One reason I had to get blogging again was that it had recently borne some fresh fruit. My long lost buddy CH from college was googling around and came across the thing. He's a police officer nearby now, and he came up for the Rangers preseason game last night.
CH is really freaking tall and I'm s-m-all. CH and me walking side by side, we look like Ewan McGregor and the giant in Big Fish. (If the giant wasn't crazy looking, and McGregor had an askew hairline and a fatsack on his neck) But he's got good policeman stories.
"We had to break up this four way knife fight at a christening," says CH. "Too many guys had just been drinking all day and they just started stabbing each other. One guy grabbed a mop and beat the living crap out of a guy with it. We tried to seat all the guys together to get their statements, and they just circled around a keg of beer. Kept drinking, passing out, falling off their chairs in the middle of a statement."
Good game: Rangers were down 0-2 and won 4-2. As I was leaving, the Buttery Tatertot gave me crap for wearing "Islander Orange" to the Garden.
"This is Bengals orange. Bengals gonna roll."
"Your Bengals suck and will always suck. Who you kiddin'?" says my wife. She has been waiting four years to have a chance to sing the "Who Dey" song, which one sings after a Bengals win. She went through all the trouble of memorizing it, and has been rewarded with nary a winning season, nor even a single televised triumph.
Not this year. Cincy's got a QB and, three weeks in , the pickingest secondary in the league. They're streaking high right now, and they'll inevitable lose three in a row at some point in the season. But I haven't had a team capable of scoring at will since the Ickie era. Good times.
[Note: I've been trying to write this entry while listening a Ben Folds's solo live album, but it's hard to concentrate with the stench of crap coming outta my headphones. Where the rest of the Five would have once been, there is now only dead air or Ben apparently slapping the microphone or, worst, the crowd yelling instrumental parts back at him. He replaced his bandmates with 10,000 wide-eyed agog Brick-heads.
There's a reason the word 'treacle' only seems to appear in reviews: there's so much damned treacle out there. One new-ish solo song he plays is about how Ben learned to not give a dang about whether or not he's recording anything good, because there's no difference between him and a guy who pumps gas. A working class hero is something to be and all that arrhythmic jazz. It is supposed to sound adult, but it is actually ten pounds of crap in a five pound bag.]
