Scenes From a Marriage ~ Blog 27

Blogs are slow to arrive on Fridays because Friday is Chore Day in the Patrick household. For me it's Chore Day, anyway.

A couple months ago, my brother (whose last name is also no longer our given family name) was chatting with The Wife on Facebook. She told him that we liked having a condo because there wasn't any maintanance to do.

"Well, what's Jim do, then?"

Lots of stuff, it turns out; especially on Fridays.

A year and a half ago, I wrote the definitive piece about the courting period with TW. It's 6,000 words, it's about four-fifths of the whole story, and it's worth your time to check it out.

TW often points out that there's no such thing as a Hollywood ending. Someone could easily assume that our marriage is pretty much just leisurely walks on the beach with Daisy Duke and romantic dinners out in the Old North End. In reality, our dog eats something she shouldn't and ends up pooping all over the living room at 3 a.m.

Marriage isn't glamorous. This could be a shock if you base your perceptions of reality on movies, TV shows or books on the topic.

We did, for the record, get rid of the couch.

Then you have a day like today. I went to Best Buy (Daisy Duke rode shotgun). Set up a new router, set up a printer and discarded of packing materials. Then I thawed some beef, walked to The Maverick convenience mart and bought some onions and peppers. When I got home, I cooked the beef, added the onions and peppers as well as canned tomatoes and beans. Voila! ~ Chili!

Then I made the bed, took out the recycling, fed the dog and took the dog out.

TW and I haven't seen each other in about 48 hours. She left for work this morning at 6:15. I work evenings; she's in bed by 9:30. Sometimes, I am acused of not doing the most-correct chores around the house. Sometimes, the dog eats 5 pounds of dog food and craps through the couch.

This is what life looks like regardless of if you live in Boston or Decorah, Iowa. Life is just life. And that chili's not gonna make itself.

City Slickers Boston ~ Blog 26

It's kind of unbelievable this is so close to the city.

The definition of "determination" can be skewed by where you live.

Today, two days after a failed attempt to go hiking with Daisy Duke, we loaded back in the car for a second attempt. When we got to the Sumner tunnel, traffic was a standstill because construction had narrowed the tunnel to one lane.

Undeterred, we rolled off into the side streets of Boston, eventually ending up on a back highway and sneaking our way into the Fellsway. If they gave a Congressional Medal for city driving, I would be wearing it right now.

The Fellsway is a pair of natural areas and is primarily a state park. Dog hiking is the first thing the Fellsway's wikipedia page lists for activities in the area, so I figured it was probably Kosher to bring Daisy Duke.

Technically, it's an on-leash hiking area. Technically, there is nobody there to enforce that rule. Technically, I'd be willing to pay several fines a year if it meant not getting dragged through the woods by my somewhat-trained Daisy Duke.

Interstate 93 runs right through the Fells and you can clearly see a tower of some sort on a rock bluff at the southern edge of the area. Daisy Duke and I glanced at a trail map, then set out from the parking area in the middle of the Fells. There are dozens of trails and it's got to be tough to get lost. Just stay near the interstate.

The view from the trail.

That logic served us well. Walk toward the sun. When you can't hear the interstate, you need to work your way to the left. That brought us on an almost-direct course to the tower.

It also brought us into a small herd of deer.

Daisy Duke is not renown for her attention to detail. And so it was that she stood on a rock not 75 feet from a large, white-tailed deer. Daisy Duke practically looked right at the deer, then turned away and sniffed the ground, completely unaware of the opportunity just a few bounds away. The deer took off through the woods; Daisy Duke never noticed.

"You're clueless, dog," I told her.

We moved ahead another five minutes, snapped a few pictures at the tower, overlooking Boston, and began to work our way back.

The dog and I aren't so different, really. We're both good at ignoring what's right in front of us. In Salt Lake, I'd drive half an hour or more to access hiking spots with Dukakis, Daisy's chocolate lab predecessor. Dukakis and I would go up Mill Creek Canyon and hike Grandeur Peak, the Pipeline and Dog Lake (aptly named) several times a week until he got too old and we moved farther away from the city. Out west, hiking was a part of my routine, daily activities.

But there's no hiking out east, I told myself.

My drive to work takes me straight through The Fells. The trailhead is nine miles from our house; it takes about 15 minutes to get there. It's not the west, but it's a worthy workout. Daisy Duke and I spent an hour and a half in the Fells today. On the way home, she passed out with her head on the emergency brake handle in the front seat. She's currently cuddled up on my right arm, snoring lightly.

I've been in Boston for almost six months and I'm finally giving in to the idea that I'm the closest to hiking I've ever been in my life. I'm determined to take advantage of the access.

Four Weeks To Go ~ Blog 25

Muhahahahahahahahahaha.

As a kid, Christmas lasted about an hour and a half. The fun part was from 5 a.m. 'til, at the latest, 7 a.m. Wrapping paper went flying. Our stockings had Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and jelly beans.

As a childless adult, Christmas is trickier to navigate. Some would argue it's not age appropriate to ask for table hockey games that are somehow the exact same price they were 25 years ago. (Seriously, are they somehow immune to price inflation?)

I have been rightly accused of being Grinchy because I don't want presents at Christmas time, and for a long time I've acted the part. When we lived in Utah, it was easy to be bugged by Christmas because it made me aware of my religious differences with my Mormon friends. The Wife and I toured incredible light display at the Salt Lake Temple one year, but I felt out of place. We never saw the Mormon Tabernacle Choir do holiday music because, in part, I don't know the vast majority of the songs they sing.

Boston is more familiar. The 50-foot Christmas tree at Quincy (pronounced 'Quin-zee,' to TW's annoyance) is awesome, with a light show coordinated to the music from the Boston Pops. Downtown is bustling with shoppers and sales.

Then there is the literal Grinch. The Broadway musical based on the Seuss book is in town; TW and I went to the show Saturday night with our new BFFs from the neighborhood. It was a delight, though you honestly don't realize how few words you know to the song, "You're a Mean One, Mister Grinch," until you try to sing along with it.

"You’re a foul one Mr. Grinch

You’re a nasty wasty skunkYour heart is full of unwashed socks,Your soul is full of gunk Mr. Grinch"


After the show, we walked around the corner to diner, then walked to Finale, a Boston restaurant that specializes in chocolate deserts and hot toddies. We road the subway home.

It occurred to me during the show: What if I actually like the Christmas season, I just don't like buying or receiving presents? That's not even a complete statement. It's not that I don't want presents, it's that I don't want anything (or, at least, nothing I'm willing to admit to on this blog).

The Grinch was fun. The Christmas tree at Quin-zee is huge (TW asked if they chopped down a giant redwood in California and shipped it here). I bought several pairs of pants for myself during a Christmas sale.

Maybe my heart isn't two sizes too small, after all.

A Creature of Habit ~ Blog 24

I would have taken this picture, had I remembered
my phone, it not been raining, and I not been a wimp.

Moving around the country is a way of forcing yourself to try new things. For The Wife and I, it only works for a short period of time.

We've already had to ban ourselves from going to Boston Beerworks, our favorite Boston pub food spot. TW and I will fall in love with a place and dine there so often that we never want to eat there again. Hence our recent ban on Beerworks, which has excellent bar food and over a dozen of their own beers on tap. Just talking about it makes me want some.

Everybody has a comfort zone. Some people think TW and I lead an exotic life. TW's sister-in-law, PTA, always says wonderful things about our little family bouncing around the country from spot to spot or eating in different locations. What people don't see is how we order Buffalo wings, nachos and a bacon cheeseburger at pretty much every bar and grill we go to. At the Thai restaurants, it's pad thai. At the Chinese places, it's hot and sour soup.

Occasionally, I convince myself to try something new. Such was the case today, when it was decided Daisy Duke and I would go off to The Fellsway for a hike. The Fells, as it's called, is a fantastic recreation area about 15 minutes from our house. There are large bodies of water for Daisy Duke to float around in; there's a small hill with a stone lookout tower that I've always wanted to check out.

It was a rash decision to go hiking this morning, made out of frustration with the status quo. I have literally nothing to do today. The house is picked-up-ish, there's plenty of food in the fridge and the car has finally been legally registered in Massachusetts. Damnit, Daisy Duke and I were going to try something new.

I put on a sweatshirt, a Red Sox cap (when in Rome), and we went to the car. It was raining faintly, but it wasn't enough to convince me not to go. We're trying something new whether I like it or not.

On the drive to The Fells, I started thinking about how I didn't have a jacket. And it's raining harder now. No, damnit, we're trying something new.

Then I started thinking about how the dog would get muddy. No, damnit, we're going to The Fells.

We'd just popped out of the Big Dig tunnels on Interstate 93 when I noticed three huge DOT snow plow trucks drive by in the opposite direction. They were overloaded with sand. Apparently, this little rain storm is supposed to turn to ice and snow.

I looked to my right at Daisy Duke, who was curled into a tight ball in the front seat so she could nap. This dog doesn't have any grand plans for today. She won't know what she's missing. We went home.

Trying new things is hard. Some of the most-cherished experiences, hobbies and foods in my life come from feeling uncomfortable about trying something new. Who would have thought I'd like downhill skiing?

But there's a limit to what makes sense. And there's nothing on the agenda for tomorrow, except for a possible date night with TW. Maybe I'll order something different, like vegetarian chili on my order of nachos.

You're a Mean One ~ Blog 23

I can make this face without makeup, minus the hue of green.

If you want to start a religious argument, and this works among all brands of Christians as well as non-believers, you can always say my favorite religious holiday is Thanksgiving.

Works every time.

"But it's not a religious holiday," they always respond.

Sure it is. It was started by Puritans as a time of thanksgiving to God.

"Yeah, but you don't go to church," is the typical response.

A lot of people don't go to church on Christmas and they still consider it a religious holiday. Christmas and Thanksgiving are inextricably intertwined. Moreso, as Christmas Creep has overtaken my favorite holiday, with Walmart staying open all day and national stores opening for sales at 8 p.m. (Does anybody want to bet that next year it won't be 6 p.m.?)

This is a minority opinion, to be sure, but Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday simply because it's very, very difficult to screw up. There are no presents at Macy's for Thanksgiving -- there are no stocking-stuffers that include gravy.

It is the simplest of holidays. Get together with family and/or friends; eat a lot of food; watch football. We'll see you again next year. It's beautiful.

For years, The Wife and I hosted Thanksgivings in our Utah home. We invited other wanderers, people with no family or who didn't want to be with their families. It was an eclectic gathering. The instructions were simple: We'll cook turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes and stuffing. You should bring whatever food you would really, really want to be at your Thanksgiving table.

Joey G. was a Thanksgiving regular. He's allergic to poultry so he always brought lasagna. Here Comes the Sun was a Cambodian-by-way-of California; he brought fried rice once.

We were not hosting Thanksgiving this year. Our Boston apartment has lovely granite countertops and a five-burner stove. It is also 537 square feet, according to TW's measurements.

Fortunately, we're nice people and have friends. Jo-Jo (our former Maine landlord and Molly Lu's mother) invited us to her sister's house outside Boston. It was lovely having someplace to go, with easy company and people we know. We watched football, then played football in the backyard with the kids. Thanksgiving is exceedingly hard to screw up.

It wasn't the same as hosting Thanksgiving, which we aspire to doing again in the future. But 537 feet is 537 feet. Which brings us to the next holiday. Where do you put a Christmas tree in an apartment with no spare square feet? Try saying those last three words aloud.

But there we go, letting Christmas creep into a log about Thanksgiving. That will just have to wait for tomorrow, when we discuss The Grinch. That may or may not be a reference to myself.

This Is Very Sick ~ Blog 22

This is how you get rid of CSA stuff, including kale, potatoes and onions.

Yesterday, for the first time in 22 weekdays, there was no new blog posted on Mass Hysteria. I was busy and I was sick. It was also due to work reasons; I slept until 11:30 a.m. and left for work at 2 p.m.

But you don't care about that. You come here for frivolity and food. Hence that picture up there. I'm not exactly sure what it is, but it smells fantastic.

The throat is scratchy and burny. It hurts to swallow. Naturally, I went to Trader Joe's to stock up on food. There's no choice. Tomorrow is cooking prep day for Thanksgiving and that stuffing isn't going to make itself. It has 3 sticks of butter. It's amazing.

But that damn CSA has left us with a stock of veggies that has to be dealt with. The onions from four weeks ago are already rotten. Actually, they were bad a week ago. So, I threw some kale in a pot with some bacon, some chicken sausage, some onions, some chicken stock and some parmesan cheese. It smells spectacular.

This is what I do when I'm sick. No more running. Limited dog antics. And cooking. Lots of cooking. No eating. Just cooking. That little red pot on the stove is jammed with garbanzo beans and bay leaves and it's bubbling along.

Even when you're not hungry, it's comforting to have food boiling on the stove. Here's hoping I'm hungry by Thursday at 2 p.m.

Back to Reality ~ Blog 21

In fairness, this is pregame.

So much for 19,000 fans at NBA games. I'm done blogging about sports after tonight. I swear. But this is what the vast majority of sports reporters know well: a near-empty arena hours before a game.

I've worked with guys who show up minutes before the start of a game. They aren't particularly respected. There's work to do. Hands to shake. Information to gather. Blogs to write (in my case).

I drove 110 miles today to Hartford, Ct., to cover a hockey game. I left home at 3 p.m. to beat insane rush-hour traffic on Interstate 90; that tactic was mostly successful.

And here goes another Friday night at work. Hartford Whale vs. Portland Pirates AHL hockey. They'll be happy if 2,500 people actually show up tonight. There are currently about 100 fans here. The Whale have some of the coolest hockey sweaters you've ever seen.

The Wife is a little less than happy I'm working my sixth straight evening shift (two of which were just freelancing gigs). Busy weeks are a rarity for me, not the rule. This week has shown how much I like to work.

"You're going above and beyond what any other freelancer has done covering this team," a Utah Jazz media contact told me.

That's almost surprising to me because I mostly operate at one speed, and that speed is apparently abnormally hardcore. I showed up almost three hours early for Wednesday's NBA game; tonight, I was in the hockey arena two hours early.

But that's OK. I had a blog to write. Certainly TW won't begrudge that.

*crosses fingers*

I Love This Game ~ Blog 20



The office.

 A couple of days ago, I chronicled why sports reporting isn't necessarily a dream job. Today, I'm going to tell you why it's still pretty awesome.

The best games to attend for work in Salt Lake City were the games when Kurt Kragthorpe was sitting next to you. (This is a blog first, using real names, but Kurt's a public figure and we have nothing to hide here. He's the columnist for The Salt Lake Tribune and a friend of mine.)

Journalists are famously jaded people. It's happened to me. My jokes are often in horrible taste when I'm around other journalists. Ordinarily, they are just horrible.

That jaded attitude spills over into everything they do at work. They complain about the pregame food. They complain about the free shuttle bus that takes them from their hotel to the game. They complain about security measures. They complain about the people they cover. Those are just the examples from covering the Super Bowl.

Kragthorpe never says a negative word. He sits there quietly, looking at stats. When the game starts, he'd talk to you.

"Did you see that?"

"Oh my God. That was huge."

"Wow."

That last one is my favorite. Wow. Kragthorpe and I were peas in a pod. While the other writers were busy complaining, or checking Twitter, or making jokes amongst themselves, Kragthorpe and I would sit there and take it all in.

We're jaded, but we're not that jaded.

If there was any epiphone from covering Wednesday's Jazz-Celtics game in Boston, it's that I still think sports writing really stinking cool. Actually, I think writing in general is really cool; sports writing moreso because we're paid to watch sports.

It's not about perception or what people think of you. It's a little about having a free ticket to see the circus that is a sporting event and some of the best athletes on the planet. There's drama of players trying to make a name and trying to tie the game. I apologize for the rhyme. Last night's game just really has me in a good mood.

Kragthorpe would have loved it. The Celtics had a bunch of aging All-Stars who kept trying to pull away from the mostly no-name Jazz, but the Jazz kept coming back on them. It was the best game I've seen in a long time.

Don't mistake this for being a fan. Kragthorpe and I don't care who wins and loses. Utah lost last night but it didn't bother me because I got a better-than-usual story out of it. That's what it's mostly about -- finding and telling good stories.

Writers forget that. They complain about how long it takes for the elevator to move at Fenway Park. They sit there in the press box with the windows closed on a beautiful day. They complain about having to work nights all the time and the older ones don't like having to update Twitter. Or checking email, even.

Me? I'm sitting here with a goofy grin on my face because I got to pretend to be an NBA beat writer for 60 hours. And it helps that some good stories came out of it. The best part is one every writer can be thankful for: Nobody destroyed me in the online comments. That's not your cue to go do so, but feel free. My job is still pretty awesome.

Yes, Al Jefferson, We Drink Beer ~ Blog 19

The lords of all creation.

Athletes are notoriously difficult to interview. In college, they go through media training that teaches them to always stay positive, evasive of touchy subjects and to speak in cliches. Baseball players are the worst. In the movie Bull Durham, Kevin Costner's character tells a young pitcher how to toss out cliches in order to avoid actually saying anything. Baseball players have taken the advice to heart, sadly.

But there are moments where you can crack the egg. It's what makes reporting fun.

On Tuesday, the Utah Jazz held a practice session in a small college gym located right next to the Boston Common. The players lounged in the stands, waiting through a 10-minute interview period. There were only three reporters there; the guy from Sports Illustrated sequestered Gordon Hayward for almost the entire time.

That left me to wander between players who had never seen me before. I asked random questions about basketball, they gave the best answers they could. It's a painful process for both of us.

Building an actual relationship with players and coaches is difficult, bordering on impossible. We are natural enemies and we both know it. At least, that's the perception.

That's what happened at the end of question-and-answer time yesterday so entertaining. My friend from Utah, Grizzly, was standing near me and Al Jefferson, arguably the most notable Utah Jazz player. I made a brief mention of where Grizzly and I were going to meet later, Boston Beerworks.

"Hold up," Jefferson said. "Reporters drink?"

I'm not sure if he was trying to be funny or he has never heard any jokes about journalists.

"I'm a beer guy; Grizzly's into whiskey," I told Big Al.

"Wow, man."

What ensued was the most random conversation ever. A Utah Jazz assistant named Ron Boone (who played in the ABA, back in the day) piped into the conversation. Boone was a nice guy and we started talking about Mead Hall, one of my favorite beer places in the world.

Boone mentioned he lived near Mill Creek Canyon in Salt Lake. I asked if he'd ever been to the Wing Coop.

Again, Al Jefferson piped in.

"What about wings? Where is this?"

And we were off. Food is my second-favorite topic in the world. The Wife has heard my Wing Coop wing-challenge story approximately 100 times and it's to the point that she can't even listen any more. But Al Jefferson's never heard it.

The wing challenge at the Wing Coop is simple. Eat 11 wings in 11 minutes without drinking or eating anything else and you win a T-shirt that says, "I've been to 11." If you like Spinal Tap, you simply have to do this challenge, I explained.

Jefferson was into it. Boone agreed the normal wings were pretty good. I went on, describing the sweat beading up on my head, tears coming out my eyes and hiccups that accompanied the absurdly hot wings. Al Jefferson felt my pain. As a capper, I told them, I called into work sick that day because my stomach was tied up in knots.

For about 10 seconds, we were all laughing like normal human beings. It reminded me of a scene from Shawshank, where Andy Dufresne gets beers for the roofing crew just to feel normal again.

Then, a coach blew a whistle to get Jefferson and another player over with the rest of the group to watch game film. As we walked away, Grizzly told me, "That stuff about the wings was gold."

There's more I could say about moments like that and how I've missed them over the last three years that I've been mostly on a copy desk. It's fun talking to these guys. It's fun telling stories. It certainly beats having a real job.

Let's Go Jazz ~ Blog 18

Two and a half years ago, when The Wife was giving her notice at work that we were quitting our jobs and leaving Salt Lake, a male co-worker raised his hand and said, "I'd like to have Jim's job."

I did not exactly work in a salt mine, or so it would seem to a lot of people.

This blog is about a lot of things, but it isn't about sports. TW has often said she would never know she's married to a "sports guy." I was the assistant sports editor at The Salt Lake Tribune, but you would have never known it to visit our home. There's no sports posters or paraphenalia. We don't watch ESPN. In the last two years, we've attended exactly four sporting events together (one Red Sox game, two minor-league baseball games and one college football game).

Sports isn't who I am, it's what I do. Sports writers aren't like other journalists. Most of us got into journalism because it was fun going to games with friends. In high school, I attended 46 home games for soccer, football and basketball; I know because I still had the $5 punch card in my wallet until a year ago.

Sports writing and being a sports fan are two very different things. Do sports writers get to go to games for free? Yes. But there's more to it than that.

A good beat writer shows up for a game at least a couple of hours before the game to go over notes, watch for injured players warming up and to schmooze with team officials.

There's no cheering in the pressbox, at least among professional journalists. College kids will sometimes start high-fiving, but there's usually somebody in the pressbox to tell them to hush up.

There's also no drinking on the job, which is probably for the best because you usually have at least one tight deadline to make. The vast majority of games start at 7 p.m. and the vast majority of deadlines start around 10 p.m. A good beat writer can easily work until 1 a.m. writing a game story, composing a notebook and blogging. When people would ask me who I root for, the answer was a pat, "The clock." The game has to end so I can do my job.

Did I have a cool job in Salt Lake? Sure. I also worked every Friday and Saturday night for seven years (10 years, if you include my jobs before Utah). Every time I covered a Utah-BYU football game, every time I showed up to cover the Super Bowl five hours before game time, every time I was among two dozen parents at a high school soccer game, my wife and dog were at home without me. It's not a 9 to 5 job, which is fine when you're 23, single and have no friends. After a decade, it grinds on you.

That's why I enjoyed bringing 21-year-old journalism students with me to Utah Jazz games. We'd take our press passes and walk around the inside of the stadium. I'd walk with them directly onto the court and stand in the middle of the floor ... because we get to do that. Wide-eyed, they'd stand there and take a picture with their phone. Then, I'd tell them, "There's 19,000 people up there in the stands that would kill for the kind of access you get to have. The trick is converting that kind of access into telling those people something they didn't already know from watching the game."

And that's the trick that awaits me for the next few days. The Utah Jazz are in Boston this week for a game Wednesday night. I'm covering and writing about practice today, the game tomorrow, and another practice Thursday. I'm also working at my normal job Tuesday and Thursday nights.

For me, it's a treat. The biggest events I've covered in the past two and a half years are state high school basketball games and minor-league hockey games where I'm one of two writers present.

For my old paper's beat writer, Grizzly, it's more of an endurance test. He's on a four-game roadtrip. The Jazz won in triple overtime last night, which led to a good story. It also led to a lack of sleep. Grizzly went to bed around 2 a.m. last night and woke up around 4 a.m. to catch a flight from Toronto to Boston. Practice is at 11:30 a.m. I'd be surprised if he's not drinking coffee.

He won't be complaining, though. After all, there's lots of people that would be more than happy to have our jobs.

Squashing Our Hopes And Dreams ~ Blog 17

It's almost this bad.

Why do I do this to myself?

That was the thought Saturday as I was picking up our winter CSA share. I am the worst localvore ever. I buy a locally raised turkey and then complain about how much it costs. It also tasted terrible. We prefer to go to local bars and restaurants and then I order buffalo wings and nachos at every one of them.

If you know me at all, you know I am not a man of refined tastes. My beer-nerd friends (OK, mostly just the Bearded Bearnut) will jump in here to defend me; they might also note that I occasionally drink a Miller Lite.

I aspire to being a super yuppy, minus the iPhone and the iPad and the skinny jeans and the horn-rimmed glasses. And I want to want to love my CSA share. I simply don't.

This is the second attempt at a Community Supported Agriculture share. You pay a lump fee before the growing season, then each week you pick up your produce. It's a way to support local farms and local produce while maybe saving a buck or two on buying stuff at the farmers' market (or Whole Foods).

The first, in Portland, brought weekly allotments of kale, chard, collard greens and other things we never, ever eat. On the year-end evaluation form, we pointed out there were hardly any of the vegetables we eat on a regular basis. Where were the corn, the cucumbers, the tomatoes? Give me a pepper or give me nothing.

For some reason, it was decided that a second shot at a CSA was in order. The upshot of a CSA, aside from supporting local agriculture, is it forces you to eat healthy foods.

I lost five pounds over the last three weeks. That coincides with our first 40-pound winter CSA share being delivered. There were leeks, potatoes, squash, squash, more squash, carrots and about 10 pounds of leafy green vegetables.

I made a cabbage soup, with onion and potato. I made a huge, two-bowl salad from a pair of cabbages with a soy/ginger/garlic dressing. And aside from one serving of salad, I ate it all by myself.

You do not need that much fiber in your diet.

Then, three weeks later, we picked up our second 40-pound load of veggies. TW unloaded the bok choy, leeks, lettuces, radishes and myriad other things I can't even identify on some friends in Portland. We still have a 5-pound bag of carrots sitting in the fridge.

The attraction to this CSA was value. It's $240 for 120 pounds of produce. If it was 120 pounds of red peppers, I think I'd be OK with that. As it stands, we have a 10 pounds of squash rotting in our basement.

Even the weight-loss effect is temporary. I went out for garlic herb fries Saturday afternoon and put on all the weight I'd lost. That's OK. I'd rather be a little pudgy and happy than eating squash.

The 'B' Word: Bureaucracy ~ Blog 16

Why can't this be a normal state? It's not even a state, technically, but the difference between a commonwealth and a state is pretty semantic, so we'll let that one slide.

Every state has quirks and hoops you have to jump through. In Maine, you have to register your car at the DMV, pay taxes on that vehicle at city hall, and get your car inspected before you are good to drive for a year. Then you have to repeat the process. Every. Year.

Minnesota is absurdly expensive. I had to threaten so sue the state of Utah (with a real lawyer and everything) before they would issue me a driver's license. If ever there was an argument for a nationalized vehicle tax system, people who move around a lot would be entirely in favor of it because you never know what you're going to get at the DMV.

Or, in Massachusetts' case, the RMV. We don't have a DMV, we have a Registry of Motor Vehicles. Fine. Whatever. Couldn't be that different, right?

I had to take the subway downtown because there's no way I'm trying to park in downtown Boston, near the RMV. The subway was packed so I got out early and walked a half mile to the RMV. There was nobody there! Score! I was about to sit down when I noticed the signs that loudly announced the RMV "accepts CASH OR CHECKS ONLY for registration." Worried they would call my number, I literally ran out the front door and to the CVS across the street. I got $200 and arrived back at the RMV two minutes before they called my number.

I got up to the teller with my registration, insurance and title. That wasn't enough. Only in Massachusetts.

"You need an RMV-1 form from your insurance agency," I was told.

My what from my who now? I have an insurance card ... RIGHT HERE. Absurd.

"You can go to the UPS store up the street and use their computers."

Convenient. Well, it would be if I found the UPS store quickly, which of course I did not. Eventually, while on hold with Progressive, I found the UPS store after asking for directions three times. Maybe I need a smart phone.

Standing in the front corner of the store, I answered a few questions as discreetly as possible. I asked the very helpful customer service rep, "Does any other state require this form?" Nope. Just Massachusetts. We're a little different here.

Progressive then emailed me the RMV-1 form. SCO ... wait, the co-owner of the vehicle has to sign this thing? Do they have to? Yep, says right there they have to. But ... Crap. That was my reaction. So, I have some paperwork for The Wife to sign. Only took 1.5 hours to figure that out.

When we first got married, TW was annoyed because her name wasn't on many legal documents for cars and houses, or even power and cable bills. We've been on a seven-year campaign to correct that.

Thing is, your spouse is legally entitled to ownership of a vehicle or house regardless of whose name is on a title. With a second person on the account, you don't have more flexibility, you actually have less, as with the two-signatures requirement. 

Come to think of it, the best customer service I've ever had at an RMV — sorry, DMV — came in Utah, after I threatened to sue them to issue a driver's license. I got to skip the line and was out of there in 10 minutes, after they apologized profusely. There's something positive to be said for our lawyers.

Feeling Subtextual ~ Blog 15

For the last two and a half years, there has been an underlying theme to every day of my life. It started small, when we left Utah bound for the East Coast, on a reverse path of the Oregon Trail.

What am I going to do with my life now?

About a thousand days have passed and the sound is much, much louder. And the answer changes, depending on which way the wind blows or what experiences I have that day. I'm wasting time and I know it.

On days like today, when there's a relatively productive domestic agenda including exercise, shopping, laundry and cooking, it's tempting to just chuck it all. Why do I bother coming to work at all? I make enough to support gas, insurance and a car payment, but I could make $10 an hour in Boston as a barista. Seriously. The Wife and I saw a job flyer at a Starbucks in Beacon Hill, one of the nicest neighborhoods in Boston.

It's tough, these gray, slushy days, to want to do much of anything. And still, I write this blog. Writing is important to me and I know that. Tomorrow, I'll cover a minor-league hockey game in Worcester, a Duluth-esque town an hour or so from Boston. Next week, I'll cover the Utah Jazz for 36 hours while they are in town and play a game against our beloved Celtics. I'll be torn about whom to cheer openly for, of course.

It's not much, but it helps. Writing pulls me out of my funk. I'm already in a much better mood than I was five paragraphs ago. My Mom is the only person who's going to read this, but that's OK. My parents and my grandparents were my only readers when I worked in New Hampshire and Vermont and that worked out all right.

There is, of course, a problem with this model: People don't buy newspapers any more. Newsflash. People still read newspapers, it's just online, very selective, and not profitable.

What's a guy with a love of alliteration to do? I still don't know. There's a book rattling around up in my head, somewhere, but for now the answer is simple. Blogging is cathartic. I'm going to stick with that for a while. Maybe I'll get involved in politics and maybe I'll go back and get a master's degree. But I'm going to do something. Because all that housework I did today? I did a terrible job at it. And writing beats stirring drinks at Starbucks. So, you're stuck with reading at least another 75 blogs 'til I hit 90.

Sorry, Mom.

Yeah, We Did ~ Blog 14

Everybody has seen the dramatic social media exclamations today. People are afraid for America and concerned about our future. Losing sucks. We all get that. Here in Massachusetts, an assisted-suicide bill I was hoping would pass did not; it lost by about 60,000 votes out of 3 million cast. 

In general, candidates I support did well last night and that makes me feel pretty good. What doesn't feel good is to see how people, particularly some Christians, are reacting to Barack Obama's re-election. I don't care that they don't like the President or that they're conservative, I care that they make Christians like me look crazy, which affects what should be our basic message of welcome understanding to non-Christians.

I'm not just being dramatic. A friend on Facebook openly cheered Obama's re-election as a sign that the Apocalypse was near, she hoped. If eye-rolling could make a noise, my computer would have heard it when I saw that. Stop it. 

At work in Salt Lake, when Jerry Falwell or Pat Robertson said something crazy, it was my job to loudly protest on behalf of moderate or liberal Christians everywhere. It wasn't a job I relished, but I felt it was my job to represent my faith, because all the secular world sees is another Christian on television being crazy again. This doesn't help spread the Word.

This isn't about the politics. We're on Earth. If you're a born-again Christian, you might believe that you're stuck here on Earth until you get to go to heaven. My point is simple: This is what you've got for now, right here. Let's work together to make it a better place. That's a message that everybody, of all religions and political persuasions, should agree with.

We knew there would be reactions like this. You had to be wishful in your thinking to believe it wouldn't go down like this. I'm not blind to it. I'm not going to try to argue religious theology, argue about what Jesus would do, nor gloat over a Democratic victory.

Here's the deal: Our country has solvable problems. The debt is a big number, but it's nowhere near Greece nor Spain's problems. Our poor have gotten poorer. People need jobs. Go ahead and think the Apocalypse is coming. But let's allow our elected officials to make some deals to give the poorest among us jobs, food and health care. Even if you think the Apocalypse is coming, you have to acknowledge that you don't know God's timing for that event. You're here on Earth for now. Let's make it a better place. 

Votey McVoting Vote Vote ~ Blog 13

Absolutely no line to get this sticker; also, what the hell is that in the
foreground? Is that a fleshy chair?

The BBC was all about our election this morning. Why was NPR broadcasting the BBC instead of Diane Ream at 9 a.m.? No idea. But their analysis was spot-on. America's politics are deeply divided.

That's absolutely true. Today, I reflect on my political caterwauling four years ago. I was in Salt Lake City and felt like a flaming liberal. I supported Obama enthusiastically in the primaries; argued with my Mom, a Clinton backer; and yelled about my voting on Facebook.

Living in an extreme state is polarizing. Prior to moving to Utah, I might have said I was Republican-leaning. In Minnesota, it's possible for Republicans to be open on social issues while fiscally conservative.

In my first Utah election, a candidate for mayor delivered a flyer to my house stating that he would outlaw all abortions, if it was possible. Never mind that mayors don't have anything close to that kind of responsibility. That's how conservative that candidate wanted you to know he was.

Republicans own the state of Utah. They hold super majorities in both the state senate and house. Though I have voted for Republicans before, voting in Utah became an act of protest. It was a way to say, "I'm here and I really disagree with how extreme you are."

And so, in 2008, I was pretty obnoxious. It might explain why about 75 friends of mine on Facebook have blocked me. How do I know they've blocked me? If you do a game invite, it asks you if you want to invite your 650 friends. Wait, I thought I have 725 fri ... oh. I get it.

The result of all the political yelling that we're all guilty of is we tune out dissenting voices. Republicans don't want to hear their idiot liberal friends. Democrats don't want to hear from their jerky conservative friends, so they block them. Independents roll their eyes at all of us.

We're not talking to each other. We're only talking to people we agree with. Then, we wonder how it's possible for Obama to be re-elected (which he will) or how Republicans can hold onto the House (which they will for at least another election).

Our politicians are a reflection of us. Mitt Romney talks about cutting taxes, which liberals vehemently oppose. Liberals talk about cutting defense spending, which causes Republicans to vomit a string of expletives. Moderation is dead.

Or it's almost dead. New England has Republicans I like. Scott Brown is running for Senate and is the kind of guy I could vote for. Olympia Snowe in Maine would have gotten my vote had we stayed in Portland and had she run. But those options are few.

At our local polling place, in an elementary school like so many others around the country, I walked right in and picked up my ballots. After Romney, Ryan and Brown, there was a sum total of one Republican on the ballot. Every judge, every board position, every councilor, was a Democrat. It was pretty much the opposite of Utah.

It was even worse than Utah. At least in Utah there were Democrats to cast opposition votes for. I voted for an independent for U.S. Congress as a protest vote. I did no research on this except for right now. She's a former Miss Massachusetts and I can't really find any positions on any actual issues on her website. A vote well spent, I'd say.

Democrats will pick up a few House seats and hold onto the Senate (even increasing their margin slightly). Obama will likely win re-election. And absolutely nothing will get done for the next two years because we can't talk to each other. It's slightly depressing.

It's comforting to know that elections shouldn't really affect your life. My dog will still be my dog tomorrow. I'll still live in a great city in a great state and have my same computer. But it would be nice to talk to those 75 Facebook friends, even if just to get yelled at. At least we'd be talking.

The Most Vitriol I Can Manage ~ Blog 12

The enemy.

As election day is, in some spots less than 13 hours away, you've probably heard enough negative ads and had enough negative emotions. We, as Americans, need to unite in our hatred, not positive vibes.

This is why I come to you with a story of a cell phone company. If Mother Theresa were still alive, she would probably have bad things to say about her cell phone company. I've used Verizon, AT&T and Cingular. The Wife used Sprint during our faux dating and pre-marital periods. We've never been overly impressed with any service. After years of trying, both AT&T and the iPhone have found a new way to tick me off.

It started two weeks ago to the day, when I decided to go 110 miles north to Portland, Maine, for a Man Date with Nacho Man and The Bearded Beernut. Nacho Man is a former roommate of mine and TW (we had to help pay for PA school somehow). During his tenure in our rented house, he started dating Lu Who. Lu Who lived approximately 15 feet away from Nacho Man in the other half of a split-entry home with her mother, who was also our landlord.

I'll tell you that story some other time.

Two weeks ago, Lu Who was in the Far East on an international work trip. Lu Who and I are peas in a pod, despite a 12-year age gap. Her birthday is the day before mine and we've been known to spend the entire day eating bacon-dusted French fries and, generally, acting like 13-year-olds. Nacho Man and TW generally shake their heads at us. Lu Who and I make fun of them.

The height of the Photo Project.

With Lu Who in the Far East, I wanted to let her know she was missed ... but in a fun way. It occurred to me as I walked from the house to catch my bus to Portland: I would take photos with my camera and text Lu Who all the way to Portland. Because her phone didn't work in the Philipenes, she would arrive home to a slew of text messages. Her phone would explode with texts! It was a brilliant way to tell her she was missed. I started with aplomb. I took a picture from the walk; a picture from my seat on the bus; a picture out the window of the bus taken of a liquor store; a picture crossing into New Hampshire; a picture crossing into Maine; a picture arriving in Portland.

I took a picture of The Bearded Beernut when he picked me up at the bus station; a picture of Meat Head (Nacho Man's brother) when he picked us up to go downtown.

At dinner at Nosh, everybody got into the act. At our table, I took a picture of The Bearded Beernut, who took a picture of me, while Nacho Man and Nacho Man's brother took pictures of us taking pictures. A waitress walked by and took a picture of her own. It was like a TV picture inside a TV picture that goes on forever.

I took a picture of my beer; I took a picture of bacon fries; I took a picture inside the bathroom at LFA (there were neat posters on the walls). The next day, the Photo Project continued. I sent more bus pictures; there was a picture of a giant American flag inside Logan Airport; there were pictures of my dog. The Bearded Beernut sent pictures and texts as well. As the days progressed, I continued to send photos and texts. Once, I texted Lu Who's mother and Lu Who, counting on the mom to respond reply all, which she invariably does with group messages. It worked.

Lu Who was gone for two weeks and I texted her every day. Sometimes just text, often with pictures. There were trees, there were pictures of TW on a date night. It was, in essence, everything I did and everywhere I went for two weeks.

Lu Who landed in Newark on Friday at 5:15 p.m. I didn't hear from her. She arrived in Boston around 8:30 p.m. Still nothing. I texted her. She was tired and sent a short text back. Was she mad at me?

No. It turns out I should be mad at AT&T or her phone. It's unclear which. Lu Who texted me Saturday after Nacho Man informed her of the Photo Bomb project. She received three pictures and three text messages from me. No record of the night out. No pretty fall leaves. No bus photos.

If you're still reading this, and God help you for that, and you have any technical knowledge, perhaps you can explain where the hundreds and hundreds of text messages are. Perhaps you have a magical answer that I am missing. Lu Who deleted old texts from me. Still nothing. It is as if the messages were never sent.

That, we can all agree, is the real travesty of this election cycle. We, as Americans, should band together to text Lu Who photos and text messages to show her our support. Thank You, and God Bless complaining on the Internet about things.

This is Lame ~ Blog 11

It's not that I don't have anything to say. I have plenty of stories to tell, all interesting and all PG-rated. The thing is, nobody reads this blog on Fridays. This is not a unique problem.

So the question goes: What can I do on Fridays that you might find interesting? Pictures? Pictures of my dog? Nude pictures of the dog? The mind boggles.

Why Am I Torturing Myself? ~ P90X Blog 10

Look at these little sassy beauties. Oh yeah.

The first time I recognized my addiction to caffeine was in 2003. I went skiing with Dan The Man, whom some of you might remember, and I didn't wear goggles or sunglasses. It was a beautiful sunny day, it was warm, what could go wrong?

It turns out that I am an idiot. You've probably picked up on that already.

My eyes hurt so much from snow blindness the day after skiing that I wanted to gauge them out of my skull. I stayed inside all day except to get the mail. It hurt to walk to the mailbox. I was out of food, didn't have my usual Diet Pepsi, and a headache crept in around 5 p.m. A bad headache. A screwdriver driving into your skull kind of headache.

My roommates came home, diagnosed the problem as a lack of caffeine, and took me to get a can of Diet Coke and some pizza. Halfway through the Diet Coke, my headache was gone.

For the next five years, I tried to swear off caffeine. My Mom always asks this question: Why would you do that? Well, I like taking naps. It's one of my genetic gifts, along with modesty.

This week, for the first time in three years, I'm not addicted to caffeine. As usual with my life, there are a confluence of things going on that makes this possible.

When we moved to Boston, I didn't think I'd be going without Caribou Coffee. But Caribou isn't sold in any of my regular grocery stores. It's way too expensive when it's in a grocery store ($9.50 for 12 ounces) so please don't start telling me about how I can pay $10 to have some shipped. There is a limit to what I will do for good coffee.

Over a month ago, I bought a 14-ounce tub of Trader Joe's Pumpkin Spice coffee to ween myself off caffeine. Why? I guess I want to take naps again and not have brown teeth. That might not be enough reason to keep me off the Brown Rocket of Caffeine.

I drank less and less coffee day by day (down from two cups to none) to get used to a slower pace of life. And it worked. My last cup of coffee was Monday.

The thing is, it's not necessarily better. Yes, I could really use a nap right now. But I have stuff to do. I need to go for a run with Daisy Duke. And I leave for work in a couple of hours; surely there's not enough time for both.

Daisy Duke and I were out and about town a half hour ago when I realized I was next to a Starbucks. Pike's Place Roast is my heroin. I went to the door, but there were at least eight women standing in line. They were presumably all ordering fraps and lattes. I turned around and left. It isn't worth it to stand in line. There should be a separate line for people just ordering black, hot coffee. I love/hate Starbucks.

And so I sit here, caffeine-less, trying to muster the energy to get off this chair and go outside on a 60-degree, sunny day. This is why I never completely stop using caffeine. At some point, you need a boost to get through a night at work. At some point, you can't take a nap because you have something else to do. And when you drink that coffee, even if it's just 12 ounces, you're wired for the rest of the day. At midnight, you'll lie there in bed, thoughts frenetically bouncing from topic to topic, unable to sleep.

This, of course, is absurd. When I drink coffee regularly, I can drink a pot of coffee at midnight and go straight to bed. I did that once or twice at The Valley News, my first newspaper. Now, I need to plan on having a drink of a more alcoholic nature when I come home if I'm ever going to fall asleep.

So, unless you have any solutions to this caffeine-less conundrum, I'm going to by some Crest Whitening Strips tomorrow and some coffee. Life's too short to not drink coffee.