The Game of County Seats

Nyquil is the world's greatest drug. I had a dream last night that I was at the Library's holiday "party," where our CEO was hosting the Game of County Seats. He started with the "easy ones," in Massachusetts and New York, and I jumped out to an early lead (no, I don't actually know any county seats). Then he moved onto Pennsylvania and Ohio, using slides of streets in each county and giving us the first letter of each seat. The last questions were midwestern counties, and I lost my lead when multiple choices were offered. As my fury grew, I woke up.

My boss was not impressed with the idea.


Who Hit Rocky?

The poll at right refers to the following Beatles lyric:

Somewhere out in the black mining hills of Dakota, there lived a young boy named Rocky Raccoon/
And one day, his woman ran off with another guy/
Hit young Rocky in the eye/
Rocky didn't like that, said I'm gonna get that boy

We later learn that Rocky's girl's name was McGill, and she called herself Nil, but everyone knew her as Nancy. Her man called himself Dan.

Who hit Rocky? Suggestions welcome in comment form.


Nameburst, Version 2.0

Where Moynihans and O'Connors meet, Nameburst ensues, and this weekend was no exception. Jill was a welcome addition to our three games on Saturday and Sunday, holding her own in a competitive field, but she didn't come away with a victory.

Pat one the first game decisively and Rob took game three with an impressive 117-116 triumph over his identical nemesis, but it was Saturday night's late game that may have changed Nameburst forever. Pat's back-to-back dismal rounds of 1 and 2 late in the game dropped him to fourth, resulting in a tie for first between Rob and me. Pat was quick to declare that the champ would be determined in a dance-off.

I won the dance-off in a unanimous decision, utilizing simple props in boogieing to REM's "What's the Frequency Kenneth?" but the ultimate winner of the evening would be Jaron, whose Jordan-like effort repeatedly brought himself and his dancemates to the next horrifying level. John Mayer, naturally, was the Pippen to Jaron's Jordan.

Then we ate pizza. Mmm... pizza.


iPods... why don't I own one?

After a lovely afternoon with Jason's iPod, I've decided that someone should buy me an iPod. Maybe it's you. I'm ready to loosen my attachment to the once-compact disc medium, download all the music I own and loads of music I don't own onto an instrument I can fit in my pocket alongside the digital camera I don't own yet. Thank God I'm limitlessly wealthy.

In other rocking-out news, Pat and Rob are in town, and joined Jason, Jaron, and me for drinks at the Beantown Pub, rocking out in a gazebo on the common, more drinks at the Whiskey, and more outrocking in our front yard, intermittently watching clips of the fabulous brawl at the Pacers-Pistons game. Tonight should involve Nameburst, more drinking, and less dancing.

And while we're still loosely attached to the subject of music, make sure to take another look at last year's QHS 200 to whet your appetite for this year's edition, due out December 1. Gee.


The dawn of the dp era

Jason and I decided to throw a dinner party sometime this summer. Or maybe it was last summer. Sometime thereafter, the dinner party era of bmoconline began. Saturday, I was a guest at Jason's smash hit of a dp. Monday, I was an actual guest at Kate's lovely affair.

24 years old and abbreviating 'dinner party.' I thought I'd be 30 before I spent more time in grocery stores than Burger Kings. I'm not sure I should still be blogging.


It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like

It's snowing. I'm taking this well so far. Perhaps it's becuase winter has a different meaning to me that it used to have. That's right- it's time for the second annual QHS 200, a compilation of the greatest albums of all time as chosen by me and my high school friends. This year, it's open to friends of friends, so if you'd like to submit something, get in touch with me.

As a means of assuring I get a list from Nick, I've agreed to write an entry on Don't You Hate Pants?, the blog Nick set up when his Funion-article prolificness started to outpace my ambition as an editor. Check the site for my future work (although if it's there, you'll be reading my past work, won't you?. I've linked it up to the right.


Weekend cheers and jeers

This weekend, I was impressed by "Richard III" at The Old South Meeting House, "Drawn Together" on Comedy Central, and Linda's london broil/chicken parm dinner. I was unimpressed by the seating at said play, the return of Scrabble at 47 School Street, the beginning of The Simpsons' 16th season and my own wiffle ball skills.



An attractive single woman is pursued by two men; one a rich asshole and the other a decent fellow of noble standing. She is attracted to both of them and has a difficult time choosing which one to date. She gets to know them both, weighs her options, gets opinions from her friends, and finally decides that while she likes both of them, she'll choose the nice guy.

The asshole disagrees. He shoves the nice guy in the mud and takes her hand. For the next four years, the woman dates the asshole. He steals most of her money. He beats her senseless. He stands by while other guys beat her senseless. He cheats on her and makes up elaborate lies. He spreads rumors so bad that no other guy will ever want to date her.

After four years, the woman realizes how awful her life is and looks for another suitor. A handsome, wealthy gentleman comes along and proves to be a perfect match. They get along well behind the asshole's back, but the asshole finds out about the suitor and makes his final plea. He tells her that if she ever leaves him, she'll suffer without him and her safety will be in jeopardy. The time comes for the woman to decide which one she wants to date. She picks the respectable gentleman, right?

No. Eat my ass, Ohio.



What the F is wrong with this country? I blame Jesus.

If I'd had the time at work today, I would have given an optimistic preview, noting the Pistons beating the Lakers and the Red Sox beating the Yankees as harbingers of a Kerry victory tonight. Hours later, with way too many precincts reporting, the seventy minutes I waited in line to vote this morning appear to have been for nought.

2004 can't be perfect. Add this to your tasty sandwiches, Pat.