Necessary objects

There's not a lot of solid reasoning in the the kinds of things that I decide to hold on to, nor is there much organization involved. Things are stashed in drawers or boxes without much foresight as to whether I might eventually need to find them again. Not unlike the time that we accidentally closed up one of the cats in the sofa bed. Or maybe not like that at all, but anyway, fun with pets. As a matter of fact, I just opened my desk drawer and found not only the picture of myself in 7th grade that I had been looking for but also the pair of free socks that Virgin Atlantic gifted me on my flight three years ago. Point proven. And these are ugly socks.

When I was growing up, our house was fairly large with a basement and two storage rooms in the attic. Three, if you count my bedroom. Since we had the space, there was a tendency to keep stuff. I can't even say that it was because we are a highly sentimental family - "Oh, we simply can't throw away great-grandma's corrective shoes! It's like she's still here with us!" - since, really, we're not. There was a much larger air of pragmatism about the whole thing. Just because, well, you never know when you might need an adult-size pumpkin costume. Or the large, dead moth in a frame - this actually used to hang on the wall outside my room and the minute I found out that it was not made of feathers but had once indeed been a living, flying moth, it was banished. We kept things because, even though we might know in our heart of hearts that they were useless or inconvenient, we might need them someday.

In this grand tradition of practicality, I find myself downsizing how much stuff I have every time I move. One of the stone-cold facts about living in New York City is that you simply can't possess much more than the absolute bare minimum of shit. If you have two kids, you'll need to decide which of them you like more. This is the trade-off you make for living in the most glorious terrorist target on Earth. My last apartment was the approximate size of a handicapped bathroom stall, which meant that I had to make a lot of tough choices (for the curious, the framed moth didn't make the cut). In order to maximize space, I bought a trunk which I could use as a coffee table as well as storage for things that I felt like I needed to keep, except not in plain view of strangers. Just because, you know, they might come in handy. We'll visit the dubious logic of what those things were in a minute.

Although my current apartment is considerably larger, there are still plenty of storage issues, and I strongly suspect the layout was designed by people who don't own anything. As a result, we have our DVDs in the kitchen, the power tools under the sink, and my Calphalon skillet lives full-time in the broiler. You do what you gotta do. And often what you gotta do is get rid of something anytime that you buy something else.

Since I got home from visiting Mom for Christmas, I'm left with the thorny issue of what exactly to do with the four boxes of new stuff I ended up with. I spent a full minute seriously considering whether I could put the electric grill on top of the entertainment center and pass it off as modern art. I already had to beg her not to give me any more dish towels before they stage a revolution and secede the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. Unless I threw out my ironing board and two pairs of cowboy boots, I was going to have to put some more stuff in the trunk.

The trunk. What in the hell do I keep in there anyway? Ostensibly it's a weird kind of hope chest where I put things of value to be treasured by future generations. In addition to 15 years worth of journals and my clean bedding, I also found the following items in the trunk:

• miso soup bowl and spoon
• 8th grade salutatorian award plaque
• dice
• VHS tape of my 1st year film projects
• sheriff badge with the name "Wayne"

I just put the Virgin Atlantic socks back in there as well - I might need them.

Things that happened, Part 1

...from Saturday: September 16, 2000

Trish and I were sitting in Dojo's at about 10pm last night. She glanced at me over her plate of yakisoba. "Are you OK?" she said.

"No," I said, smiling back. "I'm freaking out." I took a deep breath. "You know what it is? If we get there and his girlfriend isn't there, I'll be fine. That's what's making me crazy right now, not knowing."

We got the check, left and started the walk to Bleeker St. It was cold out, and I shivered under my sweater. When we got to the corner before the club, the thought that maybe we wouldn't find him at all in the horde of people (the band that was playing at that particular moment seemed to have a pretty large following) vaguely crossed my mind. "I take it back," I thought frantically, "I don't want to see him at all. I want to go home."

I felt like the guy manning the door at the club ought to remember us, but I said, "I'm on the list," pointing to my name.

"What's your name?" he hollered at me.

I told him.

I didn't even go through the entrance before I was faced with him. His buzz cut had grown out into a crop, and I realized that he really was completely gray. It looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days.

"Hey!" he beamed before I even had a chance to process what was happening.

From behind me, I heard Trish saying "Must he him."

I turned. "Yeah. Must be."

Sitting in the corner by the door was his friend Darren with my CDs and assorted other things I haven't even looked at yet. The fact that he himself was pretty much staying by the bar and not with Darren suddenly set off an alarm in my head. He didn't... He wouldn't and not tell me... There were so many people around that it was hard to get a sense of what was going on. I turned and said something to Darren, and when I looked back, I saw him sitting next to a dark-haired woman in her 30s. His girlfriend.

A wash of hollowness ran through me. I felt totally numb. "I'll be right back," I said to Trish. "I'm going to put the CDs in the car."

She stared at me. "You're going back to the car? By yourself?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." And I stepped outside into the air. The entire episode had taken maybe three minutes.

During the fifteen minute walk to the car and back, I kept waiting for the surge of emotion to hit me. I didn't know what it was going to be - anger, depression, embarrassment - but I figured that something had to come. But by the time I got back inside, nothing had. I still felt that horrible deadness.

As Trish and I made our way past the bar towards the stage, I got as good a look at his girlfriend as I could without calling attention to myself. She's in her mid-30s, rather plain-looking, much thinner and shorter than me. She didn't really look or seem all that impressive, and she was wearing possibly the ugliest floral pants in the tri-state area. The oddness of not knowing her name really hit me, and I looked away before I got caught gawking.

We ended up getting a table right next to the left side of the stage. Darren came and sat down next to me. I think he sensed that I was not happy for some reason, and I felt badly since he has no idea what's going on. He's a nice guy, I like him. Thank God for him making me laugh during the night or I really would have been a mess. Halfway through the set of the band that was currently onstage, Darren leaned in and said, "Let me tell my boy you guys got a table. His girlfriend would love to sit up front. Is that cool?"

Under the table, Trish squeezed my hand.

"Yeah, that's fine," I said weakly.

"Cool!" Darren grabbed his beer and got up. "I'll go tell them, I'll be right back."

As soon as he walked away, I turned to Trish and said only half-jokingly, "If there is a God, they will stay at the bar."

They stayed at the bar. A few times, he walked past us to go to the back where the band he worked for was waiting to go on. I didn't talk to him - there was nothing I could think of to say. I barely even looked at him. At one point he stopped to say something to Darren, and as he walked past me, I suddenly felt a sting in the middle of my back.

"He just hit me, didn't he?" I said to Trish.

She nodded. "Well, you gave him a look."

I had flinched when he flicked at my back, but I didn't turn or otherwise respond. It was also apparent that every time he came past our table, he did so alone. I'm not sure what the deal was - he thought I would act out or he didn't trust himself, whatever. But he never came near me with his girlfriend.

The band we were there to see did an OK set. It was late, the place was only 3/4 full. The crowd reaction was pretty mediocre. I got as good a video as I could considering that I couldn't use the tripod and had to shoot the whole thing handheld. After the set was over, Darren wandered off to talk to the band, and Trish decided to go to the bathroom. I was alone at the table, and this is the moment I regret the most. It was the make-or-break 30 seconds of the evening, and I managed to shatter everything.

I was fairly intoxicated at this point (damn that drink minimum), and I was staring off at nothing in particular when I felt a nudge on my arm. I looked up, and he was standing over me. He waved in the general direction of the camera, which was sitting on the table. "Good footage?" he said, his voice a little tense.

I nodded imperceptibly. I just stared at him. He was wearing the same kind of outfit he had the last time I'd seen him: jeans and a t-shirt and an open button-front shirt over that. He seemed much taller when I was sitting down. His eyes really are very blue. The short hair suited him. He looked good.

"He's an attractive man," Trish had shrugged earlier.

"You really think so?" I had said, relieved.

"Yeah, he's good-looking."

But as I looked up at him, I wasn't thinking that he was a good-looking man or even that I thought I loved him - my mind was blank. I felt so much that my heart couldn't bear it and just stopped feeling everything. I guess my face had automatically slid into that calculated expression of angry hurt that I hadn't really used in quite some time.

"What's the look for?" he said, sounding irritated and uncomfortable.

My expression didn't change. I shrugged ever so slightly and turned my attention back to my drink.

He walked away and didn't come near me again for the rest of the night. But I watched him - it wasn't that hard, the place had pretty much emptied out at that point. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but there didn't seem to be an especially affectionate dynamic between him and his girlfriend. They didn't touch each other or even stand all that close together. Trish mentioned that his girlfriend seemed disinterested and sour-looking the entire night.

We cashed out our tab and decided to go home. Darren, who seemed painfully confused by what was going on, said haltingly, "Uh, well, my ride's leaving. I gotta go." By the time we paid our check and got outside, the three of them were already gone. It was over.

Mercifully, I was pretty fucked up at that point and managed to stumble to Trish's car, raving the entire way and swinging the tripod dramatically for emphasis. She laughed at me, and I laughed at myself. I was glad I was drunk because I didn't cry. I didn't want to cry.

When I got back to my apartment, I drank a wine cooler and waited to see if I was going to be subject to a great rush of bitter tears and hysteria. Nothing came. I took off my clothes and went to bed for six hours of restless sleep. It was over.

I never did cry over it. Not even the next day after I had sobered up. I guess there really is nothing left to cry about.

Welcome to the holiday season!

The bars are wide open, and - half a bottle of Dewar's into the evening - I almost tackled a very slight woman in a bowtie for some cold meat on a cracker.

What can I say: I like living on the razor's edge of personal and professional humiliation.

When A Woman Doesn't Want You

Oh, Gary Lightbody. It's true. You have so much working against you: you're saddled with a visage that's best described as the goofier Zach Braff. No one can really tell where in the hell you're actually from- NotQuiteEnglandistan? You're a bit of tweaker onstage. VH1 is going to make all of us want to commit suicide rather than hear "Chasing Cars" one more time, which is a shame.

And yet. There is also much to love. Remember a few years ago, at the Bowery Ballroom, when you told that very cute story about shopping for sneakers? The crowd banter at the 9:30 Club? So charming. You can actually sing your songs live. You write delightfully endearing updates on your blog. You are tall! Which is why I've yet to understand your painfully intense crush on Martha Wainwright.

Not only did you write this song specifically so she could sing on it, but we have to suffer through your panting, boot-kissing introduction of her every time you perform it live. Maybe it's me - she never seems to be that excited to be there. I'm just saying. But fair enough, let's have at this before you turn into a puddle of puppy love right here and now.

And then it comes (at 2:05 for those playing along at home): Martha busts out The Sprinkler. If you missed it - which, really, you can't miss something as completely ludicrous as The Sprinkler - she does it again. Quite enthusiastically, I might add.

Gary. Seriously. I don't always agree with people's romantic choices - I mean, shit, I generally don't agree with my own - but The Sprinkler? Nothing about this song calls for this sort of behavior. This is a sad, sad, sad love song about a bond struggling to survive 16-months of touring. The "Faithfully" of its time, if you will. Loving a music man is not always what it's supposed to be! And Martha goes and mocks it with her spastic Hunch of Indie Cred.

This is not the woman for you, Gary, no matter how much you want it to be so. I'm telling you this for your own good. You can shove her in a gear case (I'm sure she fits) and trot her out at every stop for as long as you want, but she will never love you. Let her go. Call me.

Resistance is futile

There came a point in my life where I made the decision against subscribing to a regular schedule of prime time network TV; I chose the path of catch as catch can with my entertainment. It's pretty liberating, and yet there are occasional repercussions. One of these is that I became frighteningly well versed in the extensive catalogue of rare genetic diseases via the Discovery Health Channel. Another is that I found myself watching the Country Music Awards.

Much about the culture of country music confuses me. On one hand, it's painstakingly manufactured right down to those fabulous bedazzled blazers, and yet it's probably the one genre of popular music where you're really forced to sing live. This was probably the thing that impressed me most about the performances at the CMAs - the mix was utterly horrendous, but everyone with a microphone was definitely holding it down in the real. Most times to their detriment. Yes, we're looking at you, Martina McBride. I guess when really the only thing you're bringing to the table is a passable singing ability, you might as well have to actually do it. Country music singers are generally a single threat. This goes without saying: those people cannot dance - all boot-scootin' aside. Their very sense of rhythm is often questionable. And you really don't have to be terribly attractive either, although as with most professional whoring, it helps. All of this is doubly-true for men (we're looking at you, Big & Rich), since country music likes its fellas hearty and overwhelmingly male. Not a lot of dancing there, THANK GOD, just a lot of standing (perhaps some walking) and looking deeply earnest about...something. His lady. His truck. Fishing. The whole thing is alien and off-putting, and yet. I can't look away.

Let me first admit: I'm half genuine Irish redneck. I have been to a dirt-track race and eaten unshelled peanuts out of a plastic bag. I know what a fish camp is. None of my cowboy boots are from Urban Outfitters. My daddy owns a very large pick-up truck and a lot of NASCAR caps. I am not fronting, my friends.

As it turned out, Dad was solely responsible for my musical taste until I was about 13, so I listened to both kinds: country and western. But he was kind of a purist in that regard - Randy Travis and Alabama were OK, but Leann Rimes was a harpy. I didn't question this. Actually one of my favorite songs used to be "If The South Woulda Won" by Hank Williams Jr.

I'd make my Supreme Court down in Texas,

And we wouldn't have no killers gettin’off free.

If they were proven guilty, then they would swing quickly,

Instead of writin’ books and smilin’ on T.V.

It was very much the "America, Fuck Yeah" of it's time. Why Hank never ran for political office as opposed to becoming Kid Rock's towel boy is beyond me, really.

Regardless of what may have happened in my formative years, in practice I'm squarely a big stinking Yankee. I do not know my way around any weaponry, which is a major blow to my redneck cred. I abhor Budweiser products. Until very recently the concept of pulled meat was unappealing and vaguely frightening. I don't have any friends named Skillet. But none of this was really a problem. Until.

My equally Yankee, New York-bred mother moved to a suburb of Nashville. After about a year of bemoaning the withdrawal from normal pizza and Macy's, something disturbing happened. She admitted to not only knowing who Keith Urban was but liking the Sugarland album. These things always start small. When I came down to visit, she strongarmed me into a walking tour of the Country Music Hall of Fame (for the concerned: the stage costumes of both Judds are being well-preserved for posterity). I'm not sure what I did to deserve any of this besides show up. However, the assimilation is officially complete at this point: any time I call Mom's cell phone, I'm treated to Larry The Cable Guy telling me he's going to git'er done. All hope is lost.

So I'm a little concerned. This is much more serious than the high cholesterol, the other thing my genetics were kind enough to gift me. Country music will eat your soul. Any day now I expect to be shopping out of the Shepler's catalogue and naming my children Walker and Texas Ranger.

All the good ideas are taken

You might be asking yourself what I do on Saturday nights. This is, after all, the town where anything can happen. After Sex & The City starting showing in syndication, my mother made the hilarious comment, "I imagine that's kind of what your life is like." My life involves a lot more enduring rock bands at Piano's, not as much time spent at brunch. Generally speaking, I spend my weekends recovering from whatever late nights I've had during the week, and often nachos are involved. Do you know what goes well with nachos? Headbanger's Ball.

I'm not particularly Metal!, by most standards. In fact, I find the majority of what's commonly considered heavy metal pretty ridiculous. My tastes - while more generous than, say, the writers at Pitchfork - tend to run along the lines of Bands From The UK and Music Made By People Who Could Conceivably Have Had Sex At Least Once, preferably both. With a few exceptions, there just isn't a place in my life soundtrack for RWWAAAAARRR and machine-gun drumming. As Leslie once pointed out, "I'm just not that angry."It's really true. Withering disdain is highly effective and much less taxing than outright hate.

Part of the reason that I make a point to watch Headbanger's Ball is because it's one of the few times MTV2 even shows videos anymore. (Not that Real World vs. Road Rules isn't a spectacularly good use of airtime - I fully support any endeavor that allows those people to avoid getting regular jobs in lieu of mud wrestling and talking shit about each other.) But beyond that, it seems like these are videos were never really meant to see the light of day in a forum larger than the people on band's mailing list. So more often than not they're pretty interesting, whether because of painfully low production value or totally bizarre overall concept. I especially liked the one with the Japanese schoolchildren who were eating and then throwing up lots of cereal. So while I'm not going to run out and buy the new Bury Your Dead album (definitely not for lack of advertising on their part, though), I'm glad there's an outlet for videos other than those that suggest a guy pulled up with a semi and asked, "Did anyone order a rock video?"

When I made the snap decision to go to film school, it was mainly because I'm bad at math and that seemed the easier way to assure a Calculus-free couple of years. Hey, I was 17, what did I know? On the other hand, I always had a secret desire to be a music video director. It became even more secret when I discovered that directing videos was one rung below making kiddie porn on the Ladder of Cred at NYU. This was, of course, back before we were all encouraged to sell our souls at the altar of pop culture - in the most ironic fashion, of course. Selling out is the new artistic integrity! It's probably all for the best since it became evident rather quickly that I was a terrible director. Of anything. There's a lot more math involved in the process than one would think.

In the last couple of years, as we began the steady decline into unabashed mediocrity - I've given up hope of basic standards for entertainment ever being raised higher than "not horrible" - I wonder if there would ever be a place for the kind of videos I wanted to make. Sometimes there are Bands From The UK That Have Likely Had Sex who step up, but generally speaking, we like the guy with the semi to handle things. Someone find an empty warehouse and some stools! Back light that son of a bitch, and we're good! So thank you, Headbanger's Ball. Thank you for showing me that a bass player in a monkey suit could make me believe in dreams again.

Aim low!

There are certain things you'll never know you're terrible at until you try them. For instance, I never knew that I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a 9MM Glock until recently.

One of the things Leslie and I were keen to do on our vacation in Las Vegas was to shoot guns, which of course we said with the same gravity as "get drunk" and "ride rollercoasters." Whoo! Party! Actually, I'm surprised that there's not somewhere to shoot guns on a rollercoaster that serves top shelf liquor. We would have definitely signed up in advance.

The next best option is The Gun Store. It's kind of a surreal experience and perhaps one of dubious safety. After all, given that the rallying cry of Las Vegas is "open container," it's a little uncomfortable to stand in line with a pack of guys who YOU KNOW have just finished a Yard of Margarita as they're handed automatic weapons and live rounds. The staff at The Gun Store, all of whom carry holstered weapons like they're some kind of on-call, volunteer SWAT, are a combination of chipper and stridently official. They seem to take the business of weaponry quite seriously, considering their clientle are basically people who are making a pit stop between the titty bar and the all-you-can-eat buffet at Barbary Coast.

I decided on a semi-automatic handgun for two reasons - first, because I didn't want to blow my entire stock of ammo in two shots and second, so that I didn't dislocate my shoulder with some wicked recoil. Also, Glocks are pretty bad ass guns. Truth be told, the selection of guns was somewhat overwhelming and I felt safer sticking with what I knew. If it's good enough for gangstas, it's good enough for me.

The selection of targets is pretty extensive as well, although the popular favorites are undoubtably those in the Terrorist Collection - Osama, Saddam, random brown person, etc. As the guy behind the counter asked our friend Gwyther, "Which A-Rab did you want there, buddy?" This probably makes more sense as Gwyther was renting an AK-47 (he had a coupon). By far the most awesome choice - Chris and I both picked it - was the target featuring a guy holding a cowering flight attendant hostage ABOARD AN AIRPLANE. So let me get this straight: I can't bring my hair products in my carry-on luggage, but packing a handgun in the overhead bin is a logical scenario. Naturally. Leslie chose an armed mugger who looked strangely like Mario Lopez.

After a cursory yet Very Serious overview of how to load and handle your gun ("Don't point it at your head!"), we were pretty much left to load and fire our weapons of choice. For no reason in particular, I walked into the shooting range having never even touched a gun before in my life and still somehow secure in the idea that I was an expert shot. This was primarily due to the fact that when I walk around New York City at night, I listen to the soundtrack from "The Matrix" and pretend I'm a secret agent. No, I'm not kidding. So naturally I assumed that I possessed some innate marksmanship. This is not the case. Not only was I caught off guard by the kickback but, let's face it - I'm painfully nearsighted. Aiming is not really an option. I couldn't even tell if I was hitting the target at all, never mind where on the target. My terrorist was not in a whole lot of danger. A little late in the game, I realized the trick is to aim low to compensate for the recoil. This was after I had emptied most of my rounds into the ceiling or the floor.

As a nice bonus, you get to keep your target as a souvenir of your experience - or, in my case, as a record of your total incompetence. By comparison, Chris - who, keep in mind, had the same target and nearly the same gun that I did - managed to take out the terrorist without a single shot in the flight attendant. As we were walking out, he said, "I guess any time I want to go into business as a hitman, I'm good to go." Someone passing us replied, "There's a lot of money in that."

Nice to know that Chris at least has some lucrative career options. Maybe I can be his booking agent - 10% of death is fine by me.

Things I Used To Be - Part 2

For the first part of this exciting series, go here.

Things I Used To Be: Athletic

I say I played sports in the way that people with expensive SUVs say that they go camping. It's not that I didn't do it, but no one should assume that I was hardcore about it. Well, actually, I was an "all-star athlete" but in a very "Valedictorian of the Remedial Class" kind of way.

In some ways, my sports career peaked rather early. I was a fearsome softball pitcher when I was still in grammar school. If I recall correctly, I was responsible for several perfect games, and I was a wicked closer. I had played almost every position at one time or another except for catcher - I'm too large to do any crouching for an extended period of time. Although if I wasn't pitching, I was often 3rd base. There wasn't a lot of downtime over at 3rd base because 9 year-olds don't hit too well; I spent much of my time dodging foul balls. (When I think about it now, giving small children steel bats probably isn't the safest thing either.) Unfortunately my reign at the top of junior league softball was cut short, and I would never again achieve that kind of mid-level infamy.

I should also mention that I could never claim allegiance with any fearsome-sounding team. I played softball for the Chickadees - complete with perky yellow jerseys. In 7th and 8th grade, I played for the Cardinals which, believe me, is the least chickenshit of the lot. And in high school, it was the Koalas. I kid you not. Can you imagine the choose-our-mascot meeting when this was decided? "Okay, Sr. Joanne, we've got a progressive, Catholic all-female school. How do we want our athletes represented? Tree-dwelling marsupials! Genius!" I mean, I suppose we could have been the Angry Tampons for Jesus. Maybe Cuddly Puppies was taken. In any case, it was kind of demoralizing playing against teams like the Scarsdale Raiders or the Ardsley Panthers. Even more embarrassing was trying to pretend that it wasn't that bad - on the vending machine in the cafeteria scrolled "Go Killer Koalas!" Oh, for real. Even getting a Mountain Dew was an exercise in shame.

Probably the best match-up in the county was when our team played against the New Rochelle High School Huguenots. They actually had their mascot dress up as a swashbuckling Frenchman, who looked like a fey version of Captain Morgan.

You learn quickly that taking high school athletics casually is really just a good way to kick your own ass. Keep in mind that I never had any high-minded volleyball career aspirations. I certainly wasn't out for blood. And thus I didn't train in the off-season, which means that try-outs every August were particularly painful. For those who have never played volleyball, it's kind of hard to describe the particular pain of hitting a high-velocity leather object repeatedly with the inside of your forearms. We also did a lot of short-burst running drills and, by God, if there's anything I hate more than sit-ups, it's running. (This is largely why I was more suited to softball, since it involves more standing around and wearing hats, two things at which I excel.) Making matters worse is the fact that the coaches can smell ambivalence - and, yes, in case you're wondering: all-girls sports are indeed overseen by bitterly repressed lesbians in cargo shorts. Although we did have two coaches, one of whom was engaged to the janitor, so how's that for bucking a trend. A majority of the reason why I was never a starter and never promoted to varsity was because I simply didn't care enough - I played volleyball because I was reasonably good at it and basketball involved too much running.

** Minor aside: The year before I started high school, the dubiously-monikered Koalas had won the basketball state championship. When I was taking a tour of the school with my mother, our guide was a senior who was also a forward on the basketball team. She looked me up and down before asking hopefully, "So you play basketball?" I said no, I played volleyball. "Oh," she sniffed. Ouch! Dismissed! Hopefully this gives some indication as to the meager standing we held in the hierarchy of Koala sports. **

I used to wonder what happened to the girls on my team who were rabid players - taking dives for spikes, playing with what I still maintain were ridiculously pretentious and unnecessary sports braces. Maybe some of them went on to play in college, although I doubt it. Have you seen female college volleyball teams? Yeah, damn. They will kill you and eat your face. I would imagine that even the best of the Killer Koalas probably got summarily dismissed, which makes the intense seriousness in which our coaches tried to cloak themselves all the more laughable. Yeah, volleyball is your life. Aren't you late to teach 4th-period Health or something?

When all was said and done, my tenure as an athlete ended not due to the fact that I refused to play another year of JV volleyball (although, yeah, that would have been really lame) but because I had annoying and ultimately preventative surgery during the summer before my junior year of high school. On and off these days I kind of miss it, despite the fact that I doubt I would approach any sport with any more conviction than I did in high school. It would be nice though to play for something that sounds a little intimidating for once. Maybe the Manhattan intramural volleyball league needs a new team. I hope Angry Tampons for Jesus isn't taken.

I am not a good writer

Disregard what you may have heard.