Dwindle to Static

Now that I work in radio (work in the loosest sense of the word) I listen to it more than I already did. It's benefiting me seemingly no end. Before I started here, the classical station we produce barely came in back home on Parker. Now, it comes in crystal clear. I mostly listen at work now. It is, after all, a good policy not to bring the office home with you. Sadly, public radio can get a little mundane before 1 o'clock so I often find myself listening to WBZ 1030.

"Commercial radio."

It's like a slur around here. There's normal guys then there's "commercial guys." Commercial guys are apparently very loud, abrasive and want money more than anything. It sort of hurts when I hear people say it. They're slandering my warm wake-up call. They're demonizing my favorite non-human co-pilot. When I hear them talking this way, I usually lower my head past my cubicle walls and turn down my streamer. I know I'm wearing headphones, but what if they can still here the cheesy theme for Traffic on the 3s buzzing out of my ears.

WBZ was all I had first semester of freshman year. I didn't have a TV until December so my ancient clock radio was my real roommate. On my really low days, I'd lay in bed far after the alarm went off and just listen to the news reports until they switched anchors mid-day.

The traffic report always gets me. It makes me feel like I should be driving. No matter how horrible the traffic is on Rt. 3 or 93 north, I wish I was either in the thick of it and groaning or somewhere far off thinking "Thank goodness I'm not in that mess!" or "Man, I'm making great time."

Eventually, in this imaginary drive, I go too far north and start to lose the signal. It gets me every time. "I thought every one got 'BZ!" I'll shout at my radio. As the signal dwindles to static, I feel far from home. I sigh to myself, then scan the dial...trying to find the local NPR affiliate...

A History/Mercy

It was very long ago, when the winters were crisper, the trees were taller, and the night sky was always clear. We cut across backyards, searching for the moonlight that guided us towards the water.

"Don't worry. No one's home."

Eager to follow. Eager to do right.

"Which one is stuck in your head now?"
"Rebellion."
"Me too."

Lips tasted so new. Music sounded so new.

* * *

"What you mean you don't like it?"
"It's too poppy."
"Of course it's poppy, it's POP music."
"Yeah but it's too old. It doesn't sound right."
"Don't you realize this is one of the most important albums of the 1980s?"
"Do you hear yourself? 80s music sucks!"
"But this is important!"
"It's not a hit against you. We just don't like it."
"But it's important..."

Office Dullard

Can someone tell me why all the championship swag for the Bruins is really lame? They're all understated and poorly designed. There were seven games in the series. That gave designers at least two weeks to come up with something neat-o. All I want is a giant neon yellow hoodie that has Marchand punching the Sedin sisters in the dick. Is that too much to ask for?

$50 for a t-shirt and hat in Fanuiel Hall is highway robbery.
$50 for a t-shirt and hat in Downtown Crossing is a deal...when you throw in meeting Patrice Bergeron.

Yeah...that happened.

It's been pretty busy at GBH today (yeah that's a thing too now) but right now having a bit of a lull and now the e-mail refuses to work. As a result, I've started and stopped three different crosswords, watched the "Don't Give UP" video twice, and now getting choked up watching "Nothing Compares 2 U." It's so easy to forget how fucking amazing that tune is.

Guess I should go find something non-profity to do. Like...get a tote bag...or...eh screw it. Peter Gabriel is far more entertaining.

Three by Four

by Kat Hornstein, Joe Favini, T. Kane Stanton, and Tom Wickersham

i-
Better late than never
She looked like she could sell watches in the Sears catalog
Few knew he, 'ere I slew me
skinny ties, patent leather. world war II.
Hold them high, Henry! Don't give her a Chance
I ate the cherry. Indict me if you like.
Defend the devil with wistfulness, maneuver-once
it's an aesthetic? no, it's a typewriter.

ii-
Am I pale? No, I can't be.
I will not negotiate with a ruddy cookie terrorist. ever.
Ruddy milk mustache, ashen silken lashes
Fine. alright. I'm confident mine's better anyway.
For Christ's sake, am I ruddy or not?
Let's just put it this way my dear friend:
Ere I felt spacy, the day I offended Bill Macy's...complexion
I used to be seaworthy. Thought I still was, but I guess you all beg to differ.

iii-
Enjoy the cookies, you backstabbing fucks.
His tongue's a little itchy, but i swear he's a helluvaguy.
Discounted moon stairs? They got robbed.
I know karate I know kung-fu I know Margaret Atwood too.
You're welcome for the drinks too--shit-birds.
Baby, you know I'm not his keeper. Now come back to bed.
I'll be Abel this time.
Everything is a weird thing for you. I think we had sound.
Barrel chested Sampson ran out of good scotch hours ago
I was a man without a seatbelt. I reeked of squandered wit.
A spiral malt jungle busting into a Columbus skyline
For God's sake, at least be patriotic when you drink.
I feel forgotten, neglected, au gratin.

Victory

The Cup was always a thing of the past to me. The last time I cared about the quest for it was after Ray Bourque's bitter-sweet trade to Colorado in 2001. My dad was excited. I was excited too. The only thing that prevented full-out celebration was the jersey- a giant A where a giant B once was.

I still watched, halfheartedly so. The Sox win defined a new era, the Patriots started a new love of football, and even the Celtics got to have their say too. But I still thought of the Bruins. I thought of the Bobby Orr t-shirts that started to appear in Newbury Comic stores. I thought of the renaming of that area off Causeway back to the Gahhhden. When was it gonna be the B's turn? Has to happen sometime.

'09 looked good. '10 looked even better. '11 had to be the year.

And so it is. Tim Thomas giving a performance I'm going to tell my kids about. The sheer joy exhibited by Chara and Recchi. The disbelief on Seugin's face. The fireworks shot outside my friend's apartment window. Whether you're a hockey fan or not, this was a night for Boston. This was a night for us all.

90 Min to Go

Hockey, specifically the Bruins have always been part of my life. My dad taught me how to skate on the bog behind our house, there was a huge Bruins sticker on my bedroom door, I'd love watching the games on TV with my dad and as a result, I learned how to swear watching those games.

Yes friends, the Bruins in the mid 90s cause much cursing around New England. They haven't known the sweet taste of the finals since I was born...pretty much EXACTLY since I was born. Since I grew up in a place where hockey was important but the team was such a disappointment, the Cup was a mere fantasy to me. My dad would tell me of giants like Bobby Orr and Phil Espisito and the legendary Canadian holy grail steeped in tradition and superstition. It was all bedtime stories.

Tonight, it becomes a reality. Tonight, new stories will be created. Tonight begins a new journey with new giants of the ice. This is something I can be a part of just by living it.