We've Moved

After nearly five years, we're heading down the road. Moving into a new neighborhood. 

Nice knowin' ya, Blogger.

Find us at http://www.nicenessblog.com

If Arizona Were a Woman, Her Hair Would Be Auburn

The waitress with the bee-hive hairdo and a fleck of ruby lipstick on her teeth didn't know it, but she was serving me my birthday breakfast a day early. Tomorrow would be the most memorable celebration of my birth simply because it was unlike any other year. I would wake up in a Phoenix motel, finish off the last two slices of cold Dominoes and spend the remaining day in airports around the country.

That time would come.

This morning, Sedona was exactly what I had wanted it to be.

Just 12 hours before, sidewalks on either side of Route 89A were a mess of tourists shuffling in and out of shops that sold personalized toy six-shooters and custom leather tops with tassels. Families milled about on sidewalks, taking pictures of street signs, storefronts and other similarly ordinary scenes to fill their respective photo albums. In a place this stunningly beautiful, even the mundane appeared unique.

Now, at a little after 7 a.m. on September 14, the tiny section of road that will lead me to Route 179, then I-17 and ultimately to Phoenix is quiet and hauntingly empty minus a few local trucks and the coming sun. The mountains surrounding this little resort town, come mid-afternoon, will shine an autumn-leaf red, and Bell Rock -- one of many named buttes, will throw shadows over rocky, auburn slopes. From my booth at the "Hitching Post Restaurant", only the highest peaks see sunlight.

An hour before, I awoke in a chilly tent up the road at Manzanilla Campground. Norm and Natasha, my drinking buddies from last night, were still asleep in the next site over when I hopped in my rental car and took off for town.

The waitress, the one with the hair, brought my pancakes, refilled my coffee and reconvened with her coworkers near the bakery display.

Thinking of my anonymity and independence produced a haughty surge and a smile. No one knew me -- like this waitress -- and they certainly wouldn't see me again. This was both exciting and strangely sad. I had met others along the way -- like Norm and Natasha -- establishing whatever connection one could make in a brief moment. Then, it was done.

In another day, this trip would be, too.

Soon after my first hike into the Grand Canyon earlier in the week, I wondered how I would possibly entertain myself for five more days. Quite suddenly, the thought of those days, of aimless wandering, sparked a minor panic. This different place with nowhere to go, no set plans. This was before the overnight hike to the bottom, the sight of a muddy Colorado River surging forward to somewhere, the stark glow of countless stars at 5 a.m., the ensuing nine-mile hike out with 12 ladies from Boise, a day of rest and a spontaneous trip to Flagstaff.

Surprisingly, time was up. I had a two-hour drive to the University of Phoenix Stadium, where I would witness the hometown Cardinals completely dismantle my beloved Dolphins, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect trip.

No big deal, though, as this jaunt was no more about football than it was about finding myself. No. Far more simpler than that, I wanted to see and experience the Grand Canyon, to stand in awe of a cathedral altogether as holy as the world's oldest and most sacred temples. Then, I would walk into it.

In the weeks leading up to my departure, I had faced the same question -- "You're going by yourself?" and then, "Why?". This was typically followed by some nightmarish story of someone they knew, always a friend of a friend, who proudly ventured into the great abyss only to dehydrate, starve, beg for mercy, lose consciousness, collapse.

They offered advice, too -- "Drink lots of water", "Bring your phone", "Get in shape" and, more pertinent, "Don't die".

The magnitude of this potentially dangerous trip, the challenge, hit me only when others openly expressed their concerns or responded to my ambitious plans with a look of utter shock. It was easy to feel confident. Perspective typically doesn't present itself in travel books.

Yet, as my eyes took in the massive crack in the Earth from atop Bright Angel trailhead, I had my perspective. That little point all the way down, that dark colored rectangle I could barely see, that was Indian Garden -- the halfway point at 4.6 miles. My end point was somewhere beyond the visible apex of Plateau Point trail, which ran at more than six miles. This would be difficult, but in my excitement to hit the trail and in awe of the panoramas, I could muster but one word -- "Sweet".

When I walked out a day later, soaked and filthy, there wasn't an epiphany or a moment of self-realization, no euphoria.

"Sweet," I said as the Boise ladies, who had beaten me to the top an hour earlier, clapped and cheered.

More than the personal satisfaction of tackling a fairly significant task, I had the experience, to say that, yes, I have been to the Grand Canyon, and I took a long walk to the bottom, too. There, at elevation zero, surrounded by ominous walls of rock in the fading light, I was keenly aware of the oftentimes suppressed desire to scratch and claw for life in my finite time. It was still there, thankfully. I hadn't gotten complacent or fallen asleep to the everyday humdrum.

It was a clarity of sorts, I thought, pushing the accelerator on my Honda rental. Around me, Arizona opened up again, the highway cutting through wide expanses and scapes. To my right, miles of earth and mountains. To my left, powerline towers appearing like matchsticks in the distance, tattered roadside billboards and, of course, mountains. 

Driving was a breathtaking event in itself, and I had a little over an hour more this, of an unfolding canvas at the crest of each hill. I was free and clear for miles and miles and miles. Clear like the crystal, beacon lights of heaven in a black, pre-dawn Arizona sky, glowing at the bottom of everything.

* * * *

FYI: Future Subjunctive Tense?

The One(s) That Got Away

It’s happened to the best of us. We let Mr. Right slip through our fingers, and we’re left wondering what might have been. The memories we could have made together, the touchdowns we could have scored, the three pointers, the championships… What were we thinking? How did we let you get away? I’m talking, of course, about athletes.

As the 1978 NBA season was winding down a deal was in the works between NBA Lawyer David Stern, Buffalo Braves owner John Y. Brown, and Boston Celtics owner Irv Levin. Going into the season, the Braves did not meet attendance expectations, selling less than 4,500 season tickets, which resulted in the franchise receiving an escape clause in their lease. In Boston, Levin, a California businessman, was set on moving his team to the golden state. But, of course, the NBA would never allow their cornerstone franchise, one of the greatest dynasties in basketball history, to leave Bean Town. So what to do?

Stern proposed a swap. Levin takes the Braves. Brown takes the Celtics. Straight up. Well, sort of. Also, as part of the deal, the Celts received Tiny Archibald (who had missed the 1977/78 season with an Achilles tendon injury), Billy Knight, and Marvin Barnes. The Braves received Freeman Williams, back-up center Kevin Kunnert, and power forwards Kermit Washington and Sidney Wicks. No draft picks were requested in the deal, which allowed Boston to retain the draft rights to Larry Bird, the number six choice overall in the 1978 NBA draft.

It didn’t really matter anyway though, did it? I mean, the Braves, now the Clippers, were already in San Diego and finished the 1978/79 season with a winning record, 43-39, nine games back of that season’s NBA champion Seattle SuperSonics. The Celtics finished 25 games back, dead last in the Atlantic Division of the Eastern Conference. Oh, and that draft pick, Bird I think it was? He decided to stay at Indiana State and play his senior season in college anyway, not entering the NBA until 1979, when he became the league’s Rookie of the Year narrowly beating out his longtime rival Earvin “Magic” Johnson. Larry Legend went on to become one of the NBA’s 50 greatest players, winning three NBA championships with the Celtics, and was inducted into the Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame in 1998.

Of course Bird would have never played as a Brave. Hell, he probably would have tacked on a post-graduate year at Indiana State had he been drafted by Buffalo, but the deal was already done making that an impossibility regardless. The reality is: the closest the Queen City would have ever come to sharing in the glory of Larry “Legend” Bird would have been as posthumous Buffalo Braves fans, three thousand miles away watching on television as the San Diego Clippers struggled through season after NBA season.

Buffalo is a football town anyway, and the Bills would never let “the one” get away, right? The 1990 NFL draft saw the number 16 and 17 picks go to Buffalo and Dallas, respectively. The Bills selected James Williams, a defensive back from Fresno State, who became most famous for being the first Buffalo player to wear the number 31 jersey (it had formerly been retired as being representative of “the spirit of the Bills”). With the 17th pick in the NFL draft, the Dallas Cowboys selected Emmitt Smith, running back from the University of Florida.

By 1990, Thurman Thomas, the Bills’ running back, was posting career numbers after being drafted in the second round in 1988. In fact, he ended up leading the AFC in rushing in 1990, ‘91, and ‘93. In 1990 though, he almost led Buffalo to their first ever Super Bowl win rushing for 135 yards, one touchdown and catching five passes for 55 yards. There was even talk of Super Bowl XXV MVP honors going to Thomas even though the Bills had lost the game to the New York Giants 20-19.

In 1991, Thomas was named NFL most valuable player while he helped lead his team to a second straight championship game, Super Bowl XXVI, where the Bills were defeated by the Washington Redskins. In 1992, the Bills found themselves in a third straight Super Bowl, where, ironically, they met the Dallas Cowboys. Before the game, Thomas put his helmet on the 40 yard line, a pre-game ritual, lost track of it during the National Anthem subsequently resulting in his absence from the first two offensive series for the Bills (Kenneth Davis botched a handoff on the first series), and the Bills were trounced by Emmitt Smith and the Cowboys 17-52. The next year, Buffalo and Dallas met again in Super Bowl XXVII. Thomas only produced 19 yards rushing, though he did retain his helmet’s whereabouts throughout the pre-game festivities, a moral victory nonetheless. Dallas won the game 30-13, and Emmitt Smith took MVP honors.

Thurman Thomas was arguably the greatest running back in Buffalo Bills history (O.J. Simpson did not have the offensive line to support him early in his career, though he was the first player in NFL history to break the 2,000-yard single season rushing mark in 1973 with 2,003 yards). Thomas, though, rushed the Bills to an unprecedented four consecutive Super Bowl appearances. Though he never got the Bills over the hump, he gave Buffalo something to cheer about throughout most of the nineties.

Emmitt Smith finished his career with three Super Bowl rings, one Super Bowl MVP award, a league MVP award in ‘93, and he was named offensive rookie of the year in 1990. Smith was a postseason juggernaut who amassed 1,586 yards, 19 touchdowns, 7 consecutive 100-yard games, and 9 straight games with a touchdown. An impressive resume no doubt, but the one postseason record he does not stand alone on, total playoff touchdowns (21), he shares with Thurman Thomas.

Hindsight is 20/20. Who knows what Smith would have done as a Buffalo Bill? Would we be the three or four or five-time Super Bowl champs? Or would Smith’s talents have been wasted as a backup to Thomas’ already impressive resume? Was the trio of Aikman, Irvin, and Smith truly that much more potent than that of Kelly, Reed, and Thomas? Super Bowl history leans toward yes, but oh, what might have been?

Probably closest to our hearts and minds, at least those of us who attended St. Bonaventure University, is the Bonnies basketball career of Mike Gansey, a six-foot four mop-haired all-purpose shooting guard from Ohio. In two seasons (2001-2003), Gansey quickly became the future of Bonnies basketball. The Bonnies’ great white hope, if you will. A new kind of guard, a scrapper, to fill the void of losing Caswell Cyrus, David Messiah Capers, and Tim Winn, all integral members of the 2000 squad’s NCAA tournament birth (the team lost in a double-overtime first round game to Tayshaun Prince and the Kentucky Wildcats). Mostly a bench player as a freshman, Gansey became a starter in his sophomore season averaging 13.9 points, 5.0 rebounds, and shooting over 40% from three-point range.

And then there was the scandal. In 2003, St. Bonaventure’s basketball program was rocked by the involvement of the university’s president, athletic director, and men’s basketball coach in the forging of credentials of transfer center Jamil Terrell. Terrell was admitted to St. Bonaventure University with only a welding certificate from Coastal Georgia Community College. He was forced to leave the team. Athletic Director Gothard Lane, president Robert Wickenheiser, and coach Jan van Breda Kolff were either dismissed or resigned. With them, so went Gansey.

Gansey transferred to the University of West Virginia where he continued to be a hustling crowd pleaser after sitting out the 2003/04 season as stipulated in transfer player rules. In just two seasons, Gansey “had the 18th highest career scoring average (14.35), the ninth best field goal percentage in a career (52.6%), the third best 3-point field goal percentage in a career (39.4%), the seventh most steals per game in a career (1.75) and the 12th most minutes per game in a career (32.12)” for the Mountaineers. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Gansey).

Perhaps Gansey was the only athlete that Western New York ever really had a shot at truly loving. After all, he was ours, if only for a short time. Larry Bird was just a fantasy. And Emmitt Smith could have broken our hearts just as easily as any other running back. Besides, Thurman Thomas gave us some of the best years of our lives. We cannot change the past, dwelling on what might have been, but we can always be grateful for what we had.

JHurls
The Niceness

Easing Into The Sweet Surrender of Aging Backwards

The nurse spoke casually of “off-campus” dining as if they really had a choice unless my mother was there to sign them out. But that was neither here nor there. We had furniture to move.

I rode with my uncle in his truck, and we followed my father in his truck around the parking lot to the side entrance where the maintenance woman was holding the door open. There was: the bed (the frame in four pieces, mattress, and box spring), a mini refrigerator, two end tables, TV stand, a 27-inch television, two lamps, two dressers, the kitchen table and two chairs. My mom brought shelves, photographs, and the rest of the decorations in her car.

On the first trip my dad and I carried the mattress down the hallway. Room 124 was all the way at the other end of the building next to the emergency exit. We passed Aunt Jen’s room. We passed the common room. Next door, hanging on the knob of room 123, there was a laminated door hanger with a picture of a kitten in a wicker basket and the words “Beware, Attack Cat on Duty.” I smiled and pointed it out to my dad.

My mom was pacing the floor, fresh Berber carpet, in the 11x9 room. “The window faces the woods?” was my first thought as we entered.

“Where are we putting the bed?” my dad asked her.

She stopped and looked at her feet. We got the frame and ordered my mom out of the room. She went to find my uncle in the lobby to start the paperwork with one of the nurses.

The bathroom is directly to the right, in a separate room, when you walk in. The bed would be straight ahead in front of the closets. Already, there were two brand new La-Z-Boy chairs, a recliner for my grandfather and a stationary one for my grandmother, and a couch that my grandmother had picked out. They were against the window wall. My father said what I was already thinking: the bed was going to take up too much room. We put it up anyway. My mom came back and stared at the bed from the doorway. “It’s too close to this wall,” she said as she ran her left hand along the outside of the bathroom wall. Her wedding band made a “zip” sound up and down the wallpaper. I suggested that we do the living room first.

The couch started against the left wall. It moved under the window and then to the right wall and finally back to the left. That’s where it stayed. The chairs started on the right, went to the center and then right back where they started. Grandma’s chair went next to the window; she liked to watch the birds outside. The TV went on the stand in the corner between the couch and the window.

My mom put shelves and knickknacks on the walls, hung pictures, and opened a fresh box of Kleenex and put it on the table between the La-Z-Boys. Then she went to get her parents.

My father and I wandered the halls only half-looking for my uncle. There was a courtyard outside. It was hot and the flowers needed water; they mostly looked like stalks of straw with a hint of green and wilted color at the ends. It was clean, but the pavement of the round walk was cracked and circled around a parched two-tier fountain in the center. The bench on the opposite side could have used a fresh coat of paint. But all in all, the courtyard would do.

The common room was filled with chairs and tables with half-started puzzles lying out and decks of cards and board games stacked on stands in the corners of the room. A TV was centered in front a couch with love seats on either side for socializing. But the room was empty, it was noon; almost lunch time.

We passed the dining hall, where residents started to gather in shifts. It looked like a home-style diner, square tables with four chairs, place settings and brown coffee cups turned up thirsty for hot coffee. That made me relieved, and I smiled at the nurse as we passed her office, which was across the hall from the beauty/barber shop, before we got to the lobby. There was more life here, in front of the big windows where light flooded the room. Residents waited with spouses or friends for the mailman. Out the window we saw my mom pull into a parking spot with her parents. A Hershey’s ice cream sign was attached to the wall above a white marble counter that segregated a dessert nook in the lobby. The concise flavor list was hung on the back wall above the ice cream cooler: chocolate, vanilla, mint ting-a-ling, rocky road, pistachio, coffee, and cookies-n-cream. A small cardboard sign on the counter read: “Ice Cream 50 cents.” My dad raised his eyebrows and grinned as he held the door open for me. He said, “Fifty cents? I’m going to start coming here on my lunch breaks.”

Nics at the Dolph

Is it just me, or was Rachel Nichols (Nics) looking rough on her 11:37 p.m. EST (recorded earlier that day; it was sunny) ESPN report at Dolphins (the Dolph) Stadium?

Let those bangs down, Nics. And stop drinking all night before on-camera appearances. Damn.

Hurls
The Nice

Grind

"We're out of napkins!" I yelled to Leanne from the condiment bar. "How the hell can we be out of napkins? That's, like, up there in priorities for a food-service business."

We'd been out of close to everything this month.

"See?" Leanne said from behind the counter. "We're dead in the water."

We had this talk every Thursday night, Leanne and I. Our shift, from 2 to 10 p.m., had slowed to little more than a few customers an hour. It was strange, too, considering the surrounding restaurants, night club and movie theater were buzzing. Thursday was live music night and still our take was minimal.

"But you spoke with Rachel, right?" I asked. "And she said it was just a rumor. Everything was fine; it was just a little slow."

"Yeah, but this is crazy. What have we had, like, two customers since 4? And we barely have any desserts left."

She was right. I'd seen it for myself. The usual cakes, pies and cookies were replaced with store-bought goods. Junk with gourmet prices. Refrigerators once stocked full were slimming. Meats were going bad. We were running out of coffee beans. It's a Grind was dying.

"They would tell us, right? It's, like, not a huge deal, but it would be nice to know."

Leanne laid her head on the counter and shrugged her shoulders.

Come the following Monday morning, the place was dark and vacant. No customers. No workers. Lights out.

Typically, Rachel, the manager, manned the register; Jewels ran the hot bar and waved as I passed. Sometimes, I'd saunter in, sweaty and panting, to pick up my paycheck.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," the sign read on the door. "We Are Closed."

I passed a man in business attire clicking away on a laptop. If the Grind had been open, he'd surely be inside, plopped in one of the semi-elegant plush chairs.

Rachel called me at home a couple hours later.

"Last night was the last day of business for us," she said, matter-of-factly.

I told her that I understood. I saw it coming, I said, lying.

My barista days were over. And, sure, I would certainly miss the extra couple hundred bucks each month. More than that, though, was the realization that our little community of regulars was no longer.

Joe, Stefan, Aristotle Nate, Mary, Dean and His Lady, Xavier, Double Macchiato Woman, the Large Coffee with Hazelnut Kid -- see ya. Closed shop. Go home.

Tuesday was something like a memorial. Five of us former employees convened out in front. Joe was there, bright white hair and crocodile loafers, sitting in his usual afternoon spot at one of the outside tables. He smoked a cigarette in between sips of a 24-ounce iced coffee...from Starbucks.

"It's a shame," he said. "I hate Starbucks."

The corporate folk who owned the plaza had changed the locks.

Joe said Ron, my boss, was months behind on rent, and the landlords didn't want him coming back to claim anything. It wasn't his anymore.

We watched as one after the other walked head-down toward the shop, looking up only after tugging on the locked door.

"What the ..." one guy said, pointing and looking dumbfounded.

"Closed," Meredith said. "Like, for good. We're done. We're in mourning."

We just nodded in agreement, shrugging shoulders.

"Yep."

"So sad."

"It's really a shame," Joe said.

Then there's Frank, another regular, who eyes me from across Panera as I write this. He walks over.

"Hey, man. What happened to the Grind?"

And I tell him all my theories -- the rent did us in, not a ton of profits selling coffee, the new ice cream place, the fancy "dessert bar".

"I did hear another coffee place is going in," I said.

"I heard that too."

"So maybe I'll catch you over there when it opens."

"See you there."

"Yep, man. See you there."

* * * * *

Inspired by "The Last Night at the Lobster"

Bros

For the typical tourist, a pleasurable Philadelphia experience would probably consist of 35 mm shots of the Liberty Bell or a jaunt around the Old City. Something like that. Sitting around a small, plastic garbage can in a downtown hotel room wasn't in the itinerary. Yet, there we were. All eight of us, from different spots on the East Coast, all still astoundingly close, in the heart of a city ironically known for its brotherly love.

Tossing beer cans into a Rubbermaid bin wasn't on the itinerary because there wasn't an itinerary. The way we saw it, trip agendas succeeded only in choking off spontaneity, as if vacations needed a workday framework of two hours here, one hour there, and then lunch. Our weekend getaway involved but three essential orders of business: Get tickets to the Mets series, get to Philly, find a place to sleep. Everything else was trivial. Personal interests were sacrificed, too. No one was going anywhere without the other seven.

Dudes.

Bros.

The weathermen had said rain all weekend, but the sunshine coming through the ceiling-high windows said otherwise.

Finn, from Pittsburgh, tipped his head back far enough to get the last sip of Tecate, the beer that Heath bought in Essington earlier in the morning.

"Dollar says I make this."

Briar acted quick.

"I'll take that bet."

"Me too," Flave said.

"F$% all you queers. I'm drilling this mother-f%$#, you watch. Eggs, you want in or what?"

Eggs, one of the four that flew up from Charlotte, responded quickly, like he was waiting for someone to ask.

"Sure, dollar says you miss."

Finn appeared dumbfounded, insulted.

"Bro, what the f -- "

"OK, OK," Lenny said from the pull-out couch. "We got three to one. Anyone else want Finn in this one?"

"Eh, eh," Rage interrupted, slowly removing a handful of bills from his pockets. "T'ree dollars on Finn."

"Yeah, that's right, Rage. None of these pussy mother-f#$ ..."

Finn held the can out in front of his eyes, practicing. It was no more than a three-foot shot, child's plays. Bucket Three in Bozo's "Grand Prized Game". Winner gets a RadioFlyer full of board games and a great, pink birthday cake.

Finn let it fly with a flick of the wrist and missed by a foot.

"F$#%!"

                                                                    "ooooohhhhhhhhhhh"

                           "oooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

          "Nice."

"Man, what the f#$?" Rage said.

Empties littered the room's maroon carpeting, PBRs and Tecates under the desk and beds, in piles by the door, in the closet, in the bathroom, under the sink, in the shower. By the looks of things, it was as if we were still susceptible to some of our boyhood impulses, like the one that involves making filthy that which was once orderly for the sake of a good laugh.

Old stories came to life again, leaving us roaring and bent at the gut, gasping for air.

Someone said, "We heading to the game now, or do we want to check out the city?"

"Eggs, grab that map. Independence Hall is right down the street, right?"

"Uh," Eggs said, flipping pages. "Yeah, yeah, here it is."

He began to read.

"Wait, wait, wait," Finn interrupted. "A buck says Eggs can't read this next paragraph without f#$#ing it up. Who's in?"

"I'm in," Briar said. "You won't read it 'cause you're Thad Fordon's cousin, and he couldn't read s#@!"

The room erupted.

Eggs got 20 seconds in and got crossed up.

"Mark Twain would've f#@ed that up," Finn said. "Now, give me my money."

"We leaving soon? Where's Flave?"

"He's ironing his shirt."

"Wait," Briar said. "Did you just say he's ironing his nuts?"

Heath was sprawled out on a double bed, his back propped against a mound of pillows and comforters so he could drink without choking to death.

"I'm ready," he said.

We turned to Heath, who was shaking an empty between his fingers.

"Who wants this bet?" he asked.

"From the bed?"

This was Bill, the big guy from college. He's living in Baltimore now.

Heath sat up and pointed to the floor.

"From right-f@#ing here."

"There's no way."

"No f#@ing way."

"Who's in?"

"No way," Rage said in his Boston dialect. "I'll give you 20 to 1 odds. Twenty bucks against your dollar says you miss."

"Wow."

"F@ck."

"Damn."

No one spoke as Heath followed through like a free-throw shooter.

He drained it.

                "F@#!"

                      "S@#!"

                             "Oooooo!!!!"

     "Un-f@#ing-believable!"

                             "No way."

                                  "Holy sh@t."

                   "Miserable."

Rage reluctantly forked over the 20 bucks.

* * * * *

We took the Orange Line to Pattison to get to Citizens Bank Park. We did this for each game. The Phillies took game 1, but the Mets won the next three games, winning the series. 

It didn't really matter.