October 2006


Here’s the question of the day:

I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life.

Option A: Take the LSAT. Go to law school. Become a lawyer. Bump Ben’s ratio up from 67% to 78%.

Option B: Take the GRE. Study Political Science in graduate school. Get a Master’s. Work in government.

Option C: Take the GRE. Study Political Science in graduate school. Get a Master’s. Then a PhD. Teach Political Science at the university level.

Option D: Forgo more education for now. Try and get internship at newspaper or magazine. Pursue journalism.

Too many good choices. Oh well. I’ll just drink a Sam Adams and go take a nap.

For a couple years during high school I worked as a lifeguard at the local YMCA. Basically, I viewed my job as a glorified nap time. My gift (or is it a curse?) of falling asleep anytime I sit stationary for more than 20 minutes was on display regularly.

Joe worked there, too. One Saturday afternoon Joe and I were the only people there. No one had been in the pool for a couple hours when a man and his son came in. They were regulars. The kid was probably five years old and would do crazy shit off the diving board with reckless abandon, while his dad paddled water and watched from the deep end.

On this particular day Joe and I must have looked especially bored. Maybe I was sleeping. After the kid finished on the diving board, they both got out of the water and the dad walked over to us and asked us what kind of pizza we liked. Joe and I thought the question was kind of strange, but answered.

Twenty minutes later the guy walked back in to the pool area with a pizza, gave it to us, and thanked us for the hard work. Joe and I conveniently ignored the “After Eating Wait 30 Minutes Before Swimming Or Drown Immediately” rule and ate the pizza. It was an unexpected and nice gesture and I haven’t forgotten it.

Fast forward six or seven years later to today. I see this guy every single morning at my local Starbucks. I want to thank him for the pizza, see if he remembers, and buy him a coffee, but I haven’t gotten around to doing it yet.

Maybe tomorrow.

Thos of you out there who have been with “Damn, It Was Right Here” since Day One might remember a blog entry I wrote about my friend named Sarah. Remember? There are at least a couple thousand of you, right?

Ok, so this Sarah – she worked in the Boom Boom Room. Due to unforeseen events involving some staff shuffling, Sarah no longer works in the Boom Boom Room. She’s now an office free agent of sorts, roaming the vast terrain between the back room and the copy room. That’s noteworthy, I guess, but what’s really noteworthy is that this Sarah just recorded an album in Los Angeles.

You can hear four songs from the upcoming record on her myspace page. Even though my anti-myspace stance hasn’t mellowed in two months, here’s the link: www.myspace.com/sjaffe

Check ’em out if you know what’s good for you.

I’ll hear the whole record tomorrow. You could too if you were a legal assistant and worked in the copy room of a law office. Jealous?

Dwight: There is a Liz Claiborne outlet. I know you like that store. Go inside and shop until I can meet you.
Jan: How do you know I like that store?
Dwight: Many of your blouses are Claibornes.
Jan: How do you know that?
Dwight: It’s part of my job.
Jan: No, it’s not. It’s officially not.
Dwight: Noted.

Although I’ve never attended either the University of Texas or the University of Oklahoma (getting accepted twice to UT doesn’t count, does it?) I have been fortunate enough to attend a Red River Shootout.

It was 2002, I think, and we were lucky enough to be on the second row, right after the 50 yard line. Since this was before the days of “Out of College Parker Who Pays All Of His Own Expenses,” selling the ticket was never really a serious option.

The game was great. To my left was red and to my right was burnt orange. Even though the person I was with was a student at OU at the time, I refused to forsake my heritage to root for the Sooners. It didn’t matter. Chris Simms was the UT quarterback. Even though he had his spleen, he still sucked. At one point he sat on the bench right in front of us with a phone up to his ear. I can only assume he was talking to Greg Davis. This, of course, was during the height of http://www.firegregdavis.com. After his third or so interception the entire crowd to my left started chanting, “Chrisss-sssy.” I might have even joined them for a round or two.

So anyway, here’s the point: TX-OU at the Cotton Bowl is greatness. It was probably the coolest sporting event I’ve ever been to, with the exception of the Shot Heard ‘Round the World in 1936. Man, was that game awesome.

There’s been a lot of talk of moving the game to a home and home. The schools miss out on revenues, blah blah blah. Who give a fuck if the schools miss out on revenues? The athletic departments at OU and UT have to be among the most wealthy in all of Division I football. With the kind of merchandising streams both programs pull in, a million dollars here or there, relatively speaking, is inconsequential.

And enough about the stadium being dilapidated. The city of Dallas is obsessed, and by obsessed I do mean OBSESSED, with new structures. The city is full of them. Old houses and buildings get torn down left and right. The Cotton Bowl actually has a little history behind it. And you know what, the game is three hours long. For three hours you can put up with long lines at the bathrooms and skinny wooden seats. It’s not even like Red Sox fans complaining about the amenities at Fenway Park. Their arguments have merit because they have to put up with a shitty (at least physically) stadium 81 times a year. Texas and OU fans have to put up with the Cotton Bowl for THREE HOURS A YEAR. Enough with the complaints, already.

I was reading an interview with Owen Wilson once in American Way magazine about filming “The Life Aquatic” in Rome. Wilson, who is a native Dallasite, commented that he loved Rome for the history and age of the structures all around him. He followed that up with this, “I’m from Dallas, where we think of the 7-11 on the corner that was built in 1972 as a really old building.”

Point taken. This isn’t the 7-11 on the corner. This is the Cotton Bowl. The original home of the Cowboys. Home of the Red River Shootout for 78 years. Don’t screw up a good thing.

Alright Kevin, here are my two cents:

T.O., apparently despondent over not being able to attend his son’s seventh birthday party and having his engagement called off, probably took about 4 or 5 too many painkillers. His publicist, the heinous bitch to be known hereafter as Kim Etheredge, flipped out and called 911. T.O. did not lie to police when he told them he was depressed. He also probably ingested too many pills. The whole thing is rather fishy, though seeing him out on the practice field the morning after should be enough evidence to make anyone believe that he did not take 35 pills the night before.

Secondly, has there ever been a more crass contract mention than the publicist’s assertion that “Terrell has 25 million reasons to live.”?

I only have roughly 2,400 reasons to live. Come to think of it, about 1/5 of my will to live will be gone on the fifteenth of this month.

Screw Capital One.