Much Too Much

I am a terrible diarist, so I guess it follows that I am not so hot in the upkeep of the blog, either. But whatever- all 4 of you reading this probably already know what’s going on with me anyway, right? But ah- the self-indulgence is too difficult to resist! And so I shall write a bit on the following Topics . . .

Southern Regionals in Orlando, FL


No one is expendable. Except Chris Sears, apparently.

So yeah- Rival is not going to Nationals. I have to say that for me personally, it’s somewhat of a relief. I don’t think I could have asked my boss for any more time off for Ultimate. However, it was disappointing to finally see some glimpses of greatness in our collective game and then realize that the season was over. Losing to Shotgun did not feel like a loss, really, because we finally started playing Our Game, and that felt like a rather enormous victory.

My final reflection on Rival is this: initially, from what I understand, the founding fathers of Rival really wanted a team with no superstars. Having not played year 2 with Rival, I can’t say for sure, but by comparison with year 1, year 3 is the closest we have ever come to that reality. I really can’t pick a single man or woman on the team as our Absolute Stud (well, Wood might be close (if he was a little bit taller (huzzah!))), and that is certainly not true of some of our regular opponents. I believe in this philosophy, because any superstar can be trumped by any other superstar who is slightly more super. The benefit of having an “everyone contributes” style team is that you have a deep bench, you can interchange players, injuries aren’t as devastating, you can adapt to various superstars, etc. BUT- it’s not easy, and it takes time to develop the “team’s game.” For this reason, I am not disappointed with my season, nor am I really that disappointed in losing to Shotgun (except that we had them totally beat- it’s the non-continuation of the beating that disappoints, the non-puttage of nails in the coffin).

Mount Everest

It turns out that an Outdoor Emory Organization compatriot of mine, Trevor Stokol, disappeared near base camp on Mt. Everest. Unfortunately, he has been missing since July and, at this point, is presumed dead. As a one-time housemate of Drew Levine, Matt Trapp, and Matt Klenk, I do believe he occasionally partook of the Ultimate as well.

I did not really know him well enough to justify a true eulogy. My last firm memory of him was at a get together at my house back on Ridgewood in 2001. He was sad because my dearest housemate, Erin Quist (now Coker), had left town for the summer and he had a thing for her legs. So, I let him count the ways that he loved Erin’s legs for a while, and then later I caught him running around the front yard in a pair of her high heels.

So . . . yeah, not much of eulogy, eh? It’s totally weird, though, and very sad. Please, dear readers, if you decide to go hiking in a dangerous place (geographically, politically, or hey- how about both?)- don’t go by yourself. You can read more about Trevor here, and you can read about his family and their time in Nepal searching for him here.

Serenity


Beware the slightly super-powered ballerina in boots.

So. Good. I will most certainly be seeing this in the theater again. At least once. Summer Glau is definitely a nominee for the Epitome of Female Beauty contest should it ever be revisited. What do you do when you hire a prima ballerina with serious acting chops? Give her plenty of opportunities to do amazing things with her body on screen, of course! Did I mention that I love Joss Whedon? Summer Glau is just one of many reasons why.

Dinner and a Second Mortgage


Bryan "W" Bradford. The "W" is for "Word Power," not "Whitey."

My friend Elliot called me yesterday to invite me to “dinner at PieBar, and then maybe drinks, and then end up at the Pony” to celebrate the arrival of some out of town guests. I was secretly crossing my fingers that at least one of these guests would be the inimitable Bryan Bradford, and I was indeed rewarded for said finger-crossing. Unfortunately (or fortunately, as the culinary case may be made), PieBar was closed for a private party, which led us instead back to Inman Park and over to Rathbun’s. 3 hours and $400 later, as we battled food coma in an effort to pay The Bill, the crazy gents at the table decided that we might best settle up by playing a simple game of Credit Card Roulette. I was most happy to poop all over this idea. Still, if you hear a wailing sound coming from my purse, that would be my wallet. It has been filleted. I also had to pass on the Pink Pony visit, although I was quite interested to see if the bachelorette party sitting across the restaurant that my table invited along ended up showing.

My Boss

He is great! The problem is that he prefers to be called my “co-worker.” Thus, I have instituted a policy of using finger quotations from this point on whenever I introduce him to people as my “co-worker,” since he just happens to have somehow acquired boss-ly duties such as conducting my performance reviews, approving my vacation requests, and, in general, telling me what to do all the time.

Aaaaand . . . I’m spent.