the relocation, donuts, and the sox

What follows is my first real blog entry in probably four years, so I'm rusty and boring as shit. Be forewarned. It'll get better (because I doubt this can be worse, unless I post drunk, which I should do someday when I'm really, REALLY bored).

***

I am settling in, slowly but surely.

First of all, I miss Portland. Actually, first of all, I still miss Boston, but having finally gotten used to west coast life, I really miss Portland - especially its dramatically cheaper cost of living.

That said, my neighborhood is great - quiet townhouses surrounded by trees and lawns (except for my neighbor's front door, which apparently sticks, as it's slammed shut REPEATEDLY every night. Not that I notice.). There's gotta be some kind of Wisteria Lane-ish scandal around here somewhere. It's too quiet for there not to be. Or we're built on an Indian burial ground. Take your pick.

There's a Dunkin Donuts within walking distance - something sorely lacking in Portland. On the other hand, if you go in on the weekend, there's a line of 8-10 people, each yelling over the person in front of him trying to get out the door as quickly as possible. Mounds of sugar make people a bit more aggressive, I suppose. I'll take it, though, especially since it's open 24 hours and has Chocolate Cream donuts readily available. For those not in the know, Chocolate Cream donuts are like eating a sugar coated donut filled with pudding. They're horrible for you, and they sit in your stomach like a bowling ball, but for non-athletes like me, they go down nice and tasty, and with little regret.

There's also a Starbucks, but it's not a store, just one of the kind you find tucked inside the corner of a Supermarket. I've been hesitant to go there because I'm afraid this mutant offspring of a coffee stand will somehow not make the product right, but mostly because the novelty of Dunkin being available to me again hasn't worn off yet (and likely won't for some time to come). Back in Portland, Starbucks are literally found every other block in some areas (much in the same way that Dunkins is spaced out here in the northeast).

The biggest change so far, aside from being temporarily unemployed and not knowing a single person in this entire state other than Nicole, is that we're officially in the suburbs. I'm a city person. Always have been. When I lived in Boston, I walked everywhere. When I lived in Portland, I walked everywhere. I can walk here, too ... but there's really nowhere to go (aside from you know where, which could get dangerous). Given enough wandering time, I'm sure I'll find someplace good to explore. I hope.

On the plus side, as compared to Portland, I haven't run across a single panhandler or kid with magic marker designs on his (or her) face asking for change. Foot-for-foot, Portland is officially the beggingest city I've ever seen. It was always tough adjusting and dealing with that whole side of life: I'm far from rich, but I always have a couple of bucks in my pocket. While I want to be generous and try to help those who need help, there's a degree of frustration in knowing that many of these people refuse to help even themselves to get out of that lifestyle. Anyway, point being: I'm not harassed every 25 feet here like I was back in Pioneer Square.

***

We're still sort of living out of boxes. Lots of our stuff is unpacked, but we still have maybe 10 boxes of who knows what (DVDs and books, probably) that need homes. I really thought that I had weeded out the junk from my collection before packing, but I apparently just have too much stuff. I swear I'm not a pack rat - at least I like to think I'm not - but getting rid of books, for instance, seems so heartbreaking sometimes, even if they're getting sold back to a used store or being given to Goodwill. And the shelves full of books I've accumulated, some still unread, make me feel guilty too. So I can't win: if I keep them, I feel bad for hoarding them and then not using them, but if I give them away ... And then there are all of my t-shirts. I hold on to this stuff as if they're valuable, or could be someday, no matter how beaten up and ratty they may be, as if they'll be my version of all the baseball cards everyone's parents had but "wish they hadn't thrown out." Somehow I doubt my early 90s Urge Overkill t-shirt with the stretched out neck or the Replacements one that really highlights my manboobs will equate to a '65 Mantle card, but there's always the chance. Right? I'm not the crazy one here, right?

But the boxes, so full of ... who knows what. I'm afraid I tossed out stuff I wanted and kept embarrassing pieces of my life's former collections, because I keep coming across crazy crap I know I don't need. My Cactus Jack action figures are great (obviously!), but there's no need for me to have kept the Darren Drosdov one. I'm just saying.

So there's all of this crap lying around taking up space and will probably end up in storage, so I'll get to pay for the privilege of not using junk that I could probably get a whole three dollars for on eBay. This is why I likely won't retire a millionaire. (Specifically this, because otherwise, I'd have it made, I'm sure.)

***

Speaking of clutter and things I'll never use, thanks to Verizon FIOS, our new cable and internet company, I have a ridiculously fast internet connection, which makes collecting live recordings via BitTorrent so much easier. I have literally hundreds of DVDs worth of archived audio and video, and though I couldn't possibly take it all in, I keep adding to it. It's my addiction, I suppose. I don't do drugs or smoke, so it's collecting bootlegs and drinking coffee, I guess. Heaven forbid I miss some weird cover song by the Black Crowes.

***

My Red Sox. My sweet, sweet Red Sox.

There was a nice group of fellow Nation members back in Portland, but I find myself deep in the heart of Yankee country now. I wore my replica Mike Greenwell jersey to IKEA this weekend and could feel the heated, pointy glances of a hundred beady (and jealous) eyes as I strolled through aisles filled with the roughly 23,385 kinds of lamps they sell.

Watching the game last night, Nicole said she felt bad for the Indians. She could see the sadness on their faces. She's a good sport about my obsession, but since she's not as die-hard as I am, she doesn't quite understand that this game will leave every fan angry and bitter at some point. As rough as it is for Indians fans, they need to enjoy the fact that they got there. While the players and their fans might be disappointed to have lost, imaging being a Royals fan, or a Devil Rays fan (if there are any). All a fan can ask is that his or her team of choice is competitive and entertaining, and Cleveland was both this year (and will probably continue to be for years to come).

Don't feel bad for them, I told her, because they're suffering. We suffered too, for many, many years. I never asked anyone to feel sorry for me (pity me, maybe) for being a Red Sox fan, because I knew what I was getting into by embracing the team. And I know that, had the Indians won, nobody would be feeling bad for me, for Manny, for J.D. Drew, or for anyone else.

In the end, it's just a game. Someone wins, someone loses. I'm glad we're on the winning side, but after 2004, I don't think I'd have gotten sick over it had we not made it. "We", as if I had anything to do with it personally. That's a tough mentality to break: the whole "we" won when things go well, but "they" lost when things don't.

Anyway, though my optimism may sometimes waver, my faith never does. I mean, this team has a certifiable lunatic for a closer, a churchy grizzled righthander with a Frankenfoot, a firstbaseman with a giant head and a sweating problem, a left fielder who probably doesn't know what day it is, a 13-year-old tobacco-chewing second baseman, a shortstop with the physique of Oil Can Boyd, a centerfielder named after a cereal, a right fielder who nobody likes (except for one game) wearing the number of the last right-fielder (who everybody loved), two pitchers who don't speak a word of English, a manager who consistently leaves pitchers in one batter too long and STILL manages to lead his team to the best record in the majors, and a hitting coach whose 1987 rookie cards were supposed to be valuable when they were pulled out of wax packs 20 years ago (I can't believe it's been that long) but, as it turned out, he kinda sucked as a pro.

What's not to love about this team?

Sox in 6.

I actually think they'll win it in less, but I'm hoping it goes six so that they win it all at Fenway this year. But if they go up 3-0, squash the bug and get it over with, I guess.