Bingham Cup II

There is a really good article about the cup (with photos) at Outsports. Also, my friend Stuff, who's in China right now, said there was a news report on TV over there. Weird, no?

Bingham Cup

I'm sunburnt and thoroughly exhausted, but I had a great weekend. While Gotham didn't do as well as I'd hoped, they played hard and are much stronger as a team. Now we just have to start working toward winning Bingham 2008. At least the SF Fog didn't win; the Sydney Convicts did. Since they were rather attractive and friendly, I'm okay with that.

The various events were okay, though extremely expensive ($9 for a mixed drink?!?!). Needless to say, I'll be conserving my money for a while.

The closing night party at Webster Hall was a lot of fun; I even danced, which I rarely ever do.

Now it's time to start getting in shape for the fall season. Come hell or high water, I plan on playing.

I'm stuck here forever

So after three really good interviews at the new company, the last, and sadly most crucial, had me basically looking like a glorified secretary. It's a bad start when the guy who is interviewing you, and who is the one who will ultimately decide if you get hired, starts by saying, "I want an attorney in this position, why should I give it to you instead?"

I can do my job. I'm really good at my job. I've won awards for doing my job. So why in the fuck can't I seem to explain why I'm good at my job?

If I can hold on through the night . . .

Last night I watched the first half of The Poseidon Adventure, killing time while waiting for Lost to start.

I realized that I am turning into Red Button's character, Mr. Martin: alone, odd, fussy (though, God willing, I will never wear a cravat). Granted, I'm built more like Ernest Borgnine or Shelly Winters, but in the water, I'm a very skinny lady.

P.S. Did anyone else think that Roddy McDowall looked kinda hot in that movie? No? Okay, it was just me, I guess.

Hog Heaven

This weekend not only features the Bingham Cup Rugby Tournament (which, alas, I am not competing in . . . didn't make the cut this year) but it also is the first weekend of Fleet Week.

Six hundred gay rugby players, probably an equal number of closeted sailors, and I still probably won't get laid.

Maybe I should just go to seminary.

What's the word I'm looking for . . . ?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And that, gentle readers, is my day in a nutshell.

Rugby

Last night I remembered why I like to play rugby. Very few things feel better than grabbing some guy around the thighs and smashing him into the mud. Since this was only my third practice this season and I haven't played any games in quite a while, I haven't done any tackling in a long time. It's physically demanding. It hurts. But, God in heaven, it rocks.

After last night's practice, I was bleeding, bruised and dirty. I was also exhausted from all the running. But I felt good. Elated. After I showered and put ointment on my cuts (the soil on Randall's Island is basically half toxic mud and half goose shit), I felt the best I have in a long time.

I also slept better last night than I have in months.

Granted, when I woke up this morning, I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. My right knee doesn't seem to want to bend. I have a welt on my thigh that is turning all sorts of interesting colors. My legs are scraped up. My shoulder is red and tender. My biceps just plain hurt. And my back has more knots than an Afgan rug. But despite all that (and maybe because of it), I still feel great.

I have a lot of training to do before fall season, but for the first time in a while, I'm really looking forward to it.

I Kind of Miss the Zombies

As has been mentioned on these pages (screens?) numerous times, when my mind is in turmoil, I have zombie dreams.

Well, that seems to have changed. Recently, I've started getting visits from my dead grandfather. I'm not sure what the dreams mean or even what has been happening in them. Like a light frost at daybreak, these dreams melt away once I begin to wake up. All I'm left with is a sense of longing and an undercurrent of dread.

Recently death seems to be playing a big part of my dreams. I wish I knew what was up with that.

Spell Check, stat!

From the New York Times online edition (I won't link since they'll probably fix it quickly):

U.S. Restores Dimplomatic Ties to Libya
By JOHN O'NEIL
Published: May 15, 2006

Dimplomacy - The art or practice of conducting international relations, as in negotiating alliances, treaties, and agreements, using nothing but a cute smile.

Empty Wallet

I discovered a Michael's, Home Depot, Staples and Best Buy all within walking distance (a bit of a hike, but not too bad) of my apartment. Between this discovery and the fact that I spent the weekend cleaning and organizing, my apartment is starting to look pretty good.

I also took some art to a framing store so I'll actually have something on the walls soon.

Soon I may even start having people over for dinner or movies.

Well, baby steps.

So f*cking tired

I'm so tired. I can't seem to fall asleep. I'm swamped at work. I've got a bunch of reviews to write. I've got a bunch of other writing to do.

Arrggh.

I need a vacation.

In the news

The Associated Press had an article about Lewis, a cat that has been terrorizing its neighbors.

Here is some of the text:

The neighbors said Lewis' long claws, along with catlike stealth, have allowed the cat to attack at least a half dozen people and ambush the Avon lady as she was getting out of her car.

Catlike? It's not catlike . . . it's a cat. Does no one use the word 'feline' any more?