Organized Chaos

My dearest reader,



as I sit here watching some hilarious new Dave Attell material, I reflect on the complexity of my weekend. It started off quickly on Friday when I rushed home to watch a substantial amount of television and recover the remnants of my ailing voice.

Not sure if you remember that I had a football game scheduled for Saturday, but I did, and it happened, so eat it. I arrived at the location about 2 hours early and panicked for about 2 hours. At the scheduled time, there was only me with one other person, who would destroy me in a game of 1 on 1 football, which would be a lot like American Gladiators. When the people finally started arriving, I was able to stop quivering, but I did deface a park monument... in a good way.



In my efforts to integrate the various groups of friends I had invited, I shared my newest reading material with the group. While many of them (all of them) mocked me and my heterosexual credentials for choosing the new Nicholas Sparks book, I felt my football playing amigos (and comrades) were secretly enchanted by the Notebook and were afraid to admit it (or at least they didn't hate it as much as they say they did). Of course, self-depricating humor is a great method of uniting a divided crowd, so with this orchestrated stroke, they could all relate to each other, if only to mock me for my effeminate reading material. So, my intricate strategy of easing everyone into a good mood worked. And yes, it was part of my plan to loosen the crowd.

Now, just because I planned the whole thing out and introduced the book to the group solely to make everyone feel at ease (and because it was a funny bit) does not mean that I'm not going to be reading the book and relishing every beautiful word in a silky bubble bath with a glass of red wine, while listening to Enya. I'm just kidding... I wouldn't drink red wine in the tub because of the danger of spillage... and white wine is better for my pores anyway.



The game itself was great because of the impressive turnout (15 people), warm temperatures (40's F.), some laid-back participants (hung-over players), competitive banter (trash talk), a muddy field (field was muddy), last second heroics (game came down to the last play), and nobody cried... after the first two plays... when we moved the baby out of the corner. (That's what we call Jennifer. Actually, not one Jennifer showed up.)



So, we took our "nobody crying" streak to a Mexican restaurant and had some drinks. Then, we went to an Irish pub to have some drinks. Then, we went to a bar of indeterminate heritage, to have some drinks. It was worth noting that the bartender had a phu man chu, which really highlighted his bright red hair. He also seemed to be one of the more unhappier people I have ever met because he combined a depressed look (slumped shoulders, teary eyes) with frustration (frequent sighing and lazy waving of his arms), and bitterness (scowling expression and gruff retorts). Or maybe I was just projecting. It was a fun place though, you should check it out. (See Papa Bear's New York Guide Book, a book which I am shamelessly plugging even though it does not exist and I have no intention or desire to write it.) But, importantly, I did find out that Hoboken is apparently the Paris of New Jersey, which of course is a dubious honor.



Overall, it was a good crew of people. It was sad that my friends (who were not part of the football team) wanted to be part of our team, but there are no spots open. So, you, Reader 212, are not invited either... and if I do invite you, don't tell those people. As we all parted, I went to watch the boxing match where I sat with 20 Americans, with just about every one of them rooting for some British jerk over a charismatic American jerk. Go figure.



Oh, and then Sunday happened. That was cool too.



Still correcting the paperwork of my life,

Mark stet Ellis