I just want to drop now
Ah, okay. Looks like my hangover has finally subsided to the point where I can write. Though, obviously, this is an "our hangover" situation, where a good chunk of the entire city/state/region is suffering from the same symptoms.

I feel a bit like apologizing for not writing the past few days, but it seems kind of silly that I should strike some kind of balance between having a life busy enough to be interesting but with enough free time to chronicle the itneresting parts for the edification and entertainment of a bunch of people I've never met. I mean, if somebody wanted to pay me for this, that'd be a different story (and if you do want to pay me for this, well, you can see the email address at the right and we'll talk).

The combination of the ALCS and the Boston Fantastic Film Festival was a killer, though - I saw five movies Sunday, including a Sunday-morning-movie-club showing of one from Saturday night (so that the baseball lovers among the group could watch the game) and an awful thing from the Sci-Fi channel that about three of us showed up for. For those that like the martial-arts action, thing, though, I heartily recommend Ong-Bak. Tony Jaa kicks ass in both literal and figurative senses. Looks pretty nice with his shirt off, too.

(Yeah, I'm responding to whether or not a guy looks good. It is an interesting process which deserves its own entry sometime.)

Anyway, I get home past midnight, have to work the next day, but Game Four is still on and will be for another hour. Madness. Then, Monday, I get home and start watching Gave Five about an hour in, at about six, finally leaving at 7:30 for the last show at the Brattle figruing, hey, if the Sox lose, I don't want to listen to Tim McCarver give Derek Jeter a verbal blow job and if they win, there'll be more baseball. I greatly enjoy A Tale of Two Sisters, which runs until ten and confirms my belief that menstruation really is the stuff of horror movies, and then when I walk out of the theater I hear what sounds suspiciously like Red Sox broadcasters Joe Castigione and Jerry Trupiano coming out of a car stereo. But the game started at around 5:15 and it's 9:45 - it's got to be over, right? When I see a group of college student-looking people outside a bar looking in and cheering, I think, huh, the Cards and 'Stros must be having a good game. They are, of course, but...

I get home at ten and see Mo and Carter still watching the game. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!" Nope, this is something epic. And so is Tuesday's Game Six.

Last night, a bunch of us got together at Jen & Carlos's. We were all so pumped that Mo and "Sam" arriving together didn't even raise any eyebrows. When Doug said it was kind of anticlimactic that Game Seven was a flat-out ass-kicking as opposed to another dramatic dogfight, we all basically ignored him because as the past week of baseball has taught us, absolutely insane, unpredictable and unprecedented things can happen until the final out is recorded. Like we shouldn't know that already. Then Carlos got out the champagne and, man, I hope their entire apartment was Scotch-Guarded.

Hell, I hope that the whole city was. I was sluggish enough to miss the 8:25 train out of Porter, wound up catching the 9:05 one, and still was in before everyone else because the entire city is probably somewhat hung over. Crazy. Folks who don't follow sports have no idea what they're missing.

I think I'll just collapse tonight. That sounds really good.

-Martina
- posted 3:27 PM - - (archive use only)