inspiration strikes - a break from the monotony

WINTER WONDERLAND

It's snowing in Boston. Outside my window, the soft flakes of winter white are drifting and fluttering in the whirling gusts and breezes. Sitting thirty-two floors up, I can see the tops of the buildings below, blanketed by cool ivory clouds of cold. Down below the rooftops, the bustling denizens of downtown Boston are huddling under their hoods and scarves and cloaks, sliding and shuffling off to their myriad destinations.

Snow falling reminds me of my childhood, of growing up in Vermont, and frolicking through snowdrifts while the Green Mountain State turned white with the deepening of winter. In my early youth, winter for me was a season of esses. A time of snowmen and and snowball fights, of sliding and skating, of skiing and sledding.

My brother and I, and a motley assortment of friends, had our favorite sledding spots. The best was a place that we simply called "the gulley." The gulley was a winding, descending path that twisted and turned through the tulgey woods behind my childhood home, providing the perfect course for my young compatriots and I to whiffle through, headlong or feetfirst, on our red plastic sleds.

After the deepest of snowfalls, the snow would be much too slow for proper sledding. It would take a number of runs to blaze a path that would offer us the most fun, that is, the most speed; but does anything truly worthwhile in life come without work?

After several runs devoted to packing the snow and banking the turns, the real fun would begin. We would start atop the gulley, often with a running, flying leap, launch ourselves onto our sleds, maneuvering down the slick slope, leaning and shifting weight to avoid heading down more treacherous paths of pricker bushes and brambles. Each gleeful bout of gravity-fueled fun was followed by a slow, careful trudge back up the hill, sleds in tow, mindful not to upset the snowy chute.

After dozens of runs, spent of our vigor but full of contentment, we would march back home, our sleds empty, but carrying visions of speed as our spoils of war, ready to drink that elixir of winter childhood sustenance.

Hot. Chocolate. Mmmmmm.
.

mattchun 12/05/2002 02:27:00 PM [+] ::
...

HOOP DREAMS

My company is participating in a Monday night basketball league here in Boston. The league is run by a company called Basketball City, and we play in a facility in downtown Boston. The courts sit atop a parking garage near the Fleet Center, encased by a big bubble-like dome. I feel as though I'm playing in a lunar landing station.

The league is very well organized. In fact, I haven't played hoops this elaborately administered since I was riding the pine in High School. Basketball city supplies (for a not insignificant fee) team jerseys, two refs complete with zebra shirts and whistles, a scorekeeper, and a digital scoreboard that counts down the 24-minute running halves. One of the most intriguing elements of the league is the fact that they post statistics on the web.

We played our season-opener this past Monday, and I'm happy to report that we were triumphant in our premiere. Today, I decided to surf on over to the website to check things out. There, emblazoned on my browser was my name, listed as high scorer.

I haven't had my name in a box score in 7 or 8 years, so this is a thrill for me. For the time being, I think I'm going to go on and let it go to my head.

Now where are those cheerleaders...

mattchun 12/04/2002 07:05:00 PM [+] ::
...

HAUTE CINEMA

I fancy myself a connoisseur of the finer things in life. Occasionally, I succumb to a smug, vain sense of erudition from reading high-minded books and watching the "right" movies.

The pressures of work combined with the stresses of the holiday season have re-tuned my tastes -- So I have a confession: The other night Deuce Bigalow (Male Gigolo) was on television. Not only did I watch said film, I laughed repeatedly and vigorously. Ah, the guilty pleasures of life.

That is all. Time to go home. Good night.

mattchun 12/03/2002 10:43:00 PM [+] ::
...