Thanksgiving, 1993

November 26, 2009


Miami vs. Dallas, Thanksgiving 1993It had been snowing for hours.

I listened with rapt attention to the radio in my mother’s car. I was on my way to my father’s house; after spending most of the afternoon with my step-grandparents, I had finished with the dining portion of Thanksgiving and ready to settle into the “lazy, doing nothing” portion.

Though I’ve never considered football to be my favorite sport, on this day – at this time, three and a half quarters into the evening’s game – it was the only thing on my mind.

The game: Miami vs. Dallas, November 25, 1993.

A snow covered field. Drifting in through the stadium roof’s iconic rectangle hole, the snow added a new dimension to the game. Mistakes were made, they might say, and it was evident by the abysmal 14-13 score.

The Dolphins – an improbable 8-2, despite the loss of Dan Marino in the fifth game of the season – trailed, but this was no surprise. They were on the road, against the Cowboys (who, unknown to everyone, would go on to win the Super Bowl). The Cowboys, at 7-3, were considered a far superior team, despite the record.

And at this point, the game was nearly wrapped up. Pete Stoyanovich’s kick had just been blocked, the ball landing close to the end zone. Dead ball. Three seconds to go. Cowboys ready to celebrate.

Enter Leon Lett.

I was returning home to an empty house, my father still at Thanksgiving festivities across town. On the radio, I had heard the set-up, the snap, the kick, the block. And, as I got out of my mom’s car, I heard a hold up. The Cowboys had fucked up. And the Dolphins may have another chance.

I ran to the front door, hastily waving goodbye to my mother. I ran in the house, switched the television on, and watched, mouth agape, as they replayed Leon Lett’s disastrous error, his snow-driven slide into the football allowing the Dolphins to get the ball back for a second chance, Stoyanovich wisely using the confusion to clear off a path to the football, a stunned Dallas crowd awaiting what could only be bad news.

Finally, a second set-up. A second snap. A second kick.

But this time, no block. Dolphins win, 16-14.

I broke free from the house. Running down the street, kicking up snow, ignoring the cold against my bare arms, I ran down the street. Cheering. Shouting. SHOUTING AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS to no one in particular. My friend Steve, who happened to be walking down the block for a pre-planned sleepover, looked on as I went ballistic with joy.

The Dolphins would proceed to lose every game from there on out, while the Cowboys did the opposite, winning every game through the Super Bowl.

Later that night, after my father came home, Steve and I attempted to quell my football buzz by walking to Kmart in the middle of a mild snowstorm. That it was open was a surprise, but I barely noticed. My mind still ran wild with the possibilities.

It was my first taste of a meaningful comeback, and it came equipped with an elation that no amount of snow could cool off.

Tags: Football, Miami Dolphins, Sports, Vilhauer |

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Beegelbed

November 24, 2009


“Beegelbed”

This is not a word. It has never entered our minds, never left our mouth, never been created. In the history of words, it is nothing.

That is, until now.

Because, you see, it’s not enough for Sierra to learn words at a frightening pace. No. Now, she’s making up her own.

Except, here’s the rub: We’re not sure if she’s making it up, or if we’re simply NOT UNDERSTANDING HER.

Sierra is two. Which means she’s at the age of rapid comprehension, when thoughts are quickly made into words. This is the stage of addition, fast enough that pronunciation and context is an afterthought. Refining the language will come later on.

It’s thrilling. New words pour out of her, and understanding of grammar and diction increases. For a couple of wordhounds, it’s like magic. We’re seeing the connection between verbal and actual, the evolution of thought into communication.

And because we’re always there, we understand her quirks. We know what she means, even if others can’t decipher it. Because, again, she’s two. Which means she’s constantly walking the thin line between universal conversation and frustration.

And then, there’s “beegelbed.”

We’ve asked. “What’s a beegelbed?” (She smiles and says, “Nooooo.”)

Okay. “What’s a beegelbed say,” we ask, assuming it’s an animal. (She smiles again. This is all very funny.)

We sound out different things. “Beagle Bed?” “Beetle Bug?” “Beat Elwood?”

Nothing. For now.

And it will stay nothing. Because really, all we have to do is wait. Within a few weeks, the word will have disappeared, either sucked up into distant memory or honed to the point of understanding. Eventually, it won’t be the words she’s questioning, but concepts. Why is the sky blue and all of that. Give it a few years, and we’ll be wondering how she learned so much, how she ever ended up at our level, carrying on a real conversation about school and her friends and some random television program that we’ll never understand because we lost our ability to comprehend teenage humor a long time ago.

We’ll wonder where the time went. We’ll long for the days where her words were first starting to burst forth.

Until then, though, I’ll just sit confused, uneasily wondering what she could mean by “beegelbed.”

Tags: Sierra, Words |

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Risotto spoon

November 23, 2009


It may simply look like a wooden spoon. But you’d be wrong.

It’s handle was thick; sturdy and solid, it gave control to the flimsy, tedious process of stirring. It’s wide face, cupped enough to provide necessary currents, gave life to dried rice, moving, constantly moving, the power to sift and dance and swirl. It was more than a wooden spoon. It was an agent of change, perfect for turning rice into risotto through the slow, delicate process.

Pour. Stir. Pour. Stir. It sat idle only long enough to allow for a bit of liquid.

It was hefty. It felt comfortable. It was perfect.

That is, it was until Becket found it. A few minutes of gnawing and several slivers later, it had become old news, left abandoned as he turned his attention to another bone.

Some people might say, “Just get another one.” But then again, it wasn’t just a wooden spoon. Which makes it painfully obvious how much some people don’t understand.

Tags: Food |

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Kings Island

November 21, 2009


kings island adAll it took was a glance at this map.

I can’t remember how old I was – somewhere between 5 and 8 – but I do remember that my grandparents lived in Villa Hills, Kentucky, a suburb of Cincinnati, where my grandfather was a recruiter for the Army. My entire family was in town – this was back before my parents were divorced, back when every summer was spent with my grandparents.

It remains to this day the only time I’ve ever been to an amusement park.

I have no timeline, no detailed list of memories, no comprehensive nostalgia – only that there was a definite feeling of exclusivity, like this was the coolest thing I had ever done, like this was never going to be topped no matter how hard we try.

Other than that, it’s a piecemeal collection of fleeting images.

I remember the map; specifically, I remember seeing a section of the park called “Coney Island” and making the only connection I could: the hot dogs we were served in grade school came on “coney buns.” I remember my father clamoring to ride The Thing, a stand-up rollercoaster that sounded horrifying. I remember Hanna-Barbara land, filled with Flintstones and Scooby-Doo and a million other kid rides.

There were long lines. An Eiffel tower. A lot of walking, and a lot of people.

I remember getting wet during the log ride, and being horrified. I couldn’t get wet. I wasn’t supposed to be wet.

I remember leaving, riding home in the dark, grasping for dear life to a stuffed Scooby-Doo doll that my father and grandfather had spent too much money trying to win. The doll had to have been at least three feet tall, or so it seemed to my young mind. I kept it for years, until the Styrofoam beads began to spill out and the legs had to be reattached.

It was the first time I remember being part of a crowd that large. Of being part of something bigger than myself, where I discovered that other families are just like mine – out for a weekend, looking for thrills, fighting over food.

And all it took was a glance at a map.

Tags: Travel, Vilhauer |

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What I’ve Been Reading: The Book of Basketball: The NBA According to the Sports Guy

November 17, 2009


What I’ve read:
The Book of Basketball: The NBA According to the Sports Guy - Bill Simmons

The Book of Basketball It might be a little hypocritical to slag on someone for being self-referential. As a blogger who writes primarily about his life and thoughts, most of my Internet persona is defined by self-reference.

Then again, I don’t purport to any other notion. You don’t come to Black Marks on Wood Pulp and expect non-personal writing.

However, when you read a book called The Book of Basketball, you expect it to be, for the most part, about basketball.

Let’s get this out of the way. I loved this book. As a basketball fan with a fleeting knowledge of history pre-1980s, it was a wonderful way to fill in the blanks. Was Wilt better than Russell? Was David Thompson as good as people say? Should I hate Karl Malone more than I already do? (The answers, respectively: no, yes, probably.)

I grew up watching Michael Jordan and Reggie Miller, so it’s good to have a reference point from which to compare. And if you’re looking for a more objective tome, there are probably better choices. However, if you’re looking for a down-to-earth synopsis of the NBA’s past 60 years, you can’t do much better.

The concept: Bill Simmons, who is sort of a pioneer when it comes to crafting Internet sports columns (in that he helped usher in the more relaxed, more opinionated and, ultimately, more enjoyable sports writing that we all take for granted today) uses his extreme fanhood to explain his take on the NBA, past and present.

A 96-player, pyramid based Hall of Fame that separates different classes of player based on accomplishments? Done. A listing of the top 10 teams of all time? Done. An incredibly insightful look at why Oscar Robertson’s numbers might be skewed, or a entire section devoted to what could have happened had certain moves not been made? Done. It’s like sitting down with a good friend – who also happens to be a huge NBA fan – and hashing out every great basketball argument ever made.

Yeah. It’s awesome. So let’s start picking it apart.

Seriously, Bill – your name is on the book – there’s no reason to keep reminding us that this is your opinion we’re taking on. I don’t care about who you know. I don’t need every argument to be unceremoniously finished with a reference to Teen Wolf, or a backhanded Shawshank Redemption quote.

He tackles race in an awkward way – he’s understanding, though at the same time strangely defensive and apologetic. He drops names whenever he can. He peppers his footnotes with the same kind of lame humor you’d expect to see in lesser blog comments on Deadspin. He makes no mistake that this is his book, and that we should expect more and more lame pop culture references and stories about his buddy House.

That being said, the self-referential nature only begins to grate around page 500. Did I mention the book is nearly 700 pages long? Surprisingly, it’s a fast read, though I can’t help but think it would be about 200 pages shorter if he took himself out of the story (an unfunny point he makes several times as you get closer to the end.)

See, there’s my problem. It’s easier to complain than it is to praise. Though the last three paragraphs sound like criticism, this shouldn’t frame my opinion of the book. They are minor blips on an ambitious project, one that doesn’t just present basketball history, but puts in context and in a way you can easily understand. This isn’t a book for stat hounds or nitpickers – this is a book for true fans, for those who long to have hour-long discussions about who was better: Bird of Magic.

(My answer: Bird. Bill’s surprising answer: Magic. Even as a Boston homer, Bill still couldn’t bring himself to be biased.)

Tags: Basketball, Books, Boston Celtics, Sports, What I've Been Reading, Writers, Writing |

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*cough*

November 16, 2009


*cough*

It isn’t so much the cough itself, though it’s persisted for 10 days, comes and goes as it pleases, creates excruciating bad breath and fills my throat with an occasional rattle.

It’s the noise.

As in, a sharp warning to all around me. “Watch out,” it says, “Sicko coming through. Take cover and hide your children.”

I know the sound of a cough is lost in the din as things get colder – and, therefore, better filled with the sound of a billion additional coughs. But I still imagine others hear it as I do.

Loud. Filling the room like a Labrador bark. Dripping with disease, stagnating in the air, presenting a biological hazard as it floats through doorways.

I cough, and I know others roll their eyes. I cough, and I imagine the backhanded comments. I cough, and I feel the glare of overprotective mothers, of health care professionals, of cubicle-mates who would rather not end up with bronchitis.

I’ve been branded. And until this scarlet “C” has been wiped away, I’ll always feel self-conscious.

*cough*

Tags: Annoyances, Vilhauer |

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Cheese

November 13, 2009


I love cheese. Love it.

LOVEIT.

Kerrie asked me recently to guess the three classes of consumables she appreciated the most. I kinda sorta guessed correctly: coffee, beer, bread. And, I wholeheartedly agree – my three are nearly the same, with the only difference being my choice of cheese over bread.

(Though both are crucial for the most underrated great food in the world: the grilled cheese.)

Coffee. Beer. Cheese. I’m good, thanks.

That being said, there are things I don’t want to know about cheese.

It’s fermented. Through acid and coagulation, it’s rotted to a perfect, pungent taste. It’s separated like bad cream, the chunky part smashed and left to sit. Sometimes, it’s curdled.

We usually throw out things that are curdled.

It’s moldy. It’s often filled with gross things like pimentos and horseradish. It’s smelly. It has a rind. Oranges have a rind, and you DON’T EAT THE RIND.

It’s populated with weird (albeit awesome) words. Curd. Rennet. Milkfat. Blue vein. Sometimes, it’s barely cheese at all; it’s milk-like (see: Époisses) or it’s processed (see: Velveeta).

Despite the fact that it’s a staple in my diet, and despite the fact that it’s responsible for my second favorite Monty Python sketch, cheese is sort of creepy.

If you think about it too much.

Which is why I don’t think about it too much.

[Prompt: Cheese is sort of creepy, if you think about it too much.” – Abi Jones, editrix of Heat Eat Review, UX expert, Arnold Schwarzenegger expert.]

Tags: BMOWP: By Request, Food |

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