24 Months Later ...

It's a very exciting day, of course, because this little blog is now officially two years old. Oh sure, when I'd started this thing, the original idea was simply to throw up random numbers and statistics in the news. I hoped to continue doing what I had been doing at the time, which was finding amusing material for a sidebar entitled "Roamin' Numerals" in the commentary section I was editing at the time.

So, this blog began with that idea and, hence, the URL you see there was also the original name.

And while I saw no reason to write about myself, that, of course, inevitably happened. And then came the equally inevitable political rants, predictions about sports & the Academy Awards and just quick links to things I wanted to share but didn't feel like e-mailing people (sometimes).

Today, "Soapbox Central" has been somewhat usurped by the blog I'm keeping over on my MySpace. But now that this little baby is two years old, I'm wondering what I'll plan on doing with it.

We'll get back to that, but when I think back to some of the highlights from the first two years of "Soapbox," these were the posts that sprang to mind and allowed me to pretend I'm posting something new:

- People still doubt the truth of the "Little White Button"

- It took 29 years, but I finally conquered my fear of roller coasters

- You better recognize the importance of choral music, bitches

- Friday the 13th proved to be rather memorable

- I can make a Greek fire me by uttering just two words

- We're going to the Super Bowl! (... and losing ...)

- Halloween is not a "holiday" I'm particularly fond of

- Memo to overly loving couples: We don't think you're cute, just pathetic

- Apparently, even cats can get constipated

- Wait a minute—a member of a boy band is gay?!

- Please don't let me take any more sales jobs

- I may have had a roommate, apparently

- Sweet Lord, don't get me started on abortion

- I finally competed in the town's annual canoe race

- If I shave my chest again, boy, she better make it worth my while

- I finally graduated college ... and then proceeded to spend an entire week celebrating it

- And, of course, where it all began ...

There is a very good chance that I'm going to utilize MySpace for the personal shit, a new site for the commentary shit and "Soapbox" for, well, who knows.

Strap in, folks. If the next two years is half as interesting as the past two, we're in for another pretty fucking good ride.

Super Bowl XLII Prediction

Pretty hard to argue with last week's picks, of course. I've long considered The Hives' "Hate To Say I Told You So" the best fundamentally R&R song in years, but, boy, I sure did want it blaring from America's collective speakers last weekend when Green Bay fans watched that third game-winning attempt go through the posts.

If I hadn't had an overly horny and slightly drunk ex-girlfriend messing around with her computer in my basement "apartment," there's no telling how much I might have missed.

Rather, her suggestion of tying me up for an evening and my suggestion of splitting whatever my dear mother prepared that evening for dinner turned into total fruition; Neither of us regretted staying in that night.

Alas, here we are, with me having gleefully cheered alongside my father the field goal that crushed Packer-fan dreams and, in my mind, alleviated us all from two weeks of "Favre vs. Brady" greatness B.S.

How much would that have sucked?

Anyway, I said it last week, and I've been saying it all season ... and I'm not backing down now.

I like the Patriots. I've always liked the Patriots. I'm rooting for the Patriots.

Alas, bye-bye to the memory of the 1972 Miami Dolphins, who will forever be rightfully be remembered as just being, "Oh, they went undefeated too?"

This match-up is 20 times better for the public outside of Boston and New York for this one simple reason: New York nearly beat this New England team when the Patriots were on the verge of 16-0 (unprecedented). In other words—and here's where I should be a marketing major—the Giants don't just equal the ratings of a storied franchise, the team's reason for redemption gives us all something to root for during the two-fucking-week build-up to this event.

That said, you know my pick:

#1 New England Patriots over #5 New York Giants

And, yes, if you must require a final score prediction, it's here:

31-21

Let me now find the photo of a giant dick for the '72 Dolphins to collectively suck. Suggstions shall be accepted.

NFL Championship Weekend!

As you probably noticed, most of the supposed football pundits really put their balls out on the line last weekend and picked all four of the favorites. I'd laugh in their face after picking two upsets, yet here we are with most everybody—including myself—having gone 2-2 last weekend.

So, that puts me at 5-3 so far in this year's NFL playoffs and the fuck if I'm not going to pick another upset this week. While I'm certain the league would like nothing better than the idea of Brett Favre's resurgent Green Bay team trying to knock off a history-challenging New England squad, I've just got a feeling that these Giants (which have won nine consecutive road games—and NFL record, I do believe ...) are not going to be intimidated by snowflakes or Lambeau Field.

That said, my picks this week are:

#1 New England Patriots over #3 San Diego Chargers

#5 New York Giants over #2 Green Bay Packers

And that's my last upset pick of the season, seeing as the Patriots—regardless of which NFC team they're matched up against—will almost certainly be 10-point favorites. And rightfully so.

Let's all hope the 1972 Miami Dolphins have front row seats for the game so we can watch them collectively shove the barrels of shotguns in their mouths when they realize they weren't so special after all ...

Unfinished ... Yet, Complete

THE ASSIGNMENT:

In a Magazine Article Writing class I ultimately dropped because I didn't need the credit—and it was scheduled way too fucking early in the morning—we were given a set amount of time (20 minutes, I'm guessing ... but don't quote me on that) at the computers to tap out a quick scene emphasizing description. The subject we all ultimately had to adhere to is the title.

THE RESULT:

Childhood Memory

The first thing I do when I get into an automobile is immediately lock the door. It's not that I'm worried about being carjacked; it's just a habit I've developed since one memorable summer day when I was eight-years-old.

My mother was driving my sister and I back from the public pool in our white Chevy Nova. The car had aged poorly, showing hints of rust under the doors and beige leather interior with scattered rips and frayed stitching. Driving down the two-lane Route 25 that afternoon, I sat in the passenger seat with my still-wet navy blue trunks soaking into the beach towel underneath me. My sister, two years younger than me, complained from the seat behind me about the gust blowing her long, brown hair in her face.

I didn't wear a seat belt because the starchy fabric itched my bare chest. The pool was a short drive away, so my mother let it slide. Besides, it was treacherously humid that day, making the seats feel as though you were sitting on a hot plate. Even the plastic interior underneath my elbow resting on the door was burning.

Coming north, my mother signaled left when we saw the sign for our small neighborhood's convenience shop, appropriately called "The Little Store." With no oncoming traffic giving her reason to pause, Mom casually turned the wheel left. And as the car turned to go up the hill that led back to our neighborhood, that's when I felt the passenger door swing open. I must have placed all eighty or so pounds of my body weight against it, because I fell right out of the Nova and right onto the gravel along the side of the road. The small bits of stone stuck to my semi-naked body as I rolled down the hill and heard the car's brakes arrive at a screeching halt.

I just laid there on my stomach for a moment, not really sure of what had just happened. I cleared my nearly-white hair from my eyes as tears began to well up. My mother came down the hill, running towards me in her olive green sundress and flip-flops, screaming my name. I spit a small pebble out from my mouth and saw a drop of blood fall from my lower lip—or possibly my chin. There were a lot of small knicks and cuts all over my body.

On her knees beside me, my mother placed her left hand on my back. "Derek, Derek—are you okay?" she asked me, her words coming out with quick breaths of concern.

THE AFTERTHOUGHT:

No idea if it was actually a Nova, but I spent a few days recovering while my Grandma (bless her heart) nursed me back to health.

And Now For Something Completely—Well, Mildly Different

Obviously, I've used some of my old writings from the Fiction classes at Columbia on different occasions to substitute as blog posts over here for a couple reasons.

First off, most of the stuff was items I came across and just kind of liked. Secondly, most of my blogging these days revolving around, you know, my "personal life" is done over at my MySpace, which can be found over here (if you'd like to read those, I believe you need to be added as a friend first—which isn't much of a hurdle when you consider that roughly half of my "friends" are bands, celebrities or porn stars).

Anyway, I'm (again) trying to get back into the habit of posting here once a week, so fully expect completely random journal entries which may or may not be:

- True

- About me

- Entertaining

- Relevant to anything, really

I decided last night when going through my journal while getting drunk with the ex that a lot of the stuff I had originally written when first starting this journal was not exactly sworn to secrecy.

Here's your first example:

"Journal Entry 1.3"

I spent the better part of my morning engulfed in a truly compassionate conversation with absolutely nobody. Now, I'm not crazy or on too many drugs; I simply get this way when I happen to misplace my keys.

Asking the walls questions they could not possibly answer, promising the microwave what I'll do when I find what I'm looking for, reminding the mirror that this is not a laughing matter. You'd be surprised how the question of "Who the fuck are you even talking to?" never comes up. Not even once.

Undoubtedly, if these inanimate objects could suddenly lend advice during this most recent production of "Derek's Disgruntled Theatre," the words would be less than helpful and only infuriate me further.

"Well, where's the last place you left them?" the refrigerator might ask.

"Are you sure they're not in the car?" my bed would add.

"I thought you had them a second ago," the sofa could observe.

In the reckless path of destruction left behind from my search, I'll usually make note of anywhere between seven and seven hundred different things I need to consider doing ... immediately—after I find my keys, of course.

Oddly enough, when I finally do discover that I had absentmindedly failed to check the pockets of the jeans I had been wearing the previous night, I can't think of what to do next.

Perhaps it was an hour, or maybe it was two. The entire span of time was intensely focused on one thing, yet I have effectively managed to convince myself that my life is completely out of order and the dam is going to burst very soon. Now with my keys, you'd think I'd get cracking.

I also retrieved a phone number from the same pocket I had found my keys in. She had sounded sincere when she gave it to me, so maybe this time I won't inexplicably be speaking to the sixteen-year-old kid who happened to answer the phone at the local McDonald's. "Naw, there ain't no Gina workin' here I know of."

Yeah, I didn't think there would be.

I could call her now, see if the digits, you know, "check out." Knowing my luck, she'll probably be in the middle of doing something. "Argh," she'd groan. "I'm sorry, it's just that I can't find my goddam house keys."

At that point, knowing how little I could help and how very much I could only make things worse, I'd simply say, "I guess I'll let you go."

Sometimes it's best just to figure those things out for yourself.

NFL Divisional Playoffs Weekend!

Ranked in order of confidence once again, I went 3-1 last week, failing only to pick the Jacksonville Jaguars' mild upset of the Pittsburgh Steelers (which my second-least confident pick of the week).

We're not scoring points here, so my two upsets this week logically are my least confident picks. Sue me:

#1 New England Patriots over #5 Jacksonville Jaguars

#2 Indianapolis Colts over #3 San Diego Chargers

#3 Seattle Seahawks over #2 Green Bay Packers

#5 New York Giants over #1 Dallas Cowboys

My apologies to my dear brother-in-law ...

NFL Wild Card Weekend!

I could e-mail out these predictions and run one of my useless pools if I felt so inclined, but I know full well that response would be minimal. That said, here's my picks for this weekend as we wait for the New England Patriots to inevitably complete a perfect season (ranked in order of confidence):

#3 San Diego Chargers over #6 Tennessee Titans

#3 Seattle Seahawks over #6 Washington Redskins

#4 Pittsburgh Steelers over #5 Jacksonville Jaguars

#5 New York Giants over #4 Tampa Bay Buccaneers

Oh Good! A Contest!

Once again, those fine folks at Radar Magazine have come up with another particularly interesting topic. This time around, they're running a contest for the "most unbearably awful movie idea of all time."

Now, I was particularly relieved not to find one of my query letter pitches included in the accompanying horrible pitches some insiders have already heard. But I've had plenty of bad ideas before.

I'm trying to dream up a really, really hideous concept ... but "Patch Adams" already got made into a movie. So, I'm a little stuck right now.

It looks like the boys at KSK are off to a better start than me.

Meaning Of Life

I'm turning 30 in May. I don't like to admit that, but I can't deny it either.

My short-term goal these days is simply to move out and accept some responsibility. My long-term goal, of course, is to find a job I love and work like a dog until I get diagnosed with lung cancer and die while curled up in the fetal position on some random hospital bed—where health care will be universal.

I'm planning on going to New York for my big birthday, thus allowing me to see my sister, brother-in-law and niece—and perhaps attend a game at Yankee Stadium before it's scrapped. You know, anything to stay away from the usual way of life here in the 'burbs.

I'll also be thinking about life, I assume. You know: where I'm at, where I'm going, where I've been. It's only natural.

And I can only hope I remember to click these next two very, very profound links—one from Leonard Pitts and one from Jon Carroll.

Both should be read—if not committed to memory. And the other thing that should be committed to my own memory is this: Live life now and fuck everything else.

Or something like that. Perhaps I'll be more articulate when it actually is my birthday.

Let's Make Some Shit Up

I've openly questioned the benefit of having spent an extra semester at college to finish out my minor in "Fiction Writing." And while continuing my ongoing cleaning of the basement, I keep coming along items like the one I'm posting below.

A word of explanation here: The assignment was to parody Hubert Selby Jr.'s infamous "Last Exit to Brooklyn" passage about "Tralala," where the character in question is gang-raped and the graphic description goes on for several pages without any punctuation. So we were allowed two sentences and then see how far we could push the material without ever stopping.

You tell me:

"A Midsummer Night's Scream"

The reflection of the moonlight rippled on the lake's surface. Frogs croaked, crickets chirped, a pair of oars fought through the water. Ben rowed from the weighed-down end and Melissa would snort a line at the other end maybe saying something about not rocking the boat and so Ben would stop for a second and Melissa would snort and she'd throw her head back sniffling and batting her eyes and clearing her throat and then she'd set the metal lunchbox down when all the coke was gone and stand up and pull her pink tank top off and throw it at Ben who was rowing again and grunting as his arms grew tired and weak and sore and Melissa unbottoned her jeans and slid them down her long legs and she's sit back down kicking and tugging to remove her pants and Ben kept rowing and trying not to make his hard-on to obvious and trying not to think about how long it's been since that first time since that night since they were last here in the middle of the this lake in the middle of the night when the dock was there like it had always been there and it seemed like that place just that place for any two who were as hot or as horny be it in love or in lust when two bodies can't tear themselves apart and there's no need to row any further because the boat is as close to the dead-center of the lake where something was floating and it was as close or as far as anybody along the shore could hear or could see and Melissa drunkenly tip-toed the center of the creaking old boat and held her arms out and constantly balanced herself and swayed from her left to her right always inching closer toward Ben who let the oars rest and reclined and put his elbows on the end of the boat and cracked his neck with a groan and Melissa stuck a leg under his left arm to sort of straddle him while she asked if he was too tired and he looked up at her and shook his head and the other end of the boat began to rise out of the water while Melissa slid her other leg under Ben's other arm and sat down on his lap locking him in a kiss and wrapping her arms around his neck and falling back and hoping Ben would wrap his arms those ones that held her back then and the ones she hoped would hold her now and she slid down his torso and he fell along with her in a slithery slide to the boat's muddy floor where her hands fumbled with the belt of his jeans while he kissed at her neck and the boat didn't move only knocking and banging with the bumps and the oops of the clothes being kicked to the end of the boat where everything was shoved with two pairs of feet playfully kicking and batting and sparring with one another as though this was routine or part of the act and those bumps and those oops echoed around the lake and the small houses or cottages with their porch lights and their screen doors became curious or angry and people would mumble or grumble and see what the racket is at this time of night in this time of place when the knocking and banging of a boat was infuriating and annoying and concerning and Ben removed his shirt and slid it underneath the hips he had been clutching as she dug her fingernails into his shoulder blades and released a moan of delight while biting her lip and trying not to be too loud about how good it felt just to feel that again with him entering her and thrusting slowly and gently as the boat rocked from side to side sending soft ripples across the lake where more porch lights came on and more screen doors slammed and Melissa howled with pleasure and Ben would thrust harder and faster and the boat rocked harder and the ripples in the lake grew larger and Melissa ran her fingers through her hair while she began breathing harder and releasing soft squeals of pleasure as Ben sucked on the lobe of her ear and tried to ignore the pain in his arms as he supported his weight on his elbows that were planted in the muddy floor of the boat that was rocking harder and harder and the ripples in the lake grew larger and larger and Melissa's long legs interlocked with Ben's and her nails dug deeper into his back and Melissa arched her head back and Ben kissed her neck up to her chin and Melissa was wailing almost as if in pain but very much in ecstasy and the boat rocked harder and harder and harder and the ripples on the lake grew larger and larger and larger and more porch lights flicked on and more screen doors slammed as Ben's arms grew tired and he planted his palms in the muddy floor of the boat and arched his back more and kept thrusting and thrusting and Melissa's eyes rolled back into her head and she moaned and shrieked with delight and Ben grunted and collapsed on top of her with their exhausted bodies beaded with sweat both heaving as they struggled to catch their breath and the boat rocked slower and the ripples grew smaller and the porch lights flicked off and the screen door slammed and everything was like it once was and like it always could be every summer every year for the rest of time.