halloween...doesn't feel like it to me.

A long Saturday, which involved getting up at the crack of noon, followed by three or four hours of studying while half paying attention to football on espn/2, and ABC, I decided to go work out. Four and a half miles on the tread mill, weights, the usual. The people I meet while working out are always cool; frankly, any more than four hours of literary criticism and I get a little crazy. Suddenly, and with out warning, I will be inclined to analyze every word that comes from any person’s mouth with a preternatural ferocity as if they are the physical embodiment of narrative. And as a matter of fact, if you ever listen to what people say, there is a tendency for all language to be in some way anti-woman, anti-minority, anti-male, anti-poor, anti-homosexual, anti-geographical, or other wise against a group or belief structure. Maybe the whole English language in action is truly deconstructionist…a whole nation of haters—but that’s neither here nor there.

After working out for two hours or so, I was back home, bent on staying home and doing the school thing despite the fact that it’s Halloween and Saturday night. Sure, I have no costume, nor did I attempt to create one, but still, many parties abound. I made it till around eleven, and then the fact that I couldn’t get hold of anyone forced me to go ahead and not go out. Duh-duh-na-na-nuh…I drink alone….yeah with no body else…I’m not going to the bar alone, not crashing any parties—I didn’t feel much like a party anyhow, just feel obligated to go out on a Saturday is all.

But really, there are some things in the sports world happening that reflect real life. Teddy Bruschi is doing something that resonates with me for some reason.

Teddy, who has had heart surgery to repair a hole in his heart, and a mild freakin’ stroke in the last year, has decided to return to the NFL. For some reason, I have trouble seeing this in the normal awe-inspired cloud of reverence that most sports-guys are looking at this through. I am a huge sports fan, in particular football, (duh) but still, a hole in the heart? A fucking stroke? It’s just a game. And yes, he has been defined by this “game” for maybe his entire adult life, that’s not an easy thing to walk away from. But what about the rest of his life? I remember dad saying something about a study of O-linemen where they were able to find that when the ball is snapped their hearts skip a beat—stress comes in all forms, and the kind that most of us are used to is the kind that wears us down over many years. Causing lesser men to lose their hair, which may greatly improve their looks, but still shows us why men die before women. But in the case of these guys, the stress is instant, and exponential. So, why would you, after being a world class athlete, put yourself back into the lifestyle that nearly killed you

Hang on, there’s someone at the door………………………..*



[Editor’s Note]
At this point, Dom has decided to go out with his work friends Adrian and John. He left this blog in limbo until around three in the morning and was quickly aware that his fingers would not allow him to continue. After a long walk home from the party, and a long talk on the phone with Dan’o, he called it a night. We now rejoin his blog which is already in progress.


…………I think the point was something to the effect of how we as a people arbitrarily decide what is acceptable to die for. I guess it just seems to me that all this admiration for Bruschi is a bit misled. It’s all: “can Bruschi’s return help the Pat’s win another Super Bowl?” but no one wants to talk about what happens if the hole in his heart suddenly reopens, or he has another stroke, on the field. What if he dies on the field in front of millions of people? Undoubtedly, he would be considered a hero. But how that makes any one a hero is beyond me. I hope he does okay.



I hope y’all are doing okay too.

pawn brokering...a can of gas and a match wanted...you're not greek, your just an asshole...goalll!!!!!!!!!!!

So after about the nine-millionth time I saw the commercial for the pawn shop up the street, it dawned on me: I still have Shane’s stereo. I mean, lets face it, if he wanted me to give it back, he’s had something like two or three years to ask—and actually he forfeited that right the night at the Tiki Bar when he offered me a hundred bucks to yell “show me you tits for a beer!” at some girls going to their car in the parking lot. So I did it, of course, and he welshed, of course…ipso facto the stereo is mine. But the point is that I don’t need it any more, and I could always use an extra fifty bucks so I went off to do the old “I didn’t steal this, it belongs to me, truly” dance with the pawn shop man. But apparently here in Texas, or at least San Marcos, they want the stereo to be hooked up so they know it works. Because I am certain that every body in Texas drives right up to the pawn man and yanks the stereo out of the dash and runs inside for extra dip-money. But alas, I am still burdened with a stereo I don’t need, so I guess that’s that. Although I was tempted to say that they should be ashamed of themselves for denying the drug addicts and alcoholics of the area their god given right to sell off every possession possible to feed the monkey—surely that’s how Jesus himself intended it to be! He might as well get married to a man and kill a fetus for the wedding reception meal! But the wall that contains “100’s” of guns preempted any such shenanigans.

Normally I wouldn’t go into a pawn shop any how; no reason to. But the Charles Reinhart Co. has decided that despite its Ann Arbor address, they are in fact just another Ypsilanti slum-lord. I mean, most property owners would be tickled by their tenants putting a multi-thousand dollar paint job on the interior of their house. More still would rejoice in the fact that after four years of rent paid in full, and a now usable basement complete with painted walls (walls formerly known as “bare cinder blocks”) and carpeted floors(don’t forget the floor that was built over the worn mortar-mix floor of the past). But not this management company. No, they want to do things like take two-thirds of our security deposit from us. They charged us for the graffiti in the basement—the same basement that was unusable when we moved in. They charged us for “trash removal” not once, but twice. Justin went in and cleaned the house after he and Bruce were all moved out…so the amount they sent me (in Texas) was about the amount I was owed for my share. But as for Justin and Bruce (in Michigan), they don’t get a phone call. Mind you, that I told, and Justin told, the sketchy bitch that took over our account, mysteriously, just weeks before the end of lease, that she should address anything to Justin (in Michigan) because I, am in FUCKING TEXAS!!!!!! Disappointing. Truly. Now I am currently rolling around a crazy idea that falls under contract law in the “quasi contract” area where in there is protection against unethical enrichment at the expense of the contractor. I bet an invoice for 4 to 6 thousand dollars worth of services rendered would illustrate to the wonder Reinhart Realty CO. exactly why you don’t put a person who knows nothing about the situation to settle an account that has been built into a relationship between the tenant, property manager, and even Dick Pierce, the property owner.

I talked to Shell this afternoon, apparently there had been some concern about me dating sorority girls or something. Although the thought has crossed my mind, “dating” isn’t the verb I would use to describe it. Have you every noticed that for the most part, and there is very few exceptions to speak of, my experience with speaking to so-hoe’s is that I try to make the language colloquial enough to emulate their frat-like counter-parts without having to drink enough lead paint to actually make the transformation complete. All the while, their strange preternatural commitment toward unrealistic politeness keeps them engaged with me in conversation long enough for them to figure out: “did he say he was a Sig Tau, or Sig Ep? I hope he’s not a Teke.” I usually lose them when I tell them I’m a member of the Fraternal Order of the Kindergarten Crew…like a led zeppelin, that’s how it goes over.

In fact, I don’t even know where the Greeks live around here. I mean, it seems to me that from coast to coast, there is always a row full big house's, falling into disrepair, held together by only caulk and dried beer with giant letters on the façade. But not so much around here, not that I can see any way. But they probably do exist; there are so damn many people rocking carbon copied Greek-T’s on campus that I can only conclude that they must live here or else they wouldn’t bother with the major commute. Honestly, you know if they are coming in from out of town, they all live in the same place outside of town.

Bizarre things go through my mind in the one-man show that I call “my apartment.” Things like: if they’re so proud of their cowboy image down here, why am I the only one wearing a big cowboy hat around here? Must be the fact that I’m not in touch with my hair follicles…they packed their shit and left town when they found out I had committed to my beard back in high school.

What the hell happened to Michigan football? 3-3? Honestly, I leave town and all hell breaks loose. I was operating the score board at the Women’s Soccer game last Sunday, and part of the job entails counting shots on goal. As the ref was calling a bad game (and he was) the Louisiana-Monroe fans were a bit restless. One of them, probably in his mid sixties, turned to me and commented that he thought I wasn’t keeping track of the shots correctly. “Home cooking” is what he said. Shots on goal? I told him not to worry about some kind of rivalry, “I’m from Michigan” I said. “Your Wolverines are sucking corral water!” was the strange Louisiana response. My boss was stabbing me in the side from behind; “those aren’t the official stats sir” is what my boss said. I was ready to say something more along the lines of: “when you are the most winning team in division 1A history, you don’t sweat a bad season” or “you should talk about drinking corral water, you would be the foremost expert—hello? Katrina? God hates Louisiana as much as I do!” But I think that would likely have resulted in my losing my job…and having to beat the mortal shit out of an old man and many other people at a Women’s Soccer game. What football has to do with soccer I don’t know; why drive from Louisiana to Texas to talk about football, in a division that your school is not a part of is beyond me. The Bobcat Women’s Soccer team won the game in the first overtime…I know you were wondering.

not Missing, just In-Action...or why my mom feels neglected

well, despite the fact that i had to work for just shy of twelve hours on saturday, ABC didn't broadcast the UM-MSU game any how. i couldn't watch it even if i had the day off. Dan and Mike were in Ann Arbor at "The Arena Bar" where we like to watch the big games if not at Dad's. so there are my brothers, watching the second strait year with overtime ending in victory for my suffering (if not a bit dissapointing) wolverines without me. Dan was my only connection to the game, leaving me somewhere around fifteen messages throughout the game. i was at the varsity women's vollyball game against Nicholls State University, followed by mens Football against South Dakota State. it's cool being able to combine sports with the absolute nessesity that is a job...i just feel a bit lonely when i can't watch my team play the big ones.

really, i had to stop maintaining connections so closely with home. i mean, mom isn't the only one giving me a hard time about being "neglected." Gabe stopped leaving me silly messages about me not calling enough, because: "I know it's hard to make a new life so far from every one when every one is constantly reminding you that you belong back here." Gabe's insight was bitter sweet: it's accurate, and i miss thursday night dinner and 100 oz beer towers in farmington...his wife ain't bad either.

i guess it's just important for me to say that i'm not trying to ignore any one, or push any one away. it's been hard for me to drag my ass out of my apartment and do things alone. i don't feel like the most approachable guy in the world (think large, tattooed, skin-headed appearance, with a resting facial expression of anything from total dismay down to flat out furious). but i'm here, and i like it here.

so. i'm not trying to be neglectful. i just hope that everyone can go for a few weeks without an update and still feel confident that we wont have lost our connection, because i feel like all my connections are stronger than that.