Merry born day, lil’ girl


We met when you were 5.

I was packing up my car to get you and your mother and me away from the city. Hurricane Irene was coming. The last time a hurricane hit the city, the subways flooded. It was a mess. This storm, we’d been told, was worse.

Your dad drove you up from Maryland as the storm approached the city. You spend summers with him. I walked in the apartment and there you stood, beside your mother.

“Maddie,” she said, “this is Mommy’s friend. Matthew.”

You didn’t say anything. Neither did I. Continue reading

March 17, 1993

I found one of my English essays from 9th grade. I typed it up and am posting it here, for a few reasons:

1)   I like seeing my writing from back in the day. On the one hand, I think it’s strong writing for a 14-year old. Also, I like seeing how bad it is compared to my writing now, yet at the same time, full of the same weaknesses.
2)   I like seeing how passionate yet ignorant I was, politically. Makes my current passionate ignorance more palatable.
3)   It’s educational. The more you know, the further you’ll go…into student loan debt.
4)   When I was 14, I thought I was in love with a girl in my neighborhood. She was tall, and blonde, and all summer she went around the neighborhood on roller skates. One day, unexpectedly, she came to my house. She wanted to hang out. So we hung around out front and started talking. I thought this was the start of something magical…until I told her I was going to Puerto Rico later that summer, and was anxious about flying, and she said, “Why don’t you drive there?”
5)   Because Harvey Levin is an asshole. An asshole who speaks for many.



Continue reading

A brief Sunday morning NBA thought


I don’t wanna get all Clarence Darrow on y’all, but this morning I made the mistake of trying to watch ESPN’s “Sports Reporters,” or as it should be known, “Short Old Men Making More $$$ Than Ever Due To The Exploding Revenues In Sports Today Who Are Always Bitching About The Exploding Salaries Of Players Nowadays.” After 10 minutes of Dwight Howard-bashing, I decided to do something wholly unorthodox. I did some intelligent research.

The gnomes on the Sports Reporters claimed Howard doesn’t know how to win and doesn’t care about winning, and that the only way he can ever hope to salvage his “legacy” is, you guessed it: to win. I used to use the # of rings a player won to determine his greatness, because I was young, and I had more time to be stupid than I do now, and because I hated Dan Marino and enjoyed any opportunity to take his stupid face down a peg.
I don’t believe rings define players anymore. But, for the sake of argument, let’s take a brief look at Howard’s resume, ring-wise, versus other “recent” great big men:  Continue reading