I am addicted to sports talk radio.
Addicted.
It started during football season (I love football), but somehow, it has steamrolled into an everyday obsession. I sometimes enjoy basketball, thought I hadn't liked the NBA for years - until recently when those guys stopped playing like spoiled brats in a gym and started running like men on a hot, outdoor, asphalt court with something to prove.
But I digress.
And not just an ordinary obsession where I want to listen all the time. The kind of obsession that makes other people say "whoa". The kind of obsession where you get angry when, instead of hearing Mike and Mike, you hear Mike and Josh, or Doug and Mike, or The Herd is with John Seibel, not Colin Cowherd.
I need it to be Colin Cowherd!
And I feel left out when I hear a clip from a show I didn't get to listen to. Or I start to muse on the actuality of Reggie Miller and Dan Patrick's relationship.
I want to know it ALL.
But I won't subscribe to ESPN Insider because that's not how I want to spend my money.
Ah well, who knows. Maybe this obsession will only last 6 months, like my country obsession.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Friday, March 16, 2007
Big Wheels Keep On Turning
It is amazing how easy driving is, how easy it is to speed, how easy it is to get into a head exploding tizzy fit when other people don't speed... I got my driver's license when I was 22 years old. Too old to be afraid of speed, but I was. I know, some of you who know me will be amazed. Anyone who has been a passenger has, at one time or another, feared for their lives. When I first started driving, however, I was a Sunday driver everyday. My mom taught me to drive and, being that she is almost exactly like me, was the worst teacher ever. When I drive, my goal is to get to the destination the fastest with the fewest lights. It boggles my mind that other drivers don't think like this. For my mom, her goal was to have as smooth a ride as possible (I think) and that was just not possible with a girl who, when the speedometer got a little on the plus of 25, would kinda start to freak. Freaking meant frequent brake stepping and then speeding back up again. Which would bring more comment from the single peanut in the gallery which would just be sheer torture for me. It was not pretty. It was so bad, I had to get someone else to teach me how to parallel park. My mom is an awesome driver. She can backwards drive like nobody's business (she could take Mater). She's good at parallel parking as well, but can you imagine me, Nervous Nelly, trying to place a big ol' Dodge Caravan between two cars when I didn't have my driving eyes yet, and my mom, aka older, impatient me, was my teacher? No. I learned in a little Honda Civic from a friend at church. Armed with my grit my teeth and bear it approach to learning from my mom and the ease of parallel parking from Jen. A. and my superior day before the test memorization of the driving manual, I was handed a license a mere 6 hours after I'd gotten there. I got to drive home... on the interstate!!! I went over 50 miles per hour for the first time behind the wheel. I wasn't quite doing the speed limit and I was in the fast lane. I apologize. But I was driving on the interstate and that was a big deal. Now, while it's no big deal, I still get a kick out of remembering.
Now, I feel like I drive with my eyes closed. Which should be dangerous, but turns out not to be. Most of my drive I could probably do in my sleep. I take different ways just to spice up the drive. I carefully plan my course like some sort of army sergeant. I have plan B driving paths. I am so anal. But it is a pleasing endeavor. That is where I find joy, getting to my destination with minimal stops and praise be to God if I don't find myself behind someone who thinks it's safer to go 30 miles under the speed limit.
I have to admit, though, since I've gotten married, my husband had been pumping gas for me and I find that I will do anything in my power to not be the one that has to pump the gas. It's a quirk. I've learned to love it.
The other day, I realized, as I sped between Ma and Paw Sunday Driver and Memaw and all the others, that I was much more at ease with speed. I found going 25 so mind numbingly slow that I try my best to always be 10 miles over the limit. I don't fear the ticket. Sometimes, it's worth it for the speed. So I drive every day, the same way with the same destinations in mind and I'm glad that, though driving came late, it did finally show it's face and that makes me happy.
Now, I feel like I drive with my eyes closed. Which should be dangerous, but turns out not to be. Most of my drive I could probably do in my sleep. I take different ways just to spice up the drive. I carefully plan my course like some sort of army sergeant. I have plan B driving paths. I am so anal. But it is a pleasing endeavor. That is where I find joy, getting to my destination with minimal stops and praise be to God if I don't find myself behind someone who thinks it's safer to go 30 miles under the speed limit.
I have to admit, though, since I've gotten married, my husband had been pumping gas for me and I find that I will do anything in my power to not be the one that has to pump the gas. It's a quirk. I've learned to love it.
The other day, I realized, as I sped between Ma and Paw Sunday Driver and Memaw and all the others, that I was much more at ease with speed. I found going 25 so mind numbingly slow that I try my best to always be 10 miles over the limit. I don't fear the ticket. Sometimes, it's worth it for the speed. So I drive every day, the same way with the same destinations in mind and I'm glad that, though driving came late, it did finally show it's face and that makes me happy.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
The Little You Know
Right now, I am listening to a girl I used to work with singing on her myspace page. It is myspace.com/ohdorian. I am a big fan of female singer songwriters - Neko Case, Emiliana Torrini, Lucinda Williams, Mindy Smith on occassion - and Oh Dorian has just been added.
Heather Kemp is a little bit of a girl, a fireball in a way, but quiet as well. We worked together and I was her manager. What made it frustrating for her to work with me is that management had not made any official declarations of who would be in charge in the store, only asking me to keep things in line since I was the senior member of the staff. There were little things I was nit-picky about, things that would interrupt busy times and cost money -only cents, I'm sure- but over time a cost that would add up while being completely unnecessary. Because of the nit-picking, we had a strained working relationship although I like Heather a lot. She had her own sense of style, her own way of getting to the heart of things. She took things with a laugh and generally had a smile on her face. She worked hard, which should have been commended, but I was too new to know anything except how to talk about what was going wrong. Outside of work, we were strangers in a sense, the kind that feel that should stop and talk to each other, but at the same time, were eager to get away as soon as the silence reached 2 seconds. I heard that she had begun singing and playing and I wanted to go check her out, but I haven't had the chance. I even delayed listening to her site, even though it was easy to do. For the last couple of weeks, I've seen her everywhere and I guess we've seen each other out of our normal context. I think, in a way, it has been refreshing to each of us because we've had a delight in seeing each other in a way we never had before.
So I decided to hit her site. I was blown away. It just proves how little you know about the people around you, their dreams and aspirations. Her talent is evident. Her voice isn't vampish, as if she wants to claim some title that Brittney Spears left behind. Sometimes it's as clear as a bell, wafting through the air, reverberating through you in waves. Sometimes it's gritty as if what she has to say is too tough and if she didn't have music, she wouldn't be saying it at all. She plays both piano and guitar and each add its own element to the music. She uses the music to give a prelude of the song and her voice is singer and instrument as well, the way the words flow, the way she structures them. She has a song that reminds me of Tori Amos and though I have not always liked Tori Amos, she does the style that I do like from her. She combines her influences, never imitating them dead on, but mixing them in interesting ways. As I sit and listen, I love her voice and I want to hear more.
So many people have talents. I enjoy writing, but there are people who know me, even people who know that I write, who have no idea how hard I have worked and am working to become this elusive thing called Writer. There are people around Heather right now that don't know that she has this talent. She works with them, among them, being normal, chipper. This Friday, I'm going to learn this other side of her, the side called Musician, and if her website is any indication, I will love it.
She plays at 550 Blues at 9pm on Friday March, 9. 550 Blues is on Riverside Drive between MLK and First street.
Heather Kemp is a little bit of a girl, a fireball in a way, but quiet as well. We worked together and I was her manager. What made it frustrating for her to work with me is that management had not made any official declarations of who would be in charge in the store, only asking me to keep things in line since I was the senior member of the staff. There were little things I was nit-picky about, things that would interrupt busy times and cost money -only cents, I'm sure- but over time a cost that would add up while being completely unnecessary. Because of the nit-picking, we had a strained working relationship although I like Heather a lot. She had her own sense of style, her own way of getting to the heart of things. She took things with a laugh and generally had a smile on her face. She worked hard, which should have been commended, but I was too new to know anything except how to talk about what was going wrong. Outside of work, we were strangers in a sense, the kind that feel that should stop and talk to each other, but at the same time, were eager to get away as soon as the silence reached 2 seconds. I heard that she had begun singing and playing and I wanted to go check her out, but I haven't had the chance. I even delayed listening to her site, even though it was easy to do. For the last couple of weeks, I've seen her everywhere and I guess we've seen each other out of our normal context. I think, in a way, it has been refreshing to each of us because we've had a delight in seeing each other in a way we never had before.
So I decided to hit her site. I was blown away. It just proves how little you know about the people around you, their dreams and aspirations. Her talent is evident. Her voice isn't vampish, as if she wants to claim some title that Brittney Spears left behind. Sometimes it's as clear as a bell, wafting through the air, reverberating through you in waves. Sometimes it's gritty as if what she has to say is too tough and if she didn't have music, she wouldn't be saying it at all. She plays both piano and guitar and each add its own element to the music. She uses the music to give a prelude of the song and her voice is singer and instrument as well, the way the words flow, the way she structures them. She has a song that reminds me of Tori Amos and though I have not always liked Tori Amos, she does the style that I do like from her. She combines her influences, never imitating them dead on, but mixing them in interesting ways. As I sit and listen, I love her voice and I want to hear more.
So many people have talents. I enjoy writing, but there are people who know me, even people who know that I write, who have no idea how hard I have worked and am working to become this elusive thing called Writer. There are people around Heather right now that don't know that she has this talent. She works with them, among them, being normal, chipper. This Friday, I'm going to learn this other side of her, the side called Musician, and if her website is any indication, I will love it.
She plays at 550 Blues at 9pm on Friday March, 9. 550 Blues is on Riverside Drive between MLK and First street.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
11
It was 1994, the summer before I went to college. OJ Simpson ruined the basketball playoffs, baseball was talking strikes and football wouldn't start until later that year. There were no good sports on the telly, so I tried a sport I had never looked into. Hockey.
What can I say? I was in the south. Hockey has not made its way to this area. We didn't have an NHL team. We didn't have any area rinks. Truth be told, we were all a little afraid of snow. We had a storm the year before all the 12 incheswe got was enough to make many people thank God that that type of blizzard only happened once every 20 years.
To be fair, I have a history of liking things my fellow southerns could care less about. I was a big fan of soccer. I was number 11, played the left wing position and my coach called me "the angel of death". What can I say, I was aggressive. I was one of six girls on our boys team and I loved it. After OJ took his sweet, ever loving, time driving around his city, right in the middle of the finals and I'm watching him do 10mph while while a small PIP continues b-ball coverage. I think we can all agree, not the same. I had to find something else and the Stanley Cup gave my that something.
I watched the Rangers play for the Stanley Cup. I had no clue what any of it was all about. I didn't know the rules. I just liked it. I always pick a player that I root for and so I picked someone with my number. It was Mark Messier. I didn't know anything about him, his history with the Oilers, his status as a player. I just knew I liked watching him play. He was aggressive and he was fast and his Rangers won that Cup. It was exciting to watch it all.
My family thought I was crazy, but that was okay. I moved to Boston, MA a few months later for school and fell in love with the Boston University hockey team, my home team. As an homage to hockey and to my number, I found a Mark Messier poster. It hung on my wall until it was destroyed during a move. I don't know if I was as much a Messier fan (though he deserved it) as I was paying respect to the person and the number, but I know that watching Messier play set the tone for watching hockey.
In January, the Rangers retired number 11. A few days ago, the Oilers did the same thing. Reading that story made me remember just how much I owe my love of hockey to that number.
What can I say? I was in the south. Hockey has not made its way to this area. We didn't have an NHL team. We didn't have any area rinks. Truth be told, we were all a little afraid of snow. We had a storm the year before all the 12 incheswe got was enough to make many people thank God that that type of blizzard only happened once every 20 years.
To be fair, I have a history of liking things my fellow southerns could care less about. I was a big fan of soccer. I was number 11, played the left wing position and my coach called me "the angel of death". What can I say, I was aggressive. I was one of six girls on our boys team and I loved it. After OJ took his sweet, ever loving, time driving around his city, right in the middle of the finals and I'm watching him do 10mph while while a small PIP continues b-ball coverage. I think we can all agree, not the same. I had to find something else and the Stanley Cup gave my that something.
I watched the Rangers play for the Stanley Cup. I had no clue what any of it was all about. I didn't know the rules. I just liked it. I always pick a player that I root for and so I picked someone with my number. It was Mark Messier. I didn't know anything about him, his history with the Oilers, his status as a player. I just knew I liked watching him play. He was aggressive and he was fast and his Rangers won that Cup. It was exciting to watch it all.
My family thought I was crazy, but that was okay. I moved to Boston, MA a few months later for school and fell in love with the Boston University hockey team, my home team. As an homage to hockey and to my number, I found a Mark Messier poster. It hung on my wall until it was destroyed during a move. I don't know if I was as much a Messier fan (though he deserved it) as I was paying respect to the person and the number, but I know that watching Messier play set the tone for watching hockey.
In January, the Rangers retired number 11. A few days ago, the Oilers did the same thing. Reading that story made me remember just how much I owe my love of hockey to that number.
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