Wrapping up last night

Turns out I was worried for nothing. Yesterday's booth mishap truly was not my fault. In fact I spent over two hours trying to track this stupid thing down and it can not be found. The guy at the warehouse was cool, admitted that it was his fault and said that we should put in a claim so we can get a new booth.

Moni was cool about it and tomorrow I'll be making the claim. What a pain in the ass though. Lots of melodrama for naught. But it's better than this being my fault and being in the soup.

I found out some good news on Friday afternoon. Looks like I don't have Grave's Disease after all. On Thursday night when I was talking to the doctor, he asked again if I have lost weight, had any shakes, etc. I told him no. He remarked that this was odd and told me to get another blood test just to be sure. This time my test were really good and he said not to go on any drugs and to see him in two months.

Not only was I pretty psyched, but my mother thought that this was the greatest news ever. I think she thought that I had one foot in the grave (pun intended).

This afternoon on TimQuinn.com, I wrote this:

I'm nervous.

I'm very nervous.

First-date nervous.

And it's all about a situation 500 miles away between a group of 18 men that I have zero control over.

I have an intese hatred of the letters N and Y, so much so that when I see it interlocked on a field of dark blue, I want to puke.

The Boston Red Sox and the New York Yankees are playing tonight and I can't concentrate on any work that I have in front of me ... which is a shame because I have a lot.

My roommate asked me to watch the game at a local bar, but I don't know if I want to do that ... I'm that nervous.

When I get nervous, I use the same words a lot.

Here's the thing though: I wouldn't change this feeling for anything in the world. I love baseball and I love the playoffs, and I especially love when the Sox and Yankees collide for seven out of the next ten nights. It's a cliche, but it is the pinnacle in sports. Two vastly different teams with contrasting attitudes on what it means to be a "professional" are duking it out for bragging rights.

Think that the Yanks don't care about the Sox, ask a Yankee fan to give you their favorite moment of the World Series last year. They can't. And it's not because they lost either. It's because they didn't care who won or lost. The World Series ended early on October 17.

A new cast of characters only makes the rivalry more intense. I love it. I can't wait. But I'm still nervous.

Go Sox.

Right now, I feel sick. The Sox are getting their asses kicked 8-0, Mike Mussina is throwing a PERFECT GAME, and the Fox announcers are acting like their old obnoxious selves. It's literally a hat-trick of suckatude. Oh yeah, Schilling's ankle is really bugging him too and he left the game after three craptacular innings.

This is what happens with the New England fans (including me): the Sox do something really cool (let's say sweeping the Angels) and everyone loses their shit. I mean completely. Their expectations are so high, there is nothing realistic about them. The Sox, being humans, can't reach the heights that the fans set for them. This sets the pendulum in the opposite direction. People are on the brink of suicide and the next few days are as terrible as the previous days were glorious.

At least Mark Bellhorn broke up the no-hitter. And Ortiz got a hit.

Right now, I'm obviously watching this game in my bedroom, about an hour ago Eddie invited me down to this bar about three blocks from the house called Olde Magoun's Saloon. It's cool, typical Irish bar, serves Guinness has a few nice TVs, etc. I was there with Mark (my old roommate) and Josh. Unfortunately I had to sit next to Josh.

I've known this guy, hell I've lived with this guy for almost two years and you would think that I just met him. He's such a fucking stiff. Never says anything. You try to start a conversation with him he answers with one words. I'm not looking to yak it up with Jay Leno, but I mean show some kind of personality. I figured that since the Sox were getting their ass kicked, I was paying for beers (the bar tender had a shitty Guinness pours) and wasn't talking to anyone anyway, I might as well go home.

Mark is a cool guy, I would've been happier (and probably stayed longer) had I been able to sit next to him or Eddie. But Josh ends up pissing me off. I've spoken to Ed about it here and there and he said, "That's just the way he is" and Josh has even said that he isn't very good socially. Whatever. If you know you're being a dick and you still act like a dick, then you're just a dick no matter how intellectual you think that you are.

Another reason why I left is because I'm fucking exhausted. It wasn't just the uncertainty of my job and the booth stuff, it was something else. Another something a bit smaller, but just as much as a pain in the ass. We have a mouse in our house. And last night, that little fucker was as loud as a brass band. In fact, while I was typing this Blog, that little shit ran into Eddie's room.

It's a black thing about an inch long.

But I'm going to get it. I bought six "cartoon" traps and set up four in my bedroom, two in Ed's room and I also have two poison pellet traps in my room. That piece of crap is leaving this house in a mini body bag.

BTW, the Sox have scored five in the seventh. Now the Yanks trot out their tenor to sing "God Bless America". Basically they freeze the opposing pitcher under the guise of patriotism. This is such a bullshit Republican move, it isn't funny. I fucking hate the Yankees, their false patriotism and everything about them.