Adventures in Motorcar Piloting

This is the end of an era: I can no longer claim that I've never hit a bicyclist with my car.

I had to run up to campus this morning to turn in a couple of papers. I wasn't in a particular hurry or anything, so I don't really know why I wasn't looking straight ahead. As I was rolling out of my driveway, I looked up the street and down the street to make sure I wasn't going to pull out into traffic. It was just as I was crossing the sidewalk that I heard the *thump*.

I snapped my neck to look out the windshield and, to my horror, I was greeted with the sight of a bicycle crashing to the ground and a man rolling into the street in apparent pain. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god was the only thought that went through my mind. Wait, wait, let me add onto that: Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I'm too pretty to go to jail.

Throwing open my door, I jumped out of the car and shouted "Are you OK?!" The relatively young man, probably in late-twenties, forced himself to his feet, brushed himself off, and replied "Yeah, are you OK?" Are you serious, dude? I just attempted-vehicular-manslaughtered you, and you're asking me if I'm OK? If I were this guy, I'd be complaining "My neck hurts; I can't feel my legs; let me see your insurance information; my bike is busted; et cetera, et cetera."

No, actually, I probably would have wussed out and been the "I'm OK" guy, too. But I like to think I'd try to make a lawsuit out of it. Easy money is easy money.

I shook the man's hand, apologized profusely, and we went our separate ways. I suppose I really should be more careful. But if I weren't a complete idiot, bumbling through life, nearly killing people, what would I have to blog about?

Smelling Like I'm Worth Exploring

For those of you (all of you) who haven't been following the NHL playoffs, allow me to give you a little update: I still haven't shaven, and I'm still wearing the same t-shirt. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, the Buffalo Sabres are still rolling strong. They finished off the New York Rangers yesterday afternoon and have advanced to the Eastern Conference Finals, where they will square off with the hated Ottawa Senators. How hated? Well, just let me remind you of this:



The super-bestest part of the video comes with about 2:30 left, when the Sabres' resident goon, Andrew Peters, just starts beating the living bejesus out of the Senators' goaltender, Ray Emery. Oh, and (of course) there's the part with about 1:45 left where the Sabres' coach, Lindy Ruff, jumps the bench and starts assailing the Senators' coach with f-bombs. Now that's classic, people.

Anyway, I'm not making this post as an excuse to post that video (although that was a happy side-effect). I'm making this post to tell you about my shirt.

This trusty t-shirt has now draped my upper torso for an epic twenty-seven days. Lots of great things have happened in those twenty-seven days, and I'm attributing them all the to the t-shirt:

1) The Sabres have advanced through the first two rounds of the playoffs...

Umm... oh, right:

2) I haven't thrown up on myself again...

And, uhh... yeah, OK. So maybe only two great things have happened in the almost-four weeks I have been wearing this shirt nonstop. But, hey, that's two more great things than normally happen to me in a month!

Also, on a major plus, the shirt does not stink. Not even a little bit. As I've said more than once during this marathon, it would appear I emit a natural scent that is quite pleasant. My pheromones freaking rock. It's truly a wonder that I have not had to forcibly avoid sexual intercourse on a daily basis.

Maybe that will be an issue by this time next month, when the Sabres are in the midst of the Cup Finals, and I'll be pushing sixty days of shirted bliss.

Hoop Dreams

I need to give a big shout-out to Ray (and, vicariously, to my boy Eddie) for inviting Andy and I out to shoot hoops for several hours last night. Wow, three links in one sentence. Why even have a blogroll anymore? I'll just mention everyone I know in each paragraph. Joe didn't come because he had class, Megan wasn't invited because she's a girl, and Steve... uhh... Steve's too old to keep up with us youngsters. There, blogroll necessity extinguished.

Anyway, where was I? I think I was talking about how much I suck at basketball. Oh, right, that's definitely what it was. I suck at basketball. If the goal of the competition entailed highest numbers of airballs, bad passes, and misunderstandings of the rules, I'd be in the Street Hoops Hall of Fame. Eventually, the games we played last night simply became competitions of one-on-two, with me standing back away from the action screaming "kick it out!" and "pass, pass, pass!" to whomever my unfortunate teammate was at the time. Wisely, these requests to send the ball my way were most often ignored.

We must have played at least seven or eight games of "two"-on-two, with my team losing every single time. It was really pathetic. And, yet, despite how pathetic I was, no one made fun of me. I was encouraged, tutored, and mentored by these three fine gentlemen.

Hmm... now that I think about it... I was never made fun of to my face. *sigh*

Anyway, three hours of basketball last night have reduced my calves to jelly. Walking up and down stairs today has been a nightmare. I honestly don't know if I'll ever play again. And I really should have spent those three hours last night working on whittling down the mountain of end-of-the-semester assignments I have before me.

My hoop dreams have been rekindled, though. Back in my middle- and high-school days, I used to think I had a pretty killer shot. I remember one time in like 9th grade when the whole gym class was a game in which everyone had to make a layup, a free throw, and then shoot three-pointers until he missed. I won the contest, beating the entire class, by hitting like six or seven three-pointers in a row. No lie. I thought I was pretty hot stuff.

Carrie also claims that once, while I was the Fredonia State Blue Devil, she saw me hit a half-court shot during halftime of a game while I was wearing full mascot regalia. I don't remember that, though, and you'd think I'd remember that. She swears it really happened, though. That must have been an awesome sight for the lucky folks who were in attendance that night, if it truly occurred.

So I haven't always sucked at basketball, at least not at shooting. And by the end of the night last night, when we were just shooting playing a game called "Knockout," I was starting to hit a pretty nice stroke from fifteen feet or so. Maybe, if I practiced some more, I could firmly establish a decent shot again. And then I could start working on understanding how to actually play.

Then again, my calves hurt like mofos. Would I really want to continue putting myself through this? Sitting and doing nothing is much, much easier and less painful. Yeah, I'll stick with that.