Fame

If anyone is interested in reading a newspaper article about geocaching, in which Carrie and I are featured prominently, he/she may do so by clicking here.

Day of Birth

What better way to spend a twenty-sixth birthday? Driving randomly on New York State Route 26, looking for a sign that is accessible enough to allow me to get a semi-decent photo. Set the timer on the digital camera, risk life and limb on the side of the highway, and snap the stupid photo. Then, drive twenty-five miles back home. That's pretty much how I roll, folks. That's pretty much how I roll.

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.

How Going to Class Early Can Affect the Health of Your Butt

Andy and I had some time to kill before class yesterday. Like, a lot of time. Like, close to an hour. Somehow, randomly, we found ourselves just sitting outside the Dowd building discussing things like freestyle walking. Anyway, long story short, we discovered that, for some unknown reason, the Dowd building's facade is complete with bricks which are not flush with the wall, allowing one to potentially scale the side of the building, should he possess the desire or stupidity to attempt it.

I have one or the other. Probably the latter.

No, no... definitely the latter.

Anyway, I tackled the wall head-on and went up. It wasn't easy--the wall obviously is not meant to be climbed--but I managed to get a little ways off the ground. Below me, I heard Andy requesting my assistance. He was trying to recreate a chalk outline on the wall with his body. I was needed to judge, so I let my feet off, did a free-hang for a few seconds, and then let go.

I thought I was only a couple feet off the ground, so I was surprised to not feel my feet simply hitting the ground almost immediately. It was like that sensation you get when you're going down the stairs at night and you think you're at the last one, but (much to your surprise) your foot does not touch the floor. And then you stumble forward awkwardly, right? Imagine that, except you're probably six-to-eight feet off the ground, you're facing a brick wall, and there is concrete below you.

My feet struck the ground flat and my knees buckled. Out of control, I fell backward clumsily and my left buttock collided unceremoniously with the cement. Pens and pencils tumbled out of my shirt pocket, making me feel like even more of a nerd. I laughed (it was all I could do to save a slight bit of face, were anyone watching) and sprung back to my feet quickly. Pain coursed through my ass.

Sidenote: I'd rather not ever write, speak, or think that sentence again.

I gave up on my Human Fly act, and we went to class. Throughout the exam I was taking, I felt the pain everytime I shifted in my seat. The last thing I wanted to do at that point was sit still for two hours taking a grammar exam. At the one-hour mark, I got up and went to the bathroom, more to attempt to "walk it off" than to expel urine. I suffered through it, though, and aced that f'ing exam. No doubt about it. I'm a real trooper.

Anyway, when I got home I went into the bathroom and examined myself in my full-length mirror. Again, another sentence that should not be written, spoken, or thought of again. In any case, I discovered I had incurred purpleness on my behind. Purpleness! Today, the purpleness has subsided, but it's still sore.

My stupidity about wanting to climb the wall, though, has turned into desire. Or maybe it's just a greater degree of stupidity. Whatever it is, I know that I want to scale the side of that building before I graduate. Anyone have a safety net?

Playoff Machination Advice Necessitated

The Sabres have quickly disposed of the New York Islanders and advanced to round two of the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Awesome. However, they did not play overly well in knocking off the Islanders. Sure, they won four games out of five, but they didn't completely hammer New York like they should have. Oh well, the second round is on the horizon anyway, whether the Islanders got trashed or not.

Anyway, I need some input on my personal role in the playoff journey. The playoff beard is filling out nicely, but it also looks kind of stupid and is very itchy. I have thought about shaving it, or at least trimming it substantially, multiple times over the past ten days. But I'm worried that I would be defeating the purpose of the playoff beard were I to do so.

The Sabres' second-round series won't begin until at least next Friday. Would I be doing the franchise a major disservice if I were to trim between now and then, and then allow unmitigated growth once again during the next series? Would that be a lame-o's way out?

Let me know, kids. Buffalo's Stanley Cup hopes may depend on it.