I Knew You Were Trouble When You Logged In

Right now I'd be willing to bet that a dial up connection would be faster than my computer.  Web pages are loading or not loading as though there's a temperamental person on the other end deciding.

But the damnedest thing of all was that my Norton antivirus was nowhere to be found.  It's like being dropped into a back of zombies and Daryll just bailed on you.  Only Daryll would never do that, would you?

Where the FUCK is my Norton anti-virus shit, what am I paying you people for?  I ran a few system searches for Norton and came up empty handed.  I felt hopeless and alone in this struggle.  Hell, I'd even take that floating paper clip with two eye balls if he'd help me with anything other than a letter.

 

Paperclip:  Hi!  Can I help you?
Me: Yes, you can help me with a strongly worded letter to Norton antivirus or a missing application report to put Norton's face on the back of a milk carton.

So I pull out my phone and call Norton's antivirus support and am greeted on the other line by a chipper fellow from India named Atul (Pronounced ah-TOOL).  I don't know where I exactly land on the customer service end whether I'd prefer to talk to a person or the automated machine.  Both can be helpful or infuriating depending on the company/customer service rep.  Atul assures me he can fix this and I believe his tone of voice which has a certain "we're in this together" quality.  I can practically feel his arm around my shoulder.  Atul walks me through the first couple sets of instructions and is extremely specific in what I am to type in the address bar.  He even goes to the point of using (that thing with the letters and the words) so as to not be misunderstood.  I don't find his accent difficult to understand and compliment his English.  Because my computer is crawling to open anything, there's ample downtime for small talk.  Atul asks me where I'm from and vice versa.  I discover that it's 9PM in New Delhi where he is compared to my 11AM.

But you know what Atul?  We're looking at the same moon.  Boop.

We've built a rapport, but we've reached the point in our relationship where Atul wants to take it to the next level.  This is a terrifying/exhilarating proposition.  We haven't even known each other that long.  He asks my permission gently, he explains exactly what he's going to do to me (I mean my computer).  I feel exposed, but I trust Atul; he's given me no reason not to.  He's going to make everything all better.  So I make the connection and Atul takes control of my computer.

Atul:  You see me moving the mouse on your screen?
Me:  Yes, yes I do.

I take a moment to wonder if he's taunting me with it displaying his control, or just demonstrating to me that I need to leave my hands the fuck off the steering wheel and Atul my Hindu brother's got this shit.  I trust it's the latter.  If I were him, I'm not sure I could resist the temptation to troll.  Meatspin comes to mind.

He opens up some sort of diagnostic scan thing (out of thin air it seems) and begins scanning my computer.  No surprise, my computer comes back positive for mal-ware, registry errors, and it's in a critical operating state.

So I hear critical and think we've reached critical mass, this is it, the computer could melt down any second!  GET DOWN!  SHE'S GONNA BLOW!  Atul, ever the professional, pulls a Third Eye Blind and talks me off the ledge.  He explains that this can all be resolved he's just going to put me on hold and get his supervisor.

Wait, what?  Atul can't handle this himself?  This must be really bad.  In my line of work this would be the equivalent of somebody's groin site hemorrhaging after an angiogram and I'm attempting to appear calm as I've got my outstretched arms on that geyser of a puncture site.  You'll be fine though, I'm going to call the Doctor.

As my panic subsides another revelation occurs.  My pupils dilate, my heart speeds, and my hands clench.  I didn't call them to diagnose and fix my computer!  I called them to halp me find Norton.  So why didn't Atul do that?!  I retrace my steps frantically googling the norton tech support number on my phone and to my horror the number I dialed was the first one!  (Stupid, stupid, stupid!)  Sure the description had the word Norton in it, but wouldn't someone trying to sell you stuff use the keywords you would search?  Especially if you were desperate?!  I recall this famous example of a google search for Dominos, and the first number that pops up is Pizza Hutt's.

Meanwhile that silver tongued Atul has been working me, greasing me up for his supervisor to come in and finish the job!  It was all a setup!    Atul!  How could you?!  I trusted you!  I told you things I've never told any other tech support person.  But no!  You're all the same! I want to call Taylor Swift and Adele and eat gallons of Ben and Jerry's.

Betrayal and hurt evaporate into quick thinking and malice as I'm still on hold awaiting Atul's supervisor.  I turn off my computer and my phone at the same time severing our connection and our friendship.  I'm pacing my living room, cursing my naivete when my phone rings a 1-800 number.  A gentleman with a stern, idonthavetimeforthisbullshit voice introduces himself as Atul's supervisor.  I don't give this bro a New Delhi minute to pitch me.

Supervisor:  Let me ask you a question-
Me: No let me ask you a question.  Do you work for Norton?
Supervisor:  We're an independant company that supports Norton products.
Me: Aha.  So it's no accident your number is the one that appears on the top when you type Norton antivirus.
Supervisor:  Sir if you just-
Me:  Nah we're done here, I've decided to take a different direction with dealing my computer problems.

CLICK CLICK BOOM!

They almost had me!  I was complacent and vulnerable and almost bought more anti virus software.  I'm convinced now that the virus makers and the anti virus companies are in it together ya know?  Supply and demand.

Tending Bar, Hipsters, and Chillwave Music

Every decade or so I'll have a song that is my favorite song ever.  "I wish you were here" by Incubus ranks as the song that defined and informed my teen years.  It's that song that always works.  It demands to be played and refuses to be skipped in any playlist or cd.  The new song that has become emblematic my twenties is Washed Out's "Feel it all around."  Instantly calming and energetic at the same time and a certain (make up a word quick, quick, you fool!) vibeability (nailed it!).  The song has a fantastic baseline, great rhythm, and Ernest Greene's breathy vocals seem to float in from time to time caressing the track and not overstaying their welcome.  The album is called Life of Lesiure and I can't think of a more fitting title or pursuit in my late twenties.

It's pretty clear that I'm being shamelessly selfish.  I indulge often in the things that make me happy.  The girl (is it a girl?) from the album cover in the ocean at sunset is a powerful and lasting image.  We want to be her.  We want her life.  This album's mandate is to do what you makes you happy.  Relax.  We're not here for very long.

This is where I think they hipsters have the right idea.  Sure they're unwashed (and unashamed!), and have a know-it-all quality that some find repulsive. It would make me a hypocrite to judge them for this.  Judge not lest ye be judged said someone of importance (was that a biblical reference?) However, they've got the giving 0.0 fucks about stuff dialed in.  There's a certain ballsiness that comes with working a few hours a week at a coffee shop and spending the rest of the time hanging out, drinking PBRs, and engaging in other hipster activities.  However, I picture these activities to be largely outdoors in the sunlight, whilst they were oversized sunglasses and just hang out.  Probably listening to chillwave songs, or other obscure artists while I'm working 12 hour shifts and dying a little more each day.

Fucking Don Draper.  His embodiment of 60s masculinity and preference for whiskey are never overplayed or discouraged.  His drink of choice is the very appropriately termed old fashioned.  I doubt that choosing was accidental.  I ordered an old fashioned at the Armory, an upscale cocktail bar in Portland.  I felt part douche and part boss.  More boss than douche considering the venue.  You can pull off ordering an old fashioned in a nicer establishment, but in those dive bars you're likely to be met with an about face served straight up with a twist of fuck you.  After the first sip...

It had everything.  The smoky bourbon, the sweet from the sugar, the citrus from the muddled orange, and the crisp bitter from the angostura wrapping it all up.  Each sip invited another adding to the complexity and my questions.  How did they mix this cocktail? How soon before I can have another before people judge me? And how can I make my own version of this classic?

In perfecting my own old fashioned I stumbled into the humble art of bartending.  When entertaining friends, it's more personal and a higher level of hosting to mix them a drink.  Granted, always oblige to the guest's preferences, however offering to mix a drink demonstrates a greater level of flair, and a fun skill set.  I find it enjoyable to identify the flavors and spirits my guests enjoy and mix a cocktail combining those ingredients into a balanced and unique drink.  It's on par with being a mad scientist (albiet one that gets everyone intoxicated).

I joke that regardless of whether I'm a nurse or a bartender, either way I'm pushing something.

After several soirees, I contemplated going pro bartender, but not before I readily identified all the cliches and why John Cusack would make the ideal bartender (another post).

Then again, I'd be no slouch behind a bar but only if it remained a hobby rather than a job.  Therein lies the beauty of me potentially behind a bar:  I don't need to be there.  I can go all half baked anytime I want.  That's a very liberating feeling.

Man charged in Waterville home invasion

WATERVILLE (WGME) -- Waterville Police are investigating a bizarre home invasion.

On Friday, officers say a woman woke up to a man in her bedroom, without a shirt on and covered in soap.

Police got a 911 call from the victim's home on Chaplin Street.  They say 34-year-old Edwell Gethers broke into the victim's home.  While the victim called police, she says the suspect grabbed the phone from her, took the batteries out and ran off.

Officers found the suspect a short time later.  They say he was incoherant as they arrested him.

Gethers is charged with burglary and is being held at the Kennebec County Jail.

Things are cooking in Waterville!  Am I the only one on team Gethers here?  Guy was probably taking an innocent shower when he realized he had run out of soap.  That's like running out of toilet paper while you're on the bowl x4.  No biggie!  Why bother to dry off, when you can slop on over to your neighbors' and work up a good lather there?  Can a dude get some LAVA soap around here (I give it 6/1 odds it was dove in an old ladies house.  Dove SCREAMS old lady soap).

PS.  How about taking the batteries out of the phone?  Genius get away plan.  You're still a guy covered in soap, you're not exactly where's waldo.

On Recklessness into Your Late Twenties

With competitive sports out of my life, every so often I get a little restless.  Luckily for me, there are plenty of outlets to still challenge myself physically, compete and be reckless.  What's better is many of them are even legal in the United States!

It's a guy thing.

Exercising for the sake of health has never been satisfying enough.  Yes, I will exercise to stay slim because I'm vain.  But to go the extra mile (pun intended) it has to be for a purpose.  If there's an event for which I need to train, I will work especially hard.  I want to do well sure, but I want to not look stupid a whole lot more.

2 Years ago a friend approached me to do "Into the Mud" a 2.5 mile obstacle course race in Gorham. I ran one of the best races I can remember.  Torched it, totally in the zone. The obstacles hardly me down boasting a 16.45 time and placing third.  But it was a fun run, un-timed, and no awards given by place.  It gave me that rush that running alone cannot deliver.  That summer I sought out something more competittive/adventerous.  Enter the spartan race.

The spartan race doesn't have the same name rand recognition as the tough mudder but what the spartan race lakes in notoriety it makes up for in sheer badassness.  The nearest race was in Amesbury Mass.  As fate would have it a hurricane struck and Sunday's race was cancelled.  I was ever so disappointed having worked that hard for naught. 

It is interesting to note that the song Iron by Woodkid was and still is my power song.  I discovered it around this time as the summer before Assassin's Creed Revelations.  That song, single handedly fueled my training sessions and grueling runs.  I was coasting off all the adrenaline Iron makes you have.  Testosterone x1000.

What song is that you ask?  Oh no worries, I've only referenced it in every single post it seems.  Here you go.  I'll give you a few minutes to watch it then destroy all the furniture in your house as a result of the ensuing adrenaline rush.

Are you still here or are you at the base of your neighborhood with a battleaxe (where you get that thing anyway?) challenging anyone and everyone to a fight?

Flash forward next year and we're running in the make up race.  I wasn't in the condition I was the year prior but as enthusiastic.  It was the hardest thing I've ever done.  No exaggeration   I wasn't aware that if you failed to complete the obstacles the first attempt you owed 30 burpees on the spot.  I forgot how many obstacles there actually were, but I did not forget how tedious and taxing they could be.  For instance, it wasn't enough that you hit your target (a makeshift scarecrow) with a javalin from roughly 25 yards away, you had to throw it with enough velocity to make it stick in him.  I channeled Achillies and impaled the fucking guy.  Also I silently, reluctantly, thanked my college track coach for making me throw javalin.

There was a rope climb, a quintessential test of upper body strength, but to throw a fuck you spin on it, all competitors start neck deep in water.

Our team of 4 split unofficially into teams of 2.  Salvo and I being the quicker, smaller, scrappy team to John and Sam's fucking beast mode.  It made for an interesting equalizer though.  The obstacles themselves favored brute strength where the demands of the hill running favored the smaller athletes.  It's a stretch to say that burpees favor anyone.  Keeping them to a minimum is advisable. A set of 30 consecutive burpees in and of themselves is taxing, never mind mid race on uneven muddy terrain. 

Their slogan is "The Spartan Race: You'll Know at the Finish Line."  They should change it to "The Spartan Race:  Remind Yourself You Still Have Balls."  Maybe offensive to the women that do the race (and do it well).

Terms of Enrampagement

It's a working title.


Monday is garbage day and as Rocco from Rocco's Modern life will tell you, "Garbage day is a very dangerous day."  Last week I beat the trash man to the punch before the truck was making it's second go around.  Having just come back from a vacation there was only one trash bag so I didn't see the need to keep it in the barrel right?

Wrong.

Within minutes after putting the bag to the curb seagulls and crows were beaking that thing to high Hades.  I began furiously searching my place for objects to hurl at those foul creatures.  I eventually settled on just running out and yelling obscenities at them.  I had to pick up my stinking scattered trash AND use another insanely overpriced Portland trash bag.  Irate, I swore revenge and tomorrow I will have it.

Cry havoc and let slip the hogs of war!


Shit.

I just looked it up and it's dogs of war.  Whatever farm animal of war, let them slip.  I knew it was Shakespeare so half credit.

Tomorrow I bait the trap, trash bag unprotected and in the open, LACED with alka seltzer dissolved in ammonia (Not yet sure if this is plausible).  Then rampage.  Hey seagulls, did you see Regis today?

BOOM!


I almost want to be wearing camo and smoking a cigarette doing this (although the two are somewhat contradictory).

Can The Old Horse Still Run?

Coming out of retirement.  Contacted by one of my college room mates who wants me to anchor his 4x400 relay team.  Haven't run competitively for 5 or 6 years.  What the hell am I thinking?  15 dollar entry fee was probably what I was thinking and a chance to relive the glory days except for one thing.

Division III track was hardly the glory days.

I performed well, hardly won any races, but above all, it just wasn't fun anymore.

In getting a chance to participate in a track meet once again, the temptation was there to attempt events that I've never done, always wanted to, but the coach forbade it.  Enter the steeplechase.  Ridiculous concept to run a long distance race with hurdles and a friggen pool of water.  It was tempting to consider but ultimately for my own piece of mind, I need to answer just one question:

Do I still have competitive 400m speed?

A murderous race blending speed and endurance to both of their respective limits.  I found I was adept at running fast for longer periods of time.  There were those who could run longer, and those who could run quicker, but to do both in a race is rare.  It's a race of heart, not strategy.

When it gets to that last 100m, cinder blocks in your legs, battery acid in your viens, and tunnel vision setting in, that's when you find out what you're made of.  All form goes to hell and you just push.  I miss that.

Not thrilled about going against college athletes that have been training for months but I haven't worked out this hard or consistently since... ever, really.  My old college will be there and the motivation to beat their athletes as like a "screw you. Bet you wish I ran past my freshman year" thing is lacking.  That would be making it about them when I'd rather just run my balls off and hopefully post a time that I can live with. 

Everyone wants to continue their legacy.

Achilles

Working an overnight into St. Patty's day. Thinking about buying some 6 dollar tee shirts but I have so many graphic tees as it is. Gotta find out who The Roomie used to make his tee shirt quilt and how much it cost. Good way for the shirts to live on. Some of these ones are so gosh darn funny, I wish I had thought of them. Come to think of it, The Roomie and I spent many a college night dreaming up ideas for funny tee shirts. Usually, I would coin some clever catch phrase possibly relevant to our college (but not necessarily). So many so that we had contemplated a side business. I highly doubt we could compete with 6 dollar tee shirts.


Being called a rat isn't always the worst thing. Not when someone accuses you of being a gym rat. That means you've infested the place, taken up residence there. Hopefully not spreading disease or pestilence. True to my nature I always need something to train for. This time it's a destination wedding in Jamaica. But it's really more than that. Young Brad Pitt is my inspiration. I was delighted to learn that we share the same body type, ectomorph. Naturally leaner, difficulty gaining muscle or weight, high metabolism. I had never realized how important it is to lift within your body type and be very specific about what your goal is. My goal is somewhere between Snatch and Troy. Very low body fat percentage. High reps, little to no rest. Pick a muscle group for the day and beat the hell out of it, then rest that muscle the rest of the week. That's cool, I've done similar style workouts before but this time I have an ace up my sleeve:

Food Control.

I've never in my life been this disciplined with respect to diet. I cringe even saying the word diet. My best friends have been chicken breast, steamed veggies, brown rice, protein bars and shakes, salmon, nuts and seeds.

I'm training like I have a chip on my shoulder, like I have something to prove. Of course there's the traditional motivations to be fit and healthy.  I want more.  I want to run people into the ground and destroy any competition.  I want to peak.  My friends and family have seen a little less of me and when we have get togethers I have to turn down their delicious pasta dishes.  I go to the gym and talk to no one. Put my white Nike hat and headphones on it's go time. Revamped the lifting mix with key tracks "Fucking in the bushes" by Oasis, (from the end scene in Snatch) "Flashing Lights" and "Amazing" by Kanye, and of course "Iron" by Woodkid.

A shame the only cardio I can do is interval training (more fat burning and less muscle wasting than traditional distance running). Set the treadmill at 11mph running pace and 6.5mph rest. It's tough but no more so than some of the sprint workouts I'm going to put myself through this summer.

To get pumped I've watched Rocky movies, Snatch, and Troy.  The character of achilles is so badass and cocky.  He could easily back up   If ever I'm feeling sluggish or unmotivated I keep shirtless pictures of Brad Pitt on my iPhone.

Yeah, kinda weird.  Works though.

I Am Jack's Smirking Revenge

Too many bad/weird dreams as of late.  I hope it's not suggestive of some inner turmoil of sorts.  One about my late Grandfather about which I won't get into detail.  One about a black gentleman that I performed CPR on (successfully) but still it was scary and one about a war.

I was a soldier in a war against Russia.  In some dilapidated Russian village I had the assignment of securing a nearby building, by any means necessarily.  I had what I think is a .22 rifle, which, according to my father is difficult to kill someone with.  But I shot and killed nearly everyone in the building, reluctantly of course.  I felt the actual dread and weight of my actions within and long after my dream.  War has steadily climbed my list of most disliked things.

I don't take any medications, what is causing these wild dreams?

I rest part of the blame with the show Rescue me, which is so loaded with outrageous emotionally extreme situations that anybody, even someone as seemingly emotionally distant as I am, is a little affected/effected (Could never sort those two out).

I need to watch Rocky 4 and reassure myself that Rocky Balboa thwarted actual war with Russia.  How come this history books conveniently leave that out??

Tubes, Fucking Tubes

The following is an e-mail I sent to K-Swiss:

Dear K-Swiss Footwear,
    I'm writing this thank you e-mail on behalf of myself, an lifetime runner and once upon a time track star.  I'll admit it, I was skeptical at first regarding the performance of your K-Swiss "Tubes" but the ad featuring Danny McBride as Kenny Powers could not be ignored.  Brilliant work ladies and gentleman.  The ad (which I watch from time to time and laugh without fail) promised a high performance and versatile shoe.  You have made good on your word.  After a year of abuse on trails, tracks, work, and everyday life, my first pair of Tubes is holding up as responsive and supportive as the day I got them.  I was apprehensive regarding the tubes portion of the shoe, speculating that it's design would be susceptible to accumulation of dirt and debris, decreasing the traction.  However today I ran five miles undaunted through a muddied wet terrain at a brisk pace and was confident in your product.  As a matter of fact, that run was when I began the first draft of this e-mail.  So keep up the good work ladies and gentleman, you have successfully converted a former New Balance and Asics customer.

Very truly yours,
Al Axelsen

I recently purchased my second pair of Tubes.  

Assassin's Update

Took a faceplant into Assassin's Creed: Revelations.  Since it came out on the 15th I've been jacked in nearly all of my free time.  With such an engaging story I'm surprised so far at the vibe from it.  It seems almost upbeat.  The italics represents a mild bewilderment.  Constantinople has left a lot to be desired in terms of scenery, what could compare with a setting like Italy anyway?  In the past three games, the background has been so lively that at the risk of sounding cliche, it felt like I was there.  I suppose Constantinople is meant to have a grittier feel to it.  The "crossroads of the world," as they call it, probably didn't sparkle as much as we picture the more glamorized and romanticised Roma.

Ezio reprises his role as what I would consider the main character.  And why not?  It's in Ezio that I think the audience most identifies, with whom we've spent the most time, and ultimately who we care about most.  However his time in Constantinople has appeared to be less of a struggle than one would've surmised following the trailer.  True he is considerably older.  You might say he appears weathered, in both the face and the attire (I love the choice of putting him in gray faded robes vs. the bright flamboyant ones of the Renaissance era).  Despite his responsibility to the order, to Desmond, and the world (unknowingly) he retains a sparkle in his eye and the flair for the occasional joke.  Consistent with the last game, Ezio recruits Assassins.  However this time there are built in missions following recruitment to advance, teach, and cement your recruits as master assassins.  Which brings me to another observation regarding the assassin hierarchy.  The highest possible position is not master assassin, as logic would dictate.  The highest rank one could hope to hold as an assassin is mentor, which in this title, Ezio achieves.  In this rank with near limitless control of your assassins, they treat you more personally, more like a treasured, respected, elder rather than a superior office.  As Ezio, you have the option to develop and groom your assassins in one on one missions complete with mini stories.

By the way, today there was a tick on my back.  Don't know where it came from, but we pulled it out.  Close call.


I'm roughly 3/4 of the way through the game and still awaiting the answers we've all sought so desperately.  What is the truth?  Will Desmond emerge as a master assassin?  Will Ezio die a magnificent and bold death (complete with tough guy smile in the face of doom).

That's the part of the story I'm simultaneously looking forward to and not looking forward to.  Ezio's final quest and it's epic conclusion.  He must die for Desmond to achieve a sync nexus (too technical to get into).  But that element, the old man with nothing to lose, the willing martyr storyline is so compelling I can't possibly not know what happens to him (happened).  

I'm just not sure if the ending could ever satisfy my expectations and it's all the fault of that god damn trailer and how epic that was.

Stay tuned.  Who am I kidding?  No one reads this.

DO YOU REMEMBER TOM BRADY BACK WHEN HE WAS JUST A FOOTBALL PLAYER? You know, back when it never would have occurred to him to have a personal logo, let alone wear hats covered in it. Before Gisele, before the bangs, before the stream of photos and videos became a TMZ flood. Patriots president Jonathan Kraft offers a tale to help jog our memories.


It was the first night of Brady's rookie minicamp, just days after the 2000 draft, and the quarterback -- last on the depth chart and no lock to make the team -- was walking out of old Foxboro Stadium, pizza box in hand, to catch the shuttle back to his motel. On his way to the bus, he ran into Bob Kraft, the Patriots owner and Jonathan's father. Brady started to introduce himself, but Kraft interrupted, saying he knew who the kid was, the team's sixth-round pick out of Michigan. Unshaken, Brady looked his new boss in the eye and said, "I just want you to know, I'm the best decision your franchise has ever made." When the elder Kraft later relayed the story to his son, he added, "There was something about the way he said it and the way he looked that I believed him."

Of course, in just two quick years the kid made good by winning the Super Bowl. In that iconic shot of him with his hands clasped over his head on the Superdome victory dais, the look on his face is so shell-shocked, so genuine, you get the sense he couldn't quite believe what had just happened or what he'd just done. His humility felt real, and it carried over to several aw-shucks performances on the champions circuit.


Few star athletes have ever fit the narrative of a city better than Brady did Boston back in those early years. The chip-on-their-shoulder lifers from Southie and other neighborhoods could marvel at Brady's rags-to-riches story. Meanwhile, the Boston intellectual class (it is the Athens of America, you know) could proudly point to how their quarterback used brain over brawn. Two Bostons, unified by one QB.
 
But that's not how longtime locals -- including me -- think of Tom Brady anymore. These days, he's more paragon of perfection than human. Walled off by his high-flying lifestyle, he simply floats above the hoi polloi. And makes ads for Uggs. Strange as it is to say, while Brady is certainly appreciated here in Boston, he is no longer truly loved.

Boston fans embrace their teams wholeheartedly and want to be embraced back. We're a little bit psycho that way. The 2003-07 Red Sox were so adored, in part because they reveled in the two-way relationship. How many other teams ever had players run out of the ballpark while still in their uniforms and cleats to celebrate with fans? Red Sox "idiots" Kevin Millar, Derek Lowe, Gabe Kapler and others did it. Millar was also known to hop over bars to serve drinks.

"I don't think anyone could imagine having a beer with Tom Brady," says Dick Johnson, curator of the New England Sports Museum. "There's a distance there."

Indeed, Brady seems to spend most of his free time elsewhere, including New York. He's even been caught wearing -- horror of horrors -- a Yankees hat. Between that and his gallivanting to Costa Rica, Brazil and California, you've got to wonder: Who does this guy think he is? Have you seen the shot of him riding a scooter? It's like our petty judgments mean nothing to him. All of this serves to keep Boston fans at a distance; we want to hug him, but all we get is air. Or, as Johnson puts it, "He's a brother from a different planet." The rest of the country may see him as the ultimate symbol of Boston's decade of dominance, but these days Tom Brady is no Bostonian.

Boston is a city founded on the twin pillars of shame and guilt, says Suffolk University historian Robert Allison. Our Puritan forebears lived their lives knowing that no matter what they did, it would never be enough for their wrathful god. The Catholics and Jews who arrived later lived knowing that no matter what they did, it would never be enough for their mothers. It's no surprise then that the locals carry both a residual "sense of sinfulness" and of "not quite measuring up," says Allison. As a result, we're deeply suspicious of anyone who seems perfect. You know, like Brady. "We like people who have flaws," Allison says. "Because we have flaws."

Boston also remains a provincial city. In the 19th century, when New York snatched Boston's title as the commercial center of America, people here developed a decided chip on their shoulders (cads from that city to the south like to call it a complex). If Boston could not be a business capital, then, by God, the city would be an intellectual and cultural hub. There's a famous story from that time of a Boston woman being asked why she doesn't travel. Her response: "I'm already here."

With such high self-regard, Boston has always prized loyalty to the tried and true -- reinforced by our resistance to stylish fads. It's not for nothing that GQ just named us the worst-dressed city in America. In that light, let's consider the great Yankees cap controversy of 2007. It was bad enough that Brady was caught wearing an interlocking "NY" on his head. But what made it worse was that he was wearing it as a fashion statement. He's from the Bay Area and isn't even a Yankees fan!

Yet there he was, walking the streets of Manhattan in what appeared to be a New EraFifty 59 flat-brim (slightly curved, but still), the type that's become fashionable pretty much everywhere in America & except Boston. Here, you see people wearing only curved-brim cotton caps (and they work very hard on those curves). They're less stylish, but tradition demands that you wear your Red Sox hat until it falls apart. In fact, how faded your hat is tells other diehards how devout and long-standing a fan you are. (For instance, my hat has turned from navy to a disgusting and unnatural shade of gray.) Time plus loyalty, multiplied by tradition, equals status in Boston.

But it goes beyond fashion: No sports star in Boston history has ever become so much bigger than the city. "He's the first global superstar we've had in Boston," says curator Johnson. "If he appears in Paris or Rio with Gisele, he's in the society or gossip page of an international newspaper." When he decided to skip workouts in Foxboro to spend more time at his California digs a few years ago, it caused a mini media storm. "Even though we're the greatest sports city in the world, our heroes tend to be, I wouldn't say provincial, but they're ours," says Johnson.
What's worse is that even when Brady is here, he's not. This is his 12th year with the Patriots, and yet we hardly know him. "It's like he walks around in an invisible glass shield," says Ryan. "You'll see reports of him dining with Gisele somewhere, but you don't ever hear about any encounters. He never says or does a wrong thing that would have anybody think ill of him."

That stands in direct contrast to someone like Paul Pierce. Who can forget when the Celtics forward was stabbed during a fight in a Boston club in 2000? These days, though, he blogs for Boston.com, sponsors a prominent child-health initiative and talks sincerely about what it means to him to be a Celtic. It's a hard thing to convince someone from outside Boston that a black guy from Inglewood, Calif., has become more a part of the city than our lily-white quarterback, but it's the truth. We've had our ups and downs with Pierce and come out on top.


Brady, on the other hand, has never allowed us to see his flaws, so the triumphs feel different. As Ryan points out, his only blemish is the messy way his relationship ended with actress Bridget Moynahan, the mother of his first child. But Brady even managed to play that off smoothly. As Ryan says, "He just is Teflon."


Of course, you may think I'm crazy. Jonathan Kraft certainly did. "With all due respect," he began (that's never a good sign), "both in the stadium and when I'm with him outside of the stadium, I'm not sure I've ever seen another Boston athlete who gets that type of adoration."

But adulation isn't love. Consider this: What if Tom Brady weren't a winner? Say he was a very good quarterback who'd never hoisted the Lombardi trophy. Would Boston fans still put up with all those exotic extracurriculars? "He would have been run out of town," Allison opines.

Perhaps it's instructive to look at a Boston athlete who, for all his personal success, never won a title here. For 21 years, Ray Bourque was one of the greatest players in Bruins history, and despite hailing from Quebec, he thoroughly enmeshed himself into Boston. "I always thought I'd go back to Montreal and settle," he says. "Once I had kids, I knew we weren't going anywhere. Boston is home." Bruins fans loved Bourque so much that when he finally did hoist the Stanley Cup -- as a member of the Colorado Avalanche in 2001 -- they threw him a parade. "Ray became part of the family," says Cleon Daskalakis, Bourque's manager. "But Tom became bigger than New England."

It's a hard point to argue. Even now, a decade after he retired, Bourque can tick off a list of Boston spots where he's a regular, from his local pizza place to the dry cleaners. He says he enjoys the "nice little chats" and "can't remember a bad experience with a fan."

Admittedly, it's unfair to Brady to suggest that he doesn't run errands or talk to his dry cleaner like everyone else. But the point is that it's nearly impossible to imagine him in the rest of Boston's mundane world. That's not to say fans here would trade the last decade of football dominance -- just that it's a little awkward. He's not family. "If I saw him somewhere, I'd look, but I'd almost go the other way," says Johnson. "He's already given enough to me as a fan. I don't need to intrude. Just hands off. He's special."

It Takes a Big Man to Cry, It Takes a Bigger Man to Laugh at the Crying Man

Alright investors, entrepneurs, listen up.  I've got an idea for a TV network for an under-recognized population:  The sensitive man.  Men will occassionally need extra encouragement from society to get in touch with their emotions so to speak.  What better way to access those feelings and emotions than a form of media that's already socially acceptable to feel vicariously through the characters?  The sensitive man is out there.  In fact according to scrubs (Season 5 episode 21) there's a name for it:

Sensy

Anyway what would a lifetime channel for men be called?  What would it air?  I at least have some suggestions for the latter question.  Some movies and television shows that it is perfectly acceptable to tear up.

1. Rudy
2. Old yeller
3. Saving Private Ryan
4. The Shawshank Redemption
5. Armaggedon
6. Brian's Song
7. Rocky
8. Braveheart (everybody loves a martyr and a pre-crazy Mel Gibson)
9. Rain man
10. Remember The Titans
11. I Am Legend

Honorable mention to Top Gun when Goose dies.  These films aren't in any particular order.  Additions?

Also I'm struggling to decide which is better:  Paul Newman's movies or his coffee.  I got his coffee in front by a stride or two.

Oh Halloween. Some things have never changed from being little to today. I'm still searching for the best costume. Only now, it's more subtle. I'm always trying to strike the right balance between original enough to avoid being cliché and also recognizable enough so that people know what I'm going for. Basically it's finding that costume that is relevant today, and that hardly anyone else would think of. Tough to do. I remember in college when I thought I had it nailed with the Silver Snakes from Legends of the Hidden Temple. I ran into several other teams.




Very Disheartening.



This year my success is contingent upon people seeing a slightly obscure youtube viral video. The Sexy Sax man Sergio Flores. Actually what my success is really dependant upon is whether or not I'm able to do the following:

A. Obtain an alto saxophone.
B. Learn how to play George Michael's "Careless Whisper.
C. Be able to play the song while moving my hips suggestively.
D. Do all of the above while diverting aggressive female attention (rawer)

I've all but stopped trying to top the previous year's Halloween costume. I've had some brilliant ones in the past. Where group costumes are always a plus, I had the advantage of having a buddy with short dark hair to my long(er) blond hair. That opened up countless scenarios:

1. Bill and Ted
2. Wayne and Garth
3. Hansel and Zoolander
4. Starsky and Hutch
5. Double Dragon
6. etc, etc

There was one more aspect of halloweening that became apparent to me: The shirtless dude.



you know the one.



The one that goes out of his way to have a costume that involves removing or lacking a shirt. The baby, Johnny Cage, Fitness made simple, the Hulk. The guy is muscular; he knows it, now he's taking advantage of one of the few occasions when it's socially acceptable to be shirtless. He wants to let the rest of the world know "Hey, I've been workin' my delts pretty hard." Put down the creatine bro, pick up some subtlety. This is the same guy who insists upon shirts vs. skins.

Call me a hater or a hypocrite. I don't object to scantily clad females on Halloween. In fact, I think party, novelty, or costume stores make it especially hard for girls to not show some skin regardless of what costume they're going for.

I'm gonna be a cop. A slutty cop.

I'm gonna be an Indian. A slutty Indian.

I'm gonna be an astronaut. A slutty astronaut. (What would that be anyway big bulb helmet and bikini?)

"Those of us that had been up all night were in no mood for coffee and donuts, we wanted strong drink."
-Raoul Duke Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998)

Taylor Axelsen Has a Nice Ring To It

It was the strangest dream.  I think we were at my Aunt's place, it was very countryesque, which given the situation, was appropriate.  Taylor Swift and I were to be wed.  We were engaged.  Dreams exist in their own reality.  Where Taylor and I met was unknown, what sparked our romance or our engagement was also mysterious.  It was pretty much "So we're gonna do this thing huh?  Okay."  I just went with it.

And really, why not?

Not so big on country music, let alone her music.  But she seems down to earth, the classic girl next door situation.  She has a lot of miles left on those tires too.  I figure, six more albums easy.  Sooooooo depending on their sales I should be pretty set for life.  I'll still work until the kids are born.  Probably little blondies.

That's the other thing.  I don't particularly care for blondes or  find them especially attractive.  How tall is she any way Google?  5'11"?  Yikes.  I'm clockin in at about 5'8" on a good day.  Good thing I always walk/stand on my toes. 

Also I'm going to have to burn all my Kanye albums.  Shouldn't be too hard I only have one.  The way she handled that situation speaks to her character.  When Kanye finally apologized, she accepted it instantly.  That was one of the biggest nights of her life, Kanye goes to upstage it, stealin' her thunder. 

You know what?  I'm ready Taylor.  Call me up and let's make this thing official.

Itsa ME, Mario! Subtext: Video Game Culture and Al.

There's something inherently relaxing and nostalgic about playing video games for me.  Something in them penetrates and resonates, and brings a special calm in their familiarity.  Thankfully ZNes, my super Nintendo emulator, runs without the internet.  So on the occasions when the internet at my place is on the fritz (all too often) I flip on the oldschool Mario bros to keep my calm in the face of internet crashes.  This prevents the office space printer scene, a rage against a machine, from occurring.  I often wonder regarding fairpoint, what do I pay you people for?!

Video games are a unique medium onto themselves.  The audience is in control of the fate of the characters.  In the last ten years, the storytelling through video games has emerged as an art form.  The characters are as rich and compelling as in any novel one might read or any film one might view.  We, the audience feel especially connected and invested in the character's survival and achievement of their ultimate goals.  Not that the side-scrolling Super Mario Bros and Sonic the Hedgehogs of the world don't deserve their rightful place in videogame history and offer unique stories, but they were limited by their respective times.  In the world of video games, sequels and trilogies rarely meet the resistance they face in film.  There's limitless opportunity for reinvention of the character/story.

The story of the Super Mario Bros is both familiar and unique.  Saving princesses has been around since the early fables however this is usually by a valiant knight, but by a Plummer?!  It also begs the question why would Nintendo, a Japanese company, feature as the main character of their crown franchise, an Italian plummer?  Well a pair actually, my bad Luigi.  Super Mario Bros (1993) the movie takes care to clarify why they are the Mario Brothers with several lines of dialog":

Clerk:  "How many Mario's are there?"
Luigi:  "There's three. Mario Mario, and Luigi Mario."

The enemies, King Koopa later to be dubbed Bowser, is a Dinosaur of sorts, sworn enemy of Mario.  Why is never properly discussed, nor does it need to be.  The baddies, the goombas, bullet bills, koopa troopers, pirhannas, bob-ombs, those fire shooting flower things, are as unique and imaginative as any in popular culture history.  Would you rather see a million identical storm troopers?  Or a variable galleria of unique and interesting enemies?  Just jump on them, easy enough.  Or if you should find yourself lucky enough to get a powerup such as a fire flower or a star, just shoot fireballs or run into them respectively.

Keeping with the originality, Super Mario Brothers boasts one of the most famous and unforgettable themes of all time.  See Super Mario Bros Theme.  It's amazing to me the extent to which video game music has had an impact upon my life.  It's quality music composed for the purpose of eliciting specific emotions or setting certain tones.  In recent years, I've dedicated considerable time, effort, and American dollars to amassing a subgenre of video game music in my iTunes library.

I have always loved video games, though it seems lately my love for them is at odds with the outside world.  When you're a kid, you hardly care what the hell anyone else thinks.  I often struggle with identifying myself as a gamer when I think about all that comes along with that identification.  Namely, avoidance by the opposite sex.

Purchasing a video game instantly brings me back to that excitement of a new game.  Few things could match that anticipation of holding that box or case that the game came in.  Then struggling with its shrink wrap death grip on the case, wrestling it from said case, jamming into the console, skipping the tutorials and playing.  It's difficult to attain video game bliss without having first foreknowledge about the product.

Marketing commercials for video games were once evident on most of today's major TV stations.  Video game commercials are rapidly going the way of the dinosaur.  Enter video game trailers.  Games have become so complex and involving, and the market of gamers is constantly evolving, studios have begun placing ads in the form of mini-trailers to generate excitement regarding the game.  It became apparent to me how long this practice has been in play when I stumbled upon the top 100 game trailers of all time. 

Insert MY FAVORITE GAME TRAILER OF ALL TIME!

Have you caught your breath yet?  How awesome was that?!  And that song?!  Iron by Woodkid.  I swear if there's a battle anywhere, I'm listening to that song beforehand.  The drums and horns are so intense and warlike which is in stark contrast to his near whisper, powerful a whisper as it is.

And lo, a character so near and inspirational to me (despite never having existed) Ezio Auditore da Firenze.  The ancestor of the series' protagonist Desmond Miles in the present.  Not here to recap the entire Assassin's Creed story line mind blowing as it is.  For that please see attached for your attention Assassin's Creed in 3 Minutes.  Crap.  That only gets you through ACI featuring Altair.

Altair fits with the third crusade.  He is rugged, stoic, reserved, determined, and controlled.  In ACII Desmond begins to relieve the memories of his ancestor in the Renaissance era, the aforementioned Ezio Auditore da Firenze.  We enter the story with Ezio at age 17, foolhardy and brash, he suddenly has the weight of the world in responsibility thrust on him with the unjust murders of his father and two brothers.  He dons the Assassin's garb, unaware of the creed itself, and sets about on a revenge mission before soon realizing that his duty will require much more than that.  However, it's that transition from audacious young man, to worldly, driven, and mature assassin that we take with Ezio every step of the way.  It's the coming of age with which the young men are likely to identify.  Though Ezio's is more dramatic, he still grows from his exploits as an assassin.

The aptly titled "Revelations" promises just that, answers.  Each game in the series has ended on such an infuriating and intriguing cliffhanger that fans are foaming at the mouth for answers and closure.  This is the show "Lost" in video game format.  Addicting in its ability to build depth and expand the scope of the story, while leaving you, the viewer at the mercy of the animus for little shreds of answers.  That, and the time and energy you're willing to dedicate to finding those answers.  Bravo, Ubisoft.  I'm a slave to you.

Review on Batman: Arkham City to follow! Stay tuned.

Mid-Conversation

Do you ever catch the tail end of someone's conversation?  When out of context oftentimes the statement can seem quite bizarre.  This scenario works best in passing when someone is on the phone with another individual.  It leaves the listener to wonder what the hell they were discussing and/or to invent or imagine the plausible scenarios that led to that remark.  Three or four recent ones (depending on how many I can recall) are so obscure and incredible that I could not have possibly made them up.

A gentleman leaving Bullmose as I was entering said the following:

"No no.  Let's go to my place.  Ya.  I have slimjims."

As if the selling point for where the two parties were going was solely contingent upon the availability of slimjims.    EAT ME!  Suddenly, I get it.  I couldn't help but picture to college aged gentleman arguing over whose house they were to occupy whilst smoking marijuana and (insert post marijuana smoking activity, or insert nothing because that's perhaps the most appropriate post marijuana smoking activity).

While padio drinking with a friend of mine we saw another gentleman speaking with another individual on his phone.  He seemed to come to a sudden realization and responded:

"Wait wait, is that that fingerpainting with your mom?"

FINGERPAINTING WITH YOUR MOM?  Fingerpainting of your mom?  The activity of fingerpainting with one's mom?  No idea.  Was very tempted to inquire.

While entering a bar, a gentleman was leaving with his friends.  He was out in front and had to turn around to say:

"I'd never seen one that big before."

This was one statement upon which I interjected.  It was too good not to bring to his attention.  It seemed prime time for a "that's what she said" which garnered a fair laugh.  

My mom had the unfortunate luck of calling me while I was in mid conversation, can't remember percisely what about, but I was finishing my statement when I picked up the phone and she heard the last two words of my conversation which were "butt naked."

The world is alive with out of context quotations, many of which are entertaining.  Feel free to share.

Now I see my demons and barely even sleep at night, 
I don't get high, 
Life keep me at a decent height, 
As the old me, 
I predicted all my recent plights, 
Exhausted, trying to fall asleep 
Losses at my recent fights, 
Burdens on my shoulders, now, 
Burning all my motives down, 
Inspiration drying up, 
Motivation slowing down, 

Ben and Jerry's Creme Brulee is so Magnificent, It Defies Explanation. Subtext: A Thank You E-Mail.

Dear Jerry, Dear Ben, Dear employees of Ben and Jerry’s,

                I’ve chosen to address you separately, because to address Ben and Jerry’s is altogether too vague.  Each of you deserves individual thanks and praise for the epiphany that is your Crème Brulee Ice cream.  In this country, whose economy is floundering and uncertain, I vow to singlehandedly sustain your business with my American dollars in exchange for your magical creation that is commercially available.  My eternal unwavering commitment is not without stipulations however.  For my secured business to remain intact please see the following conditions:

1. 1.       Don’t ever stop or discontinue this flavor.
2. 2.       Do not alter any of the ingredients.
3. 3.       See numbers one and two.
4. 4.       Post this letter on the break room refrigerator for Jerry, for Ben, and for all of your employees.

That is all.

Very truly yours,

Al Axelsen

"It's Axelsen Sir...He's Gone Rogue."

Here's my idea for a movie.  I know I’ve been open with this concept and it’s received mixed reviews.  But this may or may not be the opening line of my movie (see title).  The line would be spoken by a nervous looking government agent in a suit with the earpiece to a general of sorts, a larger gentleman with a Jay Lenoesque chin and so many medals and credentials that you wonder what the hell he did to derserve it.

Anyway.  The title line is spoken, and I've written one of two reactions for the general character.

1. Slams fist onto table, exclaims "Dammit!"
2. Turns dramatically toward camera, camera slowly pans forward for a closeup.  Looking terrified the general says in a tone above a whisper, "Noooo."

Cut to a scene of me driving a convertible, top down, in the desert, with a suitcase full of cash and a mustache.  Laughing.  Hot babe optional.

(If you're reading Mila, the offer is on the table.  The part is yours.  Call me.  No seriously.  Call me.)

The movie title would probably be called "Going Rogue" or maybe just "Rogue."  I don't have the budget to cast Sean Connery as the general guy.  Who am I kidding?  I don't have the budget for anything. I'm not entirely convinced he's up to the task anyway.  He's busy with other things.  (Notice how Connery at one point says Rogue?!  Entirely coincidental!)

Many contemporary films begin in the middle of the action, leaving the viewer to piece together on the run.  This makes for more of an interesting plot development as the viewer is forced to pay careful attention to the details.  Unfortunately, that's all I got for a story, just the middle.  And me, starring opposite Sean Connery and maybe Mila Kunis if she's willing to drop the restraining order.

Why me?  It's the name clearly.  Axelsen=badass.  That opening line (see title) just sounds awesome.  Totally reeks of awesomeness.  We'll work out the details later.

C'mon, you wouldn't pay 8 bucks to see that?