta are going to have different takes on the same Braves/Dodgers game, and they're damn well going to have different opinions on Michael Vick's, uh, alleged dogfighting issues.
With that in mind, here are a few tangents to give you a little bit better idea where I'm coming from when I write.
I believe that Barry Bonds cheated, Pete Rose should be in Cooperstown, and so should Jim Rice.
I believe the University of Miami won the national title in the 2002 Fiesta Bowl against Ohio State. You'll never be able to convince me otherwise, just like you'll never be able to convince me that the ensuing Maurice Clarett saga, from his one-and-done attempt, to being the one back that couldn't make it work with the Broncos, to getting arrested while looking like he was about to re-enact the final scene of Scarface, wasn't his karmic punishment for being a part of that larceny.
I believe that the supreme irony of the last 5 drafts occured in 2005 when the Titans passed on Antrel Rolle because they didn't want to deal with the "character issues" that came with Miami players. Instead, they chose one Adam "Pacman" Jones.
It is my firmly held conviction that Duke is an earthly embodiment of evil. The same could be said of Florida State, but they're in different categories. Florida State is like the evil hillbillies of Deliverance, whereas Duke is a little more like Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs. Bobby Bowden has probably owned slaves at some point, but Koach K most certainly has bodies in his basement. Or maybe he learned from Dahmer, and uses a tub of hydrochloric acid to get rid of them.
I hate the Patriots, Jets, Maple Leafs, Spurs, and the state of New Jersey. That being said, I have a grudging respect for all of them. Except for New Jersey. The only things I have ever liked about that particular place are the perfect field-storming executed by Rutgers last year after the Louisville game, Greg Schiano in general, and my friend Tim who lived down the hall freshman year.
And then of course, there is the Buffalo Sports Fan Creed. I believe that Frank Wycheck thew a forward pass, that Brett Hull didn't score, and that Scott Norwood shouldn't get killed as much as he does. A 40-yard plus kick on grass is not a gimme.
I believe in my teams, whether or not I am given any reason to. I still haven't gotten rid of the beard I sported during the Sabres' postseason run, and I'm trying to decide whether I want to replace my McGahee jersey with Lee Evans or Marshawn Lynch. I'm convinced that Randy Shannon is going to turn it around this season in Coral Gables.
Beyond that...I believe in the power of a crowd to influence games, the existance of clutch hitting (stats be damned), and the healing power of having a drink with your friends while hoping for next year. And personally, that's about all I need.
With that in mind, here are a few tangents to give you a little bit better idea where I'm coming from when I write.
I believe that Barry Bonds cheated, Pete Rose should be in Cooperstown, and so should Jim Rice.
I believe the University of Miami won the national title in the 2002 Fiesta Bowl against Ohio State. You'll never be able to convince me otherwise, just like you'll never be able to convince me that the ensuing Maurice Clarett saga, from his one-and-done attempt, to being the one back that couldn't make it work with the Broncos, to getting arrested while looking like he was about to re-enact the final scene of Scarface, wasn't his karmic punishment for being a part of that larceny.
I believe that the supreme irony of the last 5 drafts occured in 2005 when the Titans passed on Antrel Rolle because they didn't want to deal with the "character issues" that came with Miami players. Instead, they chose one Adam "Pacman" Jones.
It is my firmly held conviction that Duke is an earthly embodiment of evil. The same could be said of Florida State, but they're in different categories. Florida State is like the evil hillbillies of Deliverance, whereas Duke is a little more like Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs. Bobby Bowden has probably owned slaves at some point, but Koach K most certainly has bodies in his basement. Or maybe he learned from Dahmer, and uses a tub of hydrochloric acid to get rid of them.
I hate the Patriots, Jets, Maple Leafs, Spurs, and the state of New Jersey. That being said, I have a grudging respect for all of them. Except for New Jersey. The only things I have ever liked about that particular place are the perfect field-storming executed by Rutgers last year after the Louisville game, Greg Schiano in general, and my friend Tim who lived down the hall freshman year.
And then of course, there is the Buffalo Sports Fan Creed. I believe that Frank Wycheck thew a forward pass, that Brett Hull didn't score, and that Scott Norwood shouldn't get killed as much as he does. A 40-yard plus kick on grass is not a gimme.
I believe in my teams, whether or not I am given any reason to. I still haven't gotten rid of the beard I sported during the Sabres' postseason run, and I'm trying to decide whether I want to replace my McGahee jersey with Lee Evans or Marshawn Lynch. I'm convinced that Randy Shannon is going to turn it around this season in Coral Gables.
Beyond that...I believe in the power of a crowd to influence games, the existance of clutch hitting (stats be damned), and the healing power of having a drink with your friends while hoping for next year. And personally, that's about all I need.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Welcome
Welcome to the blog. Pull up a chair, or grab a seat on the couch if you'd prefer. There's beer in the fridge and food in the kitchen, so make yourself at home. Comfortable? Good. Let's get started.
A little housekeeping first; If you don't know me, then you probably have no idea what this blog is about or why I'm writing it. The who is pretty simple. I'm an undergrad student at the University of Miami who grew up in the Buffalo area (and still lives here between semesters). So there's your explanation of the blog's name.
What I talk about is pretty much anything, in fairness. The general topic as a rule will be sports, (I know, I know...please hush your shocked gasps) although everything is fair game. That being said, I try to stay away from matters of religion, politics and national policy. Nothing turns a friendly conversation into a bloody throwdown more quickly or more definitively than that trifecta, and to be honest, that's not what I'm here for.
Why did I suddenly think it'd be a good idea to start writing a blog? I really have no idea. Part of it is the fact that I haven't written anything since high school, with the exception of one entirely forgettable semester of English Lit where the only deep, abiding truth I discovered was that I'd rather play Russian Roulette with a shotgun than spend another minute analyzing Shakespearean love sonnets. It could also have something to do with the instant-gratification nature of a blog. If I have a thought or a take on something, it's easy to fire off a quick entry here. And let's face it, I'm not always the most motivated guy in the world. This is probably the only way I'm going to get anything written in the near future.
So there you have it. I won't ever promise to be correct, justified, or unbiased. I'm certainly do not swear to take the high road, be a peacemaker, or write in a consistent tense. The only thing I do promise is that I will lay my opinions and thoughts out there. You won't ever read a post and be left wondering where I stand.
Until next time...
A little housekeeping first; If you don't know me, then you probably have no idea what this blog is about or why I'm writing it. The who is pretty simple. I'm an undergrad student at the University of Miami who grew up in the Buffalo area (and still lives here between semesters). So there's your explanation of the blog's name.
What I talk about is pretty much anything, in fairness. The general topic as a rule will be sports, (I know, I know...please hush your shocked gasps) although everything is fair game. That being said, I try to stay away from matters of religion, politics and national policy. Nothing turns a friendly conversation into a bloody throwdown more quickly or more definitively than that trifecta, and to be honest, that's not what I'm here for.
Why did I suddenly think it'd be a good idea to start writing a blog? I really have no idea. Part of it is the fact that I haven't written anything since high school, with the exception of one entirely forgettable semester of English Lit where the only deep, abiding truth I discovered was that I'd rather play Russian Roulette with a shotgun than spend another minute analyzing Shakespearean love sonnets. It could also have something to do with the instant-gratification nature of a blog. If I have a thought or a take on something, it's easy to fire off a quick entry here. And let's face it, I'm not always the most motivated guy in the world. This is probably the only way I'm going to get anything written in the near future.
So there you have it. I won't ever promise to be correct, justified, or unbiased. I'm certainly do not swear to take the high road, be a peacemaker, or write in a consistent tense. The only thing I do promise is that I will lay my opinions and thoughts out there. You won't ever read a post and be left wondering where I stand.
Until next time...
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