A clutch of words that causes a clutch of the heart

Worry building...on deadline

2006-05-08T08:19:00.000-04:00

I begin Columbia journalism school in 11 days.

"You must be really excited," people say. I nod my head and smile because that's the answer they expect and I'm a people pleaser. The truth is that I am a heap of nerves. I'm more nervous than my first day of kindergarten, first day of high school, first day of chemo, first day of college and any day in a church combined.

I've been getting a lot of e-mails from the staff at the school. All of them have a common message that resonates something like this: prepare to throw your life away and work harder than you ever have.

I got a refreshing e-mail from a gal who will be a classmate of mine at the school--although she is a full-timer and I'm a part-timer. She found a list of survival advice compiled by some students. Their advice made me more nervous, but some of it was worth a laugh. This was my absolute favorite among the tips:

"Wake up every morning and tell yourself that you are God's gift to journalism."

Pompous? Maybe. A morsel of self-encouragement? Absolutely.

Here are other selections from the list that made me a) laugh or b) want to shit my pants and go running home to mommy with tears streaming down my fat cheeks.

1) Schedule your time more carefully than you ever have. My chief obstacle to success at Columbia was not having budgeted adequate time to report & write my stories. Overcoming this was probably the most difficult lesson I learned in the J-school.

2) You don't know what you're doing. Face it, move on and learn from it.

3) Take a stress management course during the year. You'll need it.

4) When RW1 professors ask for volunteers to cover breaking news or take on an extra assignment, always TAKE IT, no matter what kind of excuses/schedule conflicts are running through your mind; it's a priceless experience and even if your story isn't award-winning, this may be your last chance to fail and not have to deal with catastrophic consequences.

5) If you are a full timer, befriend part-time students. (Note from Adam: Wow, nobody would have befriended a commuter at New Paltz!)

6) In your class there will be at least one student who seems to know exactly what he or she is doing. That student will have a breakdown before the first master's deadline.

7) Rest assured that your friends will understand if you don't call them for 10 months.

8) If you're having a difficult time writing, drink vodka....it burns clean. Wine will turn your brain to cement. (LOVE THIS!)

I want to say a few things about this list before I go to work and have a heart attack (it is deadline day today, you know). At the risk of having Jess Pasko yell at me, I feel like most of these were written by women. I have never used the phrases "stressed out" or "have a breakdown" in my life and I know very few men who have. We call is "kill-self mode." Just ask about every person at Stevens about kill-self mode and they will tell you it is a mindset you learn to love.

On that note, I'm going to go drink some vodka and start writing my life away.

AB

Making business decisions before buying the farm

2006-04-29T19:09:00.000-04:00

I always skip the business section when I read the New York Times. There is something about the word "business" that seems exclusionary to me. Either you're part of the crowd and you understand the game, or you're on the outside looking in at the numbers and the jargon. My taste is to remain ignorant on the outside.

But there is one thing I understand about the business world. People who own businesses have to make hard decisions and they pay dearly when making the wrong ones. (See Ken Lay, Martha Stewart, and eventually Leslie Moonves, for instance.)

The same goes for the newspaper industry, where hard decisions can bear a great story, ruin an edition, or affect circulation. I think my newspaper is at one of those points in its history where a hard choice must be made and the effects of that choice could determine the success or failure of the paper.

Our lone columnist is an 85-year-old farmer whose farming stories, conservationalist viewpoints, political ramblings, and oddball tales have appeared in the paper for about 50 years. He's somewhat of a famed man in the community. Everyone knows his name and, from reading his column, everyone is vicariously part of his life. It is estimated that hundreds, if not thousands, of people purchase our paper just to read his column. He's almost like Rick Reilly in a pair of crap-covered denim overalls.

But in the past two years he has begun to go blind. Being born before the computer generation, he always wrote his columns by hand on yellow legal paper. About two months ago his vision deteriorated to a point that his columns became illegible and he is now dictating them to an office assistant whose first language is Italian. His columns don't read well anymore, they sound staccato and the flow is gone. They sound like they are written by a woman whose second language is English because they are written by a woman whose second language is English. His columns have turned from semi-well-written hick tales to utter piffle.

He's been trying to persuade the editor, publisher, and owner of my paper--all the same man--to allow him to stop writing. But the editor realizes the bulk of his circulation exists because of the farmer's column. Circulation, in an editor's head, is directly proporational to advertising bucks. If the columnist leaves and the readers leave the advertisers won't be far behind.

The sad part is that he might have no choice. Our column writer has recently been in the hospital with kidney failure, heart trouble and water in his lungs. It's sad but inevitable--our column writer might be approaching his last days.

His passing would present a bevy of hard questions for the editor of the paper. Does he reprint old columns that don't have a timely element in them? Does he try to find a new column writer who can hold onto the World War II generation that makes up the bulk of our readers? How does he prevent slumps in circulation?

But I think that all of these questions miss the target. The most important question is this. How will my paper change to appeal to the next generation of readers?

Finding a new, young and exciting columnist is a solution, but it cannot be the only solution. The paper is designed like it was made on slab of graph paper and does not include any of the edgy designs, cleverly cropped images, graphs, charts and other things that newspapers have incorporated into their pages to make the news more readable and accessible. My newspaper's website looks like the one I made about hot chicks in bikinis when I was 15 years old. Our paper doesn't expand to fit more news, it only expands to fit more advertisements, so when there is a lot of news in a week some of the news gets excluded from the paper and then becomes, for lack of a better term, old news for next week's edition.

There are a lot of things working in my paper's disfavor and the sad part is that my editor does not have the conviction or ability to fix any of them. He will not make the wrong decision because he refuses to make decisions at all. He's happy with the way the paper is--drab, ugly, outdated.

But when the old farmer-turned-columnist buys the farm the editor won't be able to duck these issues any longer. Senior citizens comprise the bulk of our readership and as they approach the winter of their lives the paper is bound to lost its foundation.

Making some hard business choices is the only way my paper can save itself from future peril. After all, you can't depend on an old farmer forever.

# # #
AB

Not in your schedule? Bullshit.

2006-04-19T08:23:00.000-04:00

I'm pondering the next topic I'd like to write about for Coping with Cancer Magazine. The last time I wrote was about golf and how it can help cancer patients who aren't physically capable of running, throwing, lifting, and doing the other things that normal require. My premise was that golf was a good way to get outside, mostly clothed, walk around and get some exercise...even if you can't hit the ball anywhere near the green.

I think my next piece might be about the different ways a person can volunteer. I have been a part of three fundraisers during my time--the marathon, the bachelor auction(which is coming up next week), and a penny social raffle-type event. But have you ever stopped to think of all the different ways a person can contribute to a cause that has affected a loved-one, friend, family member, or acquaintance? Fundraising opportunities range from the drastically involved to the quick-and-simple.

The marathon is a good example of painstakingly involved. Buying equipment, running 40-50 miles each week, traveling, soliciting, sweating, cramping--the marathon, no pun intended, was not a walk in the park.

But this year I have also done the simple things. I went to Mardi Gras last year and really loved the jazz cafes in New Orleans. The people, or the majority of them, were very friendly and welcoming. When Hurricane Katrina huffed, puffed, and blew their houses down, I donated $50 to the Red Cross. In yesterday's paper I learned that the Red Cross didn't do such a good job, but it was the thought that counted. I liked the area, felt bad for the people, and did what I could to give a helping gift.

But my idea for my next magazine piece isn't just to explore the different kinds of fundraising and talk about how varied and interesting they are. My focus is shaping to be that anyone who says they don't have time to help others is full of shit. How long does it take to write a check?

You know that night of the week when you typically eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's while watching American Idol's enthralling ballads? Why not use that night to go to a penny social, or sell yourself at my bachelor auction.

The point is this. Instead of killing yourself with fatty ice cream, you'll be helping someone else and, at the same time, helping yourself. Volunteering or donating will give you goosepimples, I guarantee it.

And, to the surprise of many, you might have a little bit of fun in the process.

(Note: The Leukemia-Lymphoma Society Bachelor Auction, with emcee Adam R. Bosch, is April 27 at 7 p.m. The event is held at Coughlan's pub and restaurant in White Plains, N.Y. See you there!)

Asbestos and toxins and cancer, oh my!

2006-04-16T14:27:00.000-04:00

As most of you probably know by now, I was accepted to Columbia University last week. Yup, they're going to let me past the security gate to study journalism...Ivy League style.

(Note: Something about the Ivy League pigeon-hole makes people think about sweater vests and hair parted to one side. Maybe I'm just crazy, but the term Ivy League makes me think of Wrigley Field.)

Studying at Columbia is going to take an excess of everything I have--time, effort, money, commitment, ability--and the work has already begun. The fine folks at Columbia suggested in my acceptance packet that I begin preparing myself for school, and for learning New York City, by reading the New York Times every day. Hectic schedule aside, I have found the time to sit down for about an hour each day and read the A and B sections at the very least. Those first two slices of the paper cover international, national, and New York news. Oh, and a little of New Jersey, but my eighth-grade teacher called that state "the armpit of the nation" and I've disregarded its importance ever since.

I've learned a lot of things since beginning my lover's quarrel with the paper that never ends. There's a revolution in Chad, Italy has election problems too, New York police buildings are having the same space issues as the ones in my coverage area, The Queen Mary 2 sailed into Brooklyn, and, as one columnist quipped, "If brains were elastic, George Bush would not have enough to make suspenders for a mouse."

But an article in Friday's edition caught my eye and has since occupied much of my thought. A police officer died from a lung infection that was caused by dust at ground zero. According to the article, the coroner and many doctors claim that life-threatening illnesses are developing in many who inhaled the air-born dust created by the collapse of the twin towers.

The most interesting part was the claim by one doctor that asbestos, toxins and other carcinogens floating in the air after 9/11 could not only cause cancer in people who inhaled them, but expedite the cancer cell multiplication process. The doctor said that carcinogens usually take years to cause cancer in humans, but that the combination of toxins from 9/11 could have expedited the process--especially for people with blood cancer.

I could not help but wonder if my blood cancer was caused by the dust that washed over my Hoboken dorm room in the days that followed the terrorist attacks. Mike and I had a double-bladed window fan that blew air into our room. The window screen near the blades was clogged with dust and dirt. That same dust was found in thicker-than-average layers on our desks and dressers.

I'm not trying to join the growing group of conspiracy theorists--these people who get sick and then find outlandish reasons for it. I just happened upon a newspaper piece the reignited within me the same questions that all cancer patients and ill-stricken people ask. "Why me?" Or, "How did this happen?" Unfortunately, we still haven't found any answers to these troubling questions.

While trying to make some sense of my medical mystery, I thought of all the factors that pressed against me in my late teens. I had a bout of mononeucleosis the summer before I entered college. Some medical researchers theorize that mono can increase the likelihood of young men developing blood cancers. Could the dust have been the final ingredient in my cancer cauldron? Did the ratio of different particulates in the air allow my cancer to develop in nine months instead of the normal germination time?

I doubt that doctors or researchers will ever know fully whether the destruction dust sped the cancer process, and if they ever do prove it I don't expect any money or recognition from anyone. I thought that I might call doctors who were referenced in the Times article and offer my tumor, which is still stored in St. Luke's hospital, for their study. Maybe in the future their research could save the lives of another policeman, firefighter, ambulance worker, office assistant, or innocent passer-by. And maybe it could provide something that the whole cancer community yearns for.

A few simple answers.

The Man that Made the Whole Town Proud

2006-02-15T13:28:00.000-05:00

A lot of people have been asking me how the newspaper biz is going. Some have requested to see some writing and I know others would read if it was made convenient for them. So here is a piece I finished this morning that will appear in the annual Wallkill Valley Almanac. It is the only piece of writing that will grace the almanac's pages.

The man that made the whole town proud…
By Adam Bosch

If you call Walden home or sojourn to the village every now and again, it is likely that Colonel Thomas Wilson Bradley has influenced your stay.

He bequeathed the land where your son or daughter played a ball game. You might have sent a letter in the post office he bargained for. He funded half of the municipal building where you pay your taxes and conduct your government. Your checking account might be at the bank he helped establish. You are holding a piece of his legacy every time you borrow a book from the library.

Upon his death in 1920, the execution of Bradley’s will essentially built the landmark institutions in Walden as we know them. One New York City newspaperman quipped that Bradley’s will was “the will that made the whole town happy.”

But what about his life? Who was Colonel Thomas W. Bradley and why is his fingerprint set so deeply in Walden?

Bradley was born in Yorkshire, England in 1844. He arrived in Walden 12 years later, the son of a knife factory president. Young Bradley “worked the bench” at the factory, shining and grinding knives on large wheels that were powered by the flow of the Wallkill River. The New York Knife Factory sat on the bank of the river from the current-day Veterans’ Memorial Bridge to the falls. The six-story building was formerly a cotton factory and was the largest producer of cutlery in the world.

While knife-shaping was hard work, life in Walden was prosperous and easy compared to the rough current of national politics. Bradley was 17 years old when the South seceded from the union and the first shots of the Civil War were fired in Virginia. In 1862 he enlisted in the Orange Blossoms, an Orange County company that still exists today, as a private in the 124th regiment of the Union Army.

Bradley was promoted quickly during his Army tenure, rising from private to major in three short years. These years would shape his character and define him as a fearless patriot.

His most celebrated act of heroism occurred during the battle at Chancellorsville in May 1863. Half of Bradley’s regiment was killed or wounded during the battle, but the dwindling stock of ammunition might have been worse news. Confederate fire was ceaseless and daunting. Shells exploded nearby and rifle-shots whispered danger as they whizzed by the ears of those left standing. The Union Army needed ammunition to survive the pressing Confederates, but the only stock lay 500 yards away between the lines and beyond a heap of dead mules.

Someone had to run and retrieve it amidst shots, shell and canister.

Bradley volunteered. He darted across the field and fetched all the ammunition he could carry in his young arms. Thomas Hart, a lieutenant in his regiment described the scene as Bradley returned with the stock.

“At the hottest part of the return, Bradley was seen to turn, and, facing the enemy’s line, rapidly walked backward. Being questioned later in regard to this, he replied, ‘I felt sure of getting hit, and wanted the stroke in front instead of in my back.’”

He would receive the Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest award given in the United States, for his bravery at Chancellorsville. After that battle, Bradley was wounded in the battles of Gettysburg, the Wilderness, and Boydton Plank Road.

Bradley returned to Walden on June 3, 1865, and settled into a community-involved life that would become his legacy as we know it.

He went back to work at the knife company as a salesman and soon married
Josephine Denniston. The couple, along with their adopted daughter Louise, lived in a house that still stands on Ulster Avenue.

Bradley assumed greater responsibility at the New York Knife Company when his father died a few years after his return from war. Under Bradley’s leadership, the knife company expanded and prospered for a while. It was called the “Sheffield of America,” a reference to a steel town famous for its knives in England where Bradley lived as a boy. The knife company drove the village—if the knife company prospered, Walden prospered.

Bradley’s responsibilities at the factory were matched by his increasing contributions to public life. The Walden Savings Bank opened in 1872 and Bradley was its first vice president. During that time he was also the president of the Walden National Bank and an original trustee of the Columbus Trust Company in Newburgh. Bradley also delved into politics as a member of the New York State Assembly in 1875 and 1876.

It was around this time that life became a bit tougher in Walden. The import of German knives affected the American market. German knives were cheaper and they undercut the success of Walden’s knife company. Bradley maneuvered the company through the tough times. While he lost all of his money vested in the knife company, Bradley struggled to keep the business viable. He lessened the work week to four days and took out a $100,000 loan to continue paying the wages of his workers.

Luckily for Walden, there was a saving grace on the national scene. In 1897 William McKinley defeated William Jennings Bryant to become the 25th president of the United States. It was said that McKinley established America as a world power and the media as an important entity in the county. His was the first inaugural address to be captured on a movie camera, he annexed Hawaii as the 50th state, and created the White House pressroom.

McKinley also knew how to take care of his friends, as he offered Bradley a job at the White House as commissioner of pensions. McKinley and Bradley met during the civil war and became fast friends. McKinley was a commissary sergeant in a nearby regiment.

Bradley turned down the offer to work in Washington, opting to stay in Walden where the knife company and his workers needed him. Bradley explained the situation to McKinley.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” McKinley asked.

“Raise the tariffs on German knives,” Bradley said.

The favor was done. The tariff rose and so did the New York Knife Company’s profits. Bradley regained the money he had lost during the reign of cheap German knives and even made a profit. The McKinley monument was erected on the corner of East Main Street and Ulster Avenue in the village as a way to pay homage to the president. Its inscription reads, “McKINLEY ERECTED BY THE WORKINGMEN OF WALDEN.”

The statue was made by Henry H. Kitson, an artisan from Massachusetts. Letters between Bradley and Kitson reveal an elaborate unveiling ceremony that included parades. The date of the ceremony was changed several times according to their correspondence, within which we learn that Bradley was a jovial man who cared about his friends and fellow villagers. During one of Kitson’s troubling times, Bradley reaches to his English heritage for a pep talk.

“Cheer up!” he writes. “I like that old English expression ‘Cheer up!’”

Bradley sold his interest in the knife factory in 1903, but continued his service to Walden and to the United States. He was a United States congressman from 1903 to 1913. He fought for the rights of American workers, serving on the board of pensions and arguing for a fair wage scale.

Even when considering national issues, he never forgot Walden. While in congress, Bradley bargained a deal that established money to build the post office in Walden. We still drop our mail at it today.

The early 1900s were packed with projects in Walden that were orchestrated by Bradley. In 1902 he established the Rock Hill fire company on the west side that would later be renamed in his memory. The government building in Municipal Square was built in 1915 and designed to the specifications in his will after he died. Bradley matched every dollar contributed by the public with money of his own to build the three-story brick building.

The library moved there in 1916 and was affectionately named for his wife and daughter. His daughter, Louise, began a library club with Willis C. Stevens in 1896. Each member contributed money to buy books and exchanged them among the others in the group. By 1901 the club had accumulated 500 volumes. Bradley donated 500 more when he died. The Josephine-Louise library boasts over 32,000 books and other reference materials today.

Bradley Park lies on land that was bequeathed by Bradley to the village for the purpose of building a park.

Bradley erected two additional monuments—“The Standard Bearer” in Goshen and “The Volunteer” in the Wallkill Valley Cemetery, which honors the memory of Company H of the 124th New York Volunteer Regiment. Bradley, his wife and daughter, are buried near the monument at the peak of the highest hill in the cemetery.

Walden carried great affection for its favorite son, who was called “Colonel Tom” by men and women of the village. When he died—fittingly on Memorial Day 1920—hundreds of villagers watched and cried as he was buried in the Wallkill Valley Cemetery.

His legacy lives in Walden because of the will that made the whole town happy. But on that late spring day in 1920, hundreds mourned the man that made the whole town proud.

# # #
Note: Information in this piece was found through interviews with local historian Marcus Millspaugh, research in the Josephine-Louse Library and New York Historical Society, and a prior piece written by Millspaugh and fellow historian Joe Devine. All of their contributions were greatly appreciated.

Wow, long time, no write

2006-02-11T09:27:00.000-05:00

I have been without internet for almost five months, so it was quite shocking when I came to my blog and saw I hadn't posted anything new since my graduation day. Jeeze. So much has happened since then it is hard to recount. But like any simpleton, third-grader, or brain-damaged amature boxer, I know the quickest way to say a lot and keep order is in a numbered list.

1) Graduation was great. It rained and the keynote speaker used the podium as his political soapbox, but I still enjoyed it. I was the first Bosch to graduate with a college degree and I'm proud of that.

2) I quite my job at J. Crew just before graduation because I assumed that I could find a decent job quickly. What's the saying about people who assume? What did Kanye West say degrees were good for? Ass out of you and me. Keeping you warm. Jobs were coming slower than a porn star hopped-up on blue genies.

3) I finally got a job at John Wiley & Sons, a publishing company where I would be the publisher's assistant. Ironically, it was located in Hoboken, N.J., my old college town and a city that I love. The job was a different story. I didin't love that quite as much. I was told that I would be copy editing manuscritps and I thought that would hold me over fine until I could find a newspaper job that suited me better. WRONG! They never fulfilled my job description, forcing me to become a Xerox and UPS expert. Fuck that. I quit after one-and-a-half months. But....

4) I found a new job during one of my last days at Wiley--a job that proved to be an even greater coincidence. The Wallkill Valley Times, a small weekly paper that reported on my high school basketball glory days, was seeking a general assignment reporter. I was hired right away. Young, local, willing to work for beans...I was the perfect fit for the paper. Although the pay and the hours suck harder than Richard Simmons in the men's locker room at Gold's Gym, I still love my work. Reporting is everything I thought it would be and I'm happy I chose it as my career path. Pick up the paper sometime. My stories aren't hard to find, they litter the front page every week. Some people ask if I'm the only one who writes for the paper. I might as well be.

5) Oh, let me back up for a second. After graduation and before getting a job at Wiley, I had the best time of my life when Erin and I went to Ireland. I haven't seen a more beautiful place in my life. We stayed in Dublin, which was nice. The people were friendly, the castles were old, the food was...Italian? Yes, the Italians even took over cuisine on the Emerald Isle. But my favorite part was the mountains. I've never seen green rolling hills covered in grasses quite that beautiful. The glacial lakes are still and calm. It looks like they are on video and someone hit the pause button. We were taken to the field were Braveheart was filmed and I had to take a photo. Yes, I have a photo of an empty field in my album, but it means something to me. It's the best movie ever. I'd also say Ireland is where I fell in love with Erin. Erin is Gaelic for Ireland afterall. Yea, I'm a sap for saying that, what are you gonna do about it?

6) Keeping with the relationship theme, Erin and I moved into our own place together about five months ago. Somehow we've found a way to live on the cheap, but look a lot better. TV I bought in college, big bed from her room, kitchen table from her house, $4,000 worth of computer equipment from my house, satellite radio, two DVD players, enough clothes to allay the lack of rags in Somolia, and furniture from IKEA. I cook. She cleans. We both do the laundry. It's a nice split, a nice situation. I haven't been happier. I love coming home to a place that is ours and I sleep better at night. I feel bad for her having to sleep with me, I rip ass at night and it smells like a skunk fell in week-old trash. But she still loves me. I'm honest, is that a crime?

That's a decent recap. For those of you expecting better writing, try next time. I wanted to do this thing quick and efficient. Right now I am looking for new jobs. I've outgrown the Wallkill Valley Times and I need a place where I can do more meaningful journalism on a daily basis. Reporting on cub scouts, senior citizens and local government is nice, but like any sugar-coated job it makes you ill after too long. Gotta move up and out.

I'll have a more entertaining topic the next time I write. Something more opinionated and funny. Yea, I know what you assclowns like.

Glad to be back on the internet, keep reading.

-AB

Directions to the post-graduation party

2005-05-21T16:55:00.000-04:00

Here are some simple directions for everyone.

Take the Thruway to exit 17, Newburgh. After paying the newly increased toll, bear right onto Rt. 300 and stay in the right lane. After driving 500 ft. you will approach Rt. 84 EAST, get on 84 EAST for about two exits until you get to the exit for RT. 9W. Make a right off of the Rt. 9W exit and then a left at the traffic light (there is a gas station on the corner and it is a double left). At the next light you will be at the intersection with Powell Ave., which is where Mt. Saint Mary's college is located. Make a right onto Powell Ave. Then make your first right onto Castle Avenue. Then make your first left onto City Terrace North and you are there.

It may sound complicated, but once you are off of Rt. 84 the house is no more than 1 mile away. It is quite short and simple.

You will be able to find the house easily, my mother will have posted a gaudy sign or several embarassing balloons. If anyone has problems, call me on my cell phone, 845 591 7462.

See you there,

Adam

The King of 7th Grade Homework

2005-03-20T22:37:00.000-05:00

My brother recently got a 110% on his black history paper about Muhammad Ali. He got 100% for the writing and 10 points of extra credit for reading it to the class. Oh, wait...did I say he got 100% for the writing? I mean I got 100% for the writing.

I've noticed a trend with my brother that I believe speaks to a larger trend among all the children his age--he doesn't know the first thing about writing a paper. Here's the prevailing system in my house. A teach assigns a paper for Nolan, Nolan brings home the assignment, he asks me for help, I agree, he whines that he "doesn't understand" and then I sit at home on a Friday night writing four stellar pages about boxing's greatest and the world's most recognizable man.

I think my brother's lack or writing skills might be a relection of our poor elementary education system. But when I thought about my school experiences I realized that even I was crafty enough to string a paper together with cited plagarism.

I remember the first paper I ever wrote was a fifth grade project about the 50 states. Our project was to create a pretend cross-country trip, map it out and write about 10 of the states that we would pass through. My paper was considerably short of literary achievement. I never asked my parents for an iota of help, I simply turned to my good ol' friend Encarta, copied and pasted some facts and strung them together with some terrible fifth grade prose. I know my brother is in an early stage, but I think his lack of effort, not ability, is what troubles me.

The other thing I began to ponder was the definition of "good writing" in high school. As a writer now, I think good writing is synonymous with being able to communicate your thoughts well through words. Good writing can consist of words that never leave the one syllable range. But in high school good writing was always scribed by a kid who could slap together several multi-syllabic words in a row and make him/herself sound elitist.

I cannot remember the exact words he used to write his passage, but the first example that comes to mind is when Ben Haldeman, a very intelligent classmate of mine, used a few gigantic words to describe a man falling off of a ladder into a pile of horse shit. If memory serves me well, I believe he called the shit "feces."

Everyone was wowed by his ability to use such large words to describe a basic and comedic accident, but now that I am a little wise, a little older and a little more well versed in the writing arena, I probably would have passed it off as elitist fodder. I would have written the passage something like this:

"The ladder teetered under the considerable weight of the pear-shaped man. His arms swung like propellers in an attempt to regain his balance, but it was no use. He tumbled down the ladder, smacking his face on every rung, until he landed with a plop into a heap of horse shit."

I think you get the idea and the image. I don't expect my brother to write anything like that, but I expect him to give it a try. I'd rather him fail and learn something from it than for me to be crowned the 22-year-old king of junior high English class.

I remember my sweet 16

2005-02-17T20:34:00.000-05:00

I remember my 16th birthday well. My father took me to the Newburgh DMV to get my driver's permit. John Elway won his second and final Superbowl. And mom recycled the candles from when I turned 1 and 6 to create a sense of nostalgia, or inexpense, on my cake. But the only thing that was "sweet" about my 16th was the icing on mom's patented sheet cake, there were no shaking asses, expensive cars, big-boobed girls or rented out venues like the birthday's portrayed on MTV's show about young guys and gals turning 16.

It's appalling to see how lavish these parties are and how shallow and insolent the kids are. One kid's father helped him rent some hot go-go dancers for his party, one girl rented out Planet Hollywood in...well...Hollywood, and one girl's father picked up her friends from the airport in his $775,000 Bentley.

My father picked up my friends in his new 99 Camry, we had some cake in my linolium-floored kitchen and then everyone went home so I could maintain my "bedtime."

I can't help but see what pathetic lives these kids leave. While they think that riches and big parties are going to bring them the respect, admiration and attraction they yearn for, they are blind to the fact that they look like young snotty whores in training. Their biggest problems are the guest list, not living financially from week to week like most normal humans. And while they say, "I don't know what I'd do without money," most are saying, "I don't know how I'm going to pay the bills."

I also feel bad for the poor freshman who get booted from these estrogen ho-dows. There's no reason to force these girl out of the party, they only do it as a show of power as a result of wealth and that is more dispicable than the frost in their hair and the silicon in their fun bags. The greatest revenge for these poor party-goers will be when the birthday gal's trust fund runs out from buying minks and Mercedes, leaving her no choice but to dance in a sleazy strip club while an old retired Navy man named Hank smokes Marlboro reds, blows the smoke in her perm-ridden hair and slaps her on the ass after tucking a filthy dollar bill in her Wal-Mart g-string.

I also can't help but think that these rich girls are the kind of people who will donate to help the tsunami relief effort not because it is a human helping other humans, but because it has become a fad. Just like iPods and Livestrong bracelets, tsunami relief has become the Madison Avenue thing to do among people who have money to throw out like yesterday's newspaper.

I think it was the Helenistic philosopher Lucretius who said that man's greatest virtue is helping his neighbor when his neighbor cannot help himself.

I wouldn't expect the sweet-16 girls to follow this noble quote--it wasn't spewed by Paris Hilton.

-AB

The first day of the real deal

2005-01-09T19:01:00.000-05:00

Monday is the first day of my internship at the Times Herald-Record. It's scary to think that an internship is the business liason between school and a real job, but even though this is a large step, I'm not nervous. I've been lucky to have some very big influences and skilled teachers that prepared me to perform when the time comes to stop playing journalist and start being one.

The first person who helped me more than I can explain is Professor Good. Students who had him before me said that I would either love or hate the man, but I don't see how anyone who is serious about writing or journalism could ever dislike him. And the great thing is that while he's teaching journalism and how to write a newspaper piece, he is also teaching writing. There were points in his classes where I learned more about writing than journalism and I think these lessons will help me stand out from a pack of people who write the same stories the same boring way.

Aside from being a brilliant writing mentor, Professor Good is also a quote machine. He's provided me with such favorites as, "I mean.....JESUS!!!" (Note to those who don't know him: Picture that being said by a very disgruntled man with a semi-bald head and red face that is emitting considerable spit)Another favorite of mine is when he said, "If you think about it, the whole world could be reduced to sex, war, books and baseball." That will end up in one of my magazine pieces or books some day, it is too priceless to lay unread by the masses.

The second person who has helped me beyond proper recognition is Roger Kahn, who has given me experience and wisdom that couldn't come from anyone else. Professor Good told me that I should go fearless into my internship and I think that working with Roger has dispelled any fear I would have. After you've talked to the likes of Bill Walton and Gay Talese on the phone, Joe Blow from Highland, NY, doesn't seem so intimidating.

I asked Roger for some advice today while we were working on his memoir, and he told me that Irving Marsh, one of his first editors, told him to try not to write literature. Roger told him that his goal was to write literature and in response Marsh said, "You'll writer literature in time, but for now just write good newspaper pieces." I think this is exactly what I will do. I know I am capable of writing that worthy of books and magazines, but the trick for this newspaper internship is not to get too technical or try too hard.

I'm going to stick to my guns and write the news AP style now so that later I can write some magazine pieces and books AB style.

-ARB

A Farce of Foreign Disaster

2005-01-03T20:24:00.000-05:00

Whenever an important event happens, I indulge in TV coverage like fat women indulge in candy bars. After 9/11 I watched news break on CNN for at least a week. There is nothing on TV I love more than good blizzard coverage. I watched programming about the Columbine shooting for hours. I think there is something twisted in the human psyche that craves constant coverage of horrible events--that's why I have been watching tsunami coverage since the wave hit land.

Please do not think I am a demented moron who heats up some movie popcorn and lounges to enjoy a good disaster. I watch the coverage because there is something magnetic about the human struggle and, as a journalism student, I find myself analyzing and applauding or denouncing the coverage. The majority of post-tsunami TV coverage has been good. It's depicted the struggle of survivors, memorialized the deceased and told some great stories. But in the beginning every network and cable news outlet made an unforgivable mistake.

One of the first big stories to come out of the disaster area, which included Sri Lanka, India, Indonesia, parts of Africa and some of the other small south Pacific islands, was about a little boy who was found alive with no parents. Although I do not know his exact age, the child could not have been over 5 years old. Almost every news program said that this child was the "face of the disaster." The dispicable part is that while the majority of the 150,000 people who died were not caucasian, the news picked a little white boy to be the calling-card of the disaster. Were there no Sri Lankan kids who survived without a parent? I doubt it. Was the picture of a woman coddling her dead son not compelling enough to be the face of the disaster? Absolutely not.

Welcome to western racism, where even if 149,999 brown people died we could find the only white kid to depict the struggle on every front page and television montage.

-ARB

Look around, you're getting old

2004-12-26T19:18:00.000-05:00

The holiday season reminds me of how old I am getting. It doesn't make me panic about getting a job or finding a place to live or the price of gas, but it makes me realize that I'm not the whippersnapper I used to be and there's plenty of evidence.

I have only one grandparent left, Grandpa George, and he acts more like a 5-year-old with a speech impediment than a 78-year-old with a pending knee surgery. That makes me feel old because when it's time for family to gather around a dinner table, my father is now at the head of it. Scary. This is the part where he would probably joke about the head of the table being synonymous to a deli line where they pull the string and your number comes up, but it's odd to think that my dad is the new family fossil.

On the other end of the line there is my brother, who is growing and making me feel old. I was thinking about all the things of my childhood that he will never see because they have been replaced my machines, cards or computers. Remember when you paid for something at a store and they had to make a carbon copy of your credit card with the metal slide that made the "shick shick" noise? He's never seen one of those. Do you remember Caldor's? Nolan eats every night off of dinner plates that were purchased at Caldor's, but he will never set foot in the defunct store. Remember cassette tapes? He doesn't.

But I'm done reminiscing about the days of New Kids on the Block and Thunder Cats--when animation was worse than today's the the boy bands were just as bad as today's.

I don't mind getting old with my family and friends as long as I can type on my computer, swipe my debit card, shop at Wal-Mart and pop Snoop Dogg's big black booty bus tour into my DVD player.

-AB

Found this and thought it was good

2004-12-14T13:17:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I dabble in poetry, as many of you know. So when I came across this and thought it was pretty good, I figured I'd share it. Oh, and I apologize for the lack of recent posts, tivialities in my life have kept me from writing.

In the spring of his life he spoke love to a dame
“I met you and my days have not been the same,
I grow restless of work and tired of play
But there’s no pain of mine you cannot allay.”

He waited for a smile, a blush or a flutter
He did not expect the thorn she did utter
“This love from your lips I do not deserve
Nor was it expected, it comes as a curve.

Now listen up close and keep your heart tame
For mine’s not on auction, some lad has staked claim
You are dashing and charming, but late for the flight
He swept me away by the river last night.”

His mouth didn’t move and his heart ceased to dance
A heavy toll levied for taking a chance
He tested the waters and turned up with acid
Love’s chase isn’t always so simple and placid.

- poet unknown

More to come soon...

Whoops, been a while.

2004-11-14T11:21:00.000-05:00

In the midst of life I have forgotten about this silly writing that I do for the entertainment of my few friends who like to read my rambles. So what have I been up to? There is the usual--school, work and some random good times--but there is also the extraordinary that is more entertaining to read.

The first and most obvious cause of excitement is the 3rd Annual Adam R. Bosch Wine and Cheese Soiree. I have been preaching the gospel and putting my best publicity foot forward. Mike and I knew where we wanted to throw the party and had it booked for about two weeks before I unleashed the frenzy that is the posting of the annual website (http://www.arbwineandcheese.latest-info.com). Within 30 minutes I received 114 instant messages from people saying things like this:

"That picture of the urinals is the awesomest thing I've ever seen and it is now the background on my computer." Peivin Lee

"This thing looks kick ass!" AJ Otto

This year's soiree is going to be the biggest by far. With that many replies in such little time, I expect to see several hundred people from Hoboken, Wallkill, New Paltz, NYC, Long Island and other random areas there...with wine in hand.

Here are some other random ARB happenings:

1) I've been going out to happy hour at P&G's in New Paltz a lot. Micheil, Tommy and I ride as the drunken trio of excellence, which is fantastic. I was so hammered one night that I stole political signs off people's lawns. Micheil was so drunk one night that he cooked some heinous food that was making people choke. And Tommy was so drunk one night that he ran all the way to his apartment to get money that he didn't really have. Fantastic times. Oh, and I saw Marty and Buisette there one night...for those of you who know all about them.

2) I went to a few birthday bashes recently. Emily's surprise party was excellent becuase Micheil was hammered and I carried his ass in beirut. I was probably a little drunk when I thought about this, but if grenade throwing is anything like playing beirut, they should just give me a barrel of those things, put me in Falluja and I could systematically eliminate ever insurgent left in Iraq. I am that good.

Meli also had a birthday party, which was awesome. She was the first friend I made at NP becuase we were both transfers at transfer orientation. They sat us alone in a room together to fill out paperwork and we were practically forced to talk to each other. That ended up being awesome because I love Meli and she is among the funniest, most excellent people I've ever met.

3) I can't believe Ol' Dirty Bastard died and I wonder if the nickname "Big Baby Jesus" is going to bite him in the ass.

4) The Eminem CD is disappointing. In some of the songs he doesn't even rhyme and it sounds skiddish.

I'll be posting again soon, but until then I will be polishing my wine cork screw, sharpening my cheese knife and making sure I look quite dapper when I have a few hundred people staring at my drunk-eyes and general disarray.

-ARB

What can you do with it for 36 hours?

2004-10-17T19:28:00.000-04:00

I've been watching TV all day because I'm sick and TV is the only doctor open on Sundays. The interesting thing is that you can learn a lot about American values by watching TV for 12 straight hours.

Today I learned that erections are as, or more, important to men as ridding one's self of allergies. You might be wondering how I learned that from watching poor FOX sports coverage all day, but it's really quite simple. There were more Cialis and Viagra commercials on during the sports broadcasts than there were for Allegra. The two erection drugs are, as Robin Williams said, meant to make you "harder than Chinese algebra."

But unlike Chinese algebra, the sheer ridiculous nature of hard-on drugs isn't hard to figure out. Old men might wonder why the little guy downstairs refuses to stand up, but I think there's a time when the big guy upstairs can't watch your wrinkly ass do the nasty anymore. (Please note: the only exception to this rule is Mr. Hugh Heffner. I call him Mr. out of pure respect for his craft.)

Here is the most ludicrous part. On the Cialis commercial it says, "If you have an erection for more than 36 hours you should consult your doctor." Is this odd to anyone else? What the hell can you do with an erection for 36 hours? I can even hear Ron Jeremy screaming at the thought of it. How the hell would you hide wood for 36 hours? Temporary towel rack perhaps? Maybe if it were Christmas time you could hang some ornaments off of it and take pictures with the wife. If it's spring you could sprinkle some bird seed around the porch and just wait for robbins to perch on it. Maybe you could start a new hoola hoop trend.

I kept wondering where all the funny commercials about funny girl problems were, but then I realized I didn't want to touch that subject with any stick, much less an 36-hour one.

Standing up for my craft

2004-10-01T16:14:00.000-04:00

As you all have read, I wrote a column in this week's Oracle in which I pointed out the errors of a local writer for the Times Herald Record. Since I wrote the column, he and I have exchanged some emails where I have told him how wrong he was and he tried to downplay it. Look for yourselves:

Adam --

Once, when I was a college kid, way back when, all of, like, four or five
years ago, I wrote a chippy, chirpy column about a column, too. I dig your
fire, dude. If you'd like to talk shop or compare notes, drop me a line.

-- Michael

After I received this email from Michael Kruse, I decided to respond, mostly because his "chippy" and "chirpy" comments were small jabs at me and I didn't take them lightly. Afterall, these are words used to describe golf shots and birds...not writing. Here's my response.

Michael,

I appreciate you email and am happy you read my column with an open mind--although I doubt "chirpy" or "chippy" are words that describe it best. My piece wasn't meant to single you out, it was merely commentary on most sports columns' trend toward negativity. I used a local example because I knew it would be more accessible to my audience.

I would like to take you up on your offer and find out what you had in mind when you were writing your column so I can gain a better understanding. Personally, I KNOW you can do a lot better than "Shut the heck up." and "Who cares?" These are blurbs worthy of an elementary school hallway, not the fine publication that you write for.

Very best,

Adam Bosch

I'm not sure if this fellow will email me back--I assume he will. I hope he is mature enough to understand my attacks are not personal. If I were to make a mistake and write something like he did, I would be open to any commentary--I always have been and always will be. Many of you have told me that some of the pieces on this internet site suck, and that's good to know. Afterall, at the end of the day I'm writing for your entertainment and enlightenment, not for my resume and ego.

-AB

A column I wrote for the newspaper

2004-09-28T18:58:00.000-04:00

Here's a column I wrote for the newspaper up here. It came to mind after I read a column in the local paper by a writer named Michael Kruse. I'm pretty proud of this piece.

Enjoy!

Sports Writing has a Cold

By Adam Bosch
(for the New Paltz Oracle)

Westbrook Pegler, the great sportswriter of the early 1900s, once wrote that two schools of sports writers existed, “The ones who go ‘gee whiz’ and the ones who say ‘aw nuts.’”

But with his column in Monday’s Times Herald Record, Michael Kruse typified a third variety—the ones who whine and squander opportunities.

Kruse was given two priceless pleasures—roaming Boston for the regular season’s last Yankees v. Red Sox series, and the privilege of talking with Roger Kahn, one of the best baseball writers to grace our newspapers, magazines and books. Unfortunately, Kruse did not use these opportunities to craft an interesting and insightful piece.

Instead he littered his commentary with sophomoric phrases, such as “Then shut the heck up!” and “Who cares?” These phrases were not direct quotes from the fans in Boston, they were childish turns-of-phrase written by Kruse in his column, which taunted the Red Sox to stop saying, “This is the year,” and actually beat the Yankees.

Think of all the opportunities Kruse had to write a column worthy of attention and praise! Most journalists would kill to walk a city that is home to this nation’s most passionate fans during a weekend when its most beloved team plays its most hated rival. And most writers would salivate at the chance to sit down with Roger Kahn and pick his brain about all things baseball. Kahn could have been a great resource for a column about this rivalry, which he featured in his book October Men.

But no quotes from Boston fans or thoughts on the rivalry from Kahn appeared in Kruse’s column. Kruse proved that opportunities are only as good as those who take advantage of them.

I only point to Kruse’s column as an example of the disease that pollutes today’s sports writing. Others suffer from it too. I can’t remember the last time I read a Rick Reilly column in Sports Illustrated where he didn’t try to prove how cool he was by bashing athletes. Nor can I remember the last time I read an interesting column in any publication that gave a pleasant view of sports or praised their athletes.

I admit that by writing this column I have fallen victim to this prevailing negativity—but to redress these journalistic grievances someone must point them out.

Sports writers should write with a hop in their step and pen, realizing they are among the luckiest men on earth. In the first pages of October Men, Kahn quotes Heywood Hale Broun, another sports writing legend, on how lucky Broun felt to be a baseball writer.

“"A few months later I became a baseball writer, the luckiest of men, paid to see every day what others have to pay to see occasionally. Living in the finest hotels, packed with steak and wine, spending the springs in Florida, Arizona, California, Havana, allowed, nay required, to talk continually with the nation's idols, is he not the favorite of the gods?"

All sports writers should write with Broun’s air of positivity—we owe it to our craft and our readers.

In turn, our audience should expect that writers with Kruse’s opportunities can produce journalistic gold, not pyrite.

# # #

A.B.

Midgets and Hello Kitty

2004-09-26T22:11:00.000-04:00

The more I work at J. Crew, the more I realize how quirky people are. Here are some stellar examples.

I work with this one kid Matt, a balding fellow from Pennsylvania whose braces cause his mouth to salivate at an unreasonable rate. We've already donned him "Spittle Matt." Matt is also what you'd call a lifer. His goal is to get a job in J. Crew corporate some day--a job he will never get because he is both socially retarded an asthetically gross. To get such a lofty job among the brass of a company an ordinary worker must do extraordinary things. Matt's modus operandi at J. Crew is peddaling J. Crew credit cards to unexpecting customers. He is the Michael Jordan of credit cards. However, there are incentives for lifeless kids like Matt--the person who processes the most credit applications at the end of the month gets a $50 J. Crew gift card (yipee). Two things come with his crown of "credit king." The first is a closet full of J. Crew clothes, which look good on normal people and peculiar on those who seem to lack an iron or a body or even an iron body. The second is a spot on the bulliten board in the break room. Each month the credit winner and winner for highest sale get their pictures taken and posted in the break room. Matt's picture is always on the board and is always being altered by those (Pat and I) wishing to play practical jokes.

This week alone, Matt's polaroid body has supported three different heads cut from People Magazine. Matt's body, which can be described as a sack of wet flower, has hosted the heads of Britney Spears, the late Sonny Bono and even birthday party clown legend, Ronald McDonald. The best, however, was when we took his picture out altogether and replaced it with a photograph of a dumpy Irish midget who sported a feather in his hat, a lightbulb-shaped nose and a snide facial expression. The midget disappeared and, if I were a betting man, I would say the abdcution was at the hands of the true "credit king". He may have been jealous that more girls liked the potato-hoarding midget.

My next character is actually likeable. My manager, Greg, attends the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City (yes, he is gay) and his fetishes include celebrities with eating disorders, man purses, Channel broaches and telling women they look fat. But his greatest addiction might be Hello Kitty.

I took a peek into Greg's sewing bag one day only to find Hello Kitty pencils, a Hello Kitty ruler, a Hello Kitty tool box, a Hello Kitty keychain and roughly 294358623457 other pieces of Hello Kitty school paraphernalia. But this is to be expected. Afterall, Greg did start playing with Barbie dolls at 4 years old under his Mom's kitchen table. For those of us who know Greg, you can't help but be entertained by someone who can take 20-minute dumps and then go out-bitch the wife of some Hamptonite.

So where am I going with all of this? Matt always pisses me off and Greg never ceases to entertain-- so as long as J. Crew has midgets and Hello Kitty there will never be a dull moment.

Changing Gears

2004-09-21T21:49:00.000-04:00

Instead of immersing you all in my own mediocre writing, tonight I am going to copy some lines from men who have been where I'm going and describe the craft with unmatched fervor and competence. I will have a little comment before each of the remarks.

The first one is written by Heywood Hale Broun--one of the best sports writers of the 20th century. He wrote about sports mammoths like Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey for the New York World Telegram. Here are his thoughts on being a baseball writer:

"A few months later i became a baseball writer, the luckiest of men, paid to see every day what others have to pay to see occasionally. Living in the finest hotels, packed with steak and wine, spending the springs in Florida, Arizona, California, Havana, allowed, nay required, to talk continually with the nation's idols, is he not the favorite of the gods?" -Heywood Hale Broun

The next is some words that keep me focused. They are from Dick Schaap, a decent writer, but excellent journalist. Here are his thoughts on the craft:

"My advice to an aspiring sportswriter is to read the best, from Shakespeare to Kornheiser, to write as often as possible, to accept criticism and guidance from someone whose sensibilities you trust and admire, and then to work your butt off. There is no substitute for hard work." - Dick Schaap

I have been working as Roger Kahn's editorial assistant for roughly a month and a half now. These last two quotes come from his influence. The first is a poem by Robert Frost called "Into My Own." The title of the poem will be the title of Roger's memoirs that we are working on now. It speaks volumes about growing up on your own terms and keeping those close to you dear.

"One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcelyshow the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true."

-Robert Frost

And the last is an exerpt from Roger's book "The Boys of Summer." Roger added an epilogue to the book in the 1990s. I think these paragraph sums up what I hope to do some day and says in a poetic manner I can only hope to taste some day.

"One book, I thought. I'll write one book that I want to write. A book for readers, of course. But first a book for myself alone. I'll write about things and places and peopleI have loved. Newspaper days. My father, Ebbets Field, Jackie Robinson. A baseball team. The players who laughed and wept in a society that beats down men of muscle and sweat. My father, as a man of muscle and sweat, who knew botany and Gibbon, relished vector analysis and stirred to the restless chords of the Cesar Franck Symphony in D Minor, had himself been beaten down. I would write a book about people who knew defeat and rose to heroism. If I can just get that one book written, I thought, whether it succeeds or fails, my own life will assume a meaning. If I get that book done, and it doesn't sell, I'll go back to one of these groupthink newsmagazines and take the money and the pension rights and complain not at all.

Or very little."

Roger Kahn

I guess what I'm saying by putting these things here is that I'm shooting high and if I miss I think i'll land higher than those who never shot at all. Someone asked me today why my away messages always have the word "working" in them, even at 8 a.m. when roosters haven't rid themselves of eye crust. I told her I think if I wake up at 8 a.m. and begin working while everyone sleeps until 9 a.m., I will be one hour ahead of them. Maybe I'll learn a new word, craft a better sentence or find some of these quotes that keep me lifting my head off the pillow to hit the keys.

I'm just going to keep punching these keys and complaining very little.

A Weird Day

2004-09-16T23:36:00.000-04:00

The more I work with Roger Kahn, the more random my day's events become. Today was the weirdest of all.

I wake up and turn on my computer, a ritual since my freshman year at Stevens where my nerd-patterns set deep. I open up my email and, of course, there is a note from Roger. But this note was different. It wasn't, "Where the hell is the video we've been looking for?" or "Can you come hang out at my house?" In the email he asked me to track down several people and ask them to read an advance copy of his next book, a compilation of his best work from his years in journalism and as an author.

I scroll down and look at the list. "Larry King, Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Gay Talese, Duke Snider, Stan Musial, Bill Walton, Tim Robbins and Tim McCarver."

After reading the list, I wonder what kind of celebrity mess I've gotten myself into--and then I get to work.

The first person I get in touch with is Larry King. After being on hold for a half-hour at CNN, they finally give me the name of his agent and eventually I get in contact with him. He's a nice fella and he agrees to look over the book. The only strange part of the whole process is that I wasn't nervous.

The next, and most humorous encounter is Bill Walton. The number I was given for Mr. Walton was, allegedly, the number of his agent. I call the number and a familiar voice answers. "Hi," I say, "my name is Adam Bosch and I am editorial assistant to author Roger Kahn. I was hoping you could provide me with some contact information for Bill Walton so we can send him an advance transcript of Roger's new book for him to look through and possibly comment on."

"Well, I don't think you will need any contact info," the voice said, "this is Bill."

I almost messed my pants. I just asked for Bill Walton, NBA Hall-of-Famer, for his own contact information. Apparently, the number I had on my desk was not the number for Mr. Walton's agent, it was his house number. In hindsight, it was amazing he even picked up the phone, because you'd figure Bill Walton would have something better to do at 1 p.m. than talk to a moron like me.

Maybe all the golf courses for retired NBA players are closed for the season.

(More celeb stories to come...probably with more Bosch-style embarassments)

My 9/11 Revisited

2004-09-16T23:32:00.000-04:00

In school this week I was assigned to write a short story about 9/11. Here it is, for your entertainment.

“See! That’s why you wear your safety goggles!” my chemistry lab instructor yelled with a thick Asian accent while pointing toward the New York City skyline.
All the students scurried from their lab benches and went to the windows, which faced east and overlooked the brilliant cityscape. One of the Twin Towers gushed smoke and our Tylenol synthesis lab went lame. From the right of the towers we caught glimpse of a plane flying lower usual. United Airlines Flight 175 crashed into the south tower of the World Trade Center and flames erupted from the side of the building.
Dustin Long, a fellow freshman at Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken, N.J., was the first person to break silence worthy of a funeral. “Did a goddamn plane just crash into that building?” he said.
Everyone packed up their lab manuals, pencils and calculators to leave for their dorm rooms, but our lab instructor barked more orders.
“Nobody leaves,” he said.
The reality was that everyone left. Nobody listened to his harangues on lab goggles and nobody paid a thought to his request that we create headache medicine in a time of national crisis.
Minutes later I was in my dorm room shaking my roommate awake. “Mike, a plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”
“Shut up, I’m sleeping, asshole,” he said.
“No, Mike, a plane really just flew into the World Trade Center.”
He shot up, wiped the crust from his eyes and turned on CNN. Early reports claimed that hijacked planes flew into the Twin Towers, but little information was confirmed. The scene outside our dorm building, which had the best view of Manhattan, was chaotic. We found a spot to stand and watch the buildings billow smoke like two grand chimneys. Mike and I balanced on decorative rocks that lined a grassy knoll between two one-way roads. The roads were filled with classmates.
Fifty-six quiet minutes passed after the plane’s impact. There were mumbles of “Oh, my God,” and “I can’t believe this,” and “Can you believe what you’re seeing.” But on the fifty-sixth minute we watched the top of the south tower shed from the rest of the building like dead skin and people yelled and gasped. The massive antenna on top of the building fell like an oversized javelin. And as the rest of the building crumbled, a great ball of dust rose and followed the wind.
During the weeks that followed, the students of Davis Hall, the men’s freshman dorm, were constantly reminded of the day when their eyes witnessed one of history’s great tragedies. The wind flew dust across the river and planted it in our window screens. The smell of burning rubble overtook the smell of college laundry. Mike and I hosted his brother, Ed, about once a week. Ed was the general superintendent of Tully Construction, the company in charge of clean-up, and 20-hour days left him exhausted—too exhausted to travel several hours home to his wife and bed. Police patrolled the perimeter or the usually open campus asking students to present identification cards when returning from class. A candlelight vigil was held to comfort students traumatized by their surroundings.
Last Saturday, on the third anniversary of September 11, 2004, I returned to Hoboken and walked unimpeded onto the Stevens campus. Nobody asked me for I.D., there was no stench or dust, no campus ceremony was planned and Ed was at home with his wife and two kids.
Everything was different. The men’s freshman dorm was now unisex, a new business building was erected and the people of Hoboken, who lost 56 of their own, were not mourning—they were celebrating their 76th annual Italian Festival. I stepped up onto the decorative rock trim where I witnessed the defining moment of my generation. The day broke as beautiful as it did three years ago, but there was a hole punctured in the new skyline. Nobody was there to mumble with me this year, so I spoke to myself.
“I still can’t believe it.”

Some Observations form the RNC

2004-09-03T21:32:00.000-04:00

I wrote a short essay for a class about the first night of the Republican National Convention. Here it is:

The Republican National Convention (RNC) did not open with a bang Monday night—it opened with several moments of silence remembering the victims of September 11, 2001. Teetering between remembrance and exploitation, the Republicans focused on President Bush’s strong leadership in the aftermath of 9/11 and his ability to remain firm on unpopular foreign policy decisions.
The featured speakers, Sen. John McCain and former mayor of New York City, Rudolph Giuliani, played interesting roles in the event and almost seemed to switch personalities.
McCain, who is known as the party’s rebel, whispered his speech to the delegates, did not stray from script and conformed to party platform. He spoke eloquently, but without much fervor or visible emotion and the crowd reacted in the same manner, giving applause more worthy of Augusta National Golf Club than a national political convention.
The one exception to McCain’s calm came in a jab at Michael Moore, the documentary film maker, whose movie “Fahrenheit 9/11” sought to bring down the Bush administration by revealing and expanding upon its fatal flaws. After defending the war in Iraq as a choice between “war and a graver threat,” McCain said, “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Not our political opponents. And certainly not a disingenuous filmmaker…”
The crowd booed Moore, who was seated in the convention hall, unshaven and wearing a red hat and shirt. One wonders if Moore chose red to acknowledge the party’s color or if he knew he would be the bull’s eye of McCain’s only attack.
While delegates were presented with a subdued version of McCain, they were jolted by a raucous Giuliani. Known as a man who calmed New York City in times of panic and gave steady praise during prosperity, Monday’s Giuliani was off-script, rowdy and, at times, self destructive.
After the crowd applauded his attacks on John Kerry, Giuliani said, “I’ve never seen so many Republican’s in New York City, it’s great! I finally feel at home!”
The vituperative remark didn’t settle well with a city who trusted, accepted and adored their former mayor.
As a child growing up in Brooklyn, Giuliani was a Yankees fan in a neighborhood loyal to its Dodgers. One day, Giuliani got on the wrong side of some young Dodger faithful who strung him up to a tree and threatened to hang him. Giuliani’s grandmother came to his rescue that day, but on Monday nobody could stop him from alienating a considerable part of the city that made him.

MUCH NEEDED OPINION

2004-09-03T21:20:00.000-04:00

For my grad school applications I have been asked to write a statement of purpose. For Northwestern the question was "In about 500 words, tell us what brought you to the field of journalism and what your goals are."

I wrote a practice one and wanted some feedback from ya'll (all of a sudden I'm southern). Please IM me ABSLOTH and let me know what you think.

During my time at Stevens Institute of Technology in Hoboken, N.J., I experienced two life-altering events. The first was September 11, 2001, which I watched from a grassy hill outside my freshman dorm building. Three years later I can still remember the sight of smoke drifting over the Hudson River, the stench of burning rubble and bodies and the memorials paying homage to the victims. A year later, as a sophomore, I was diagnosed with cancer (stage III Hodgkin’s disease). Cancer ravaged my body, allowed me to attend class sparingly and often left me bed ridden. While in bed I read piles of books, but none were about computer science—my hated major. I read everything from Dick Schaap to Gay Talese, Piers Paul Read to P.J. O’Rourke. I was struck when Schaap said he collected people instead of baseball cards or antiques and intrigued when Talese called journalism “The Art of Hanging Out.” I found myself wanting to do more than read about people and events—I wanted to collect my own. As a naïve 18-year-old I thought I should pick a major that could load my pockets with cash, but through the hardships of a life-threatening disease and the books of great writers I found that college is about pursuing a career you enjoy. There is nothing I enjoy more than journalism.
I transferred to SUNY New Paltz that semester and began my pursuit. I prospered immediately because I had a little talent and a lot of guidance from Professor Howard Good. I’ve never met a man with more passion for his profession than Professor Good. My first semester he taught me how to weave a perfect newspaper story and built my appreciation for good newspaper and magazine writing by showing me George Orwell, H.L. Mencken, Joan Didion, Jimmy Breslin and Red Smith. He taught me about active verbs and specific nouns and preached writing as one of the only human activities that transcends time. At night when I’m crafting a piece for a publication,I tend to look at the clock after a few pages and notice the roosters will be crowing in a few hours.
My greatest pleasure as a journalist and student thus far has been working with Roger Kahn, a living journalism legend and one of the best authors of our time. As a junior, I was privileged to take Mr. Kahn’s visiting lecture class. He and I met in his office after ever class to talk about baseball, poetry, writing and history. We had a lot in common and became fast friends. Now I work as his editorial assistant while finishing school. We meet once or twice a week to work on his book, “Into My Own: Some People Who Shaped a Life.” Mr. Kahn shows me so much about the leg work of journalism, the research and, of course, the writing. To me, Mr. Kahn is more than an author or a great journalist, he is a mentor and a friend.
I’ve grown a lot in the 3 years I’ve studied journalism. I’ve written about sports teams, a dying woman, art exhibits, gay marriages and political conventions. But my goal in the beginning is still my goal now—I want to write magazine pieces in the tradition of Talese and Kahn and John Lardner, where keen attention was brought to important subjects. I want to collect people and their stories and I want to do it better than anyone in my generation.

British Pickup Line

2004-08-31T08:26:00.000-04:00

It was Sunday at J. Crew and I was ready to go home. My right hamstring was cramping up from standing for nine hours with my left leg crossed over it in what is known as a "Bosch lean." The doors to the store were open all day because of the sunny weather and the invading flies were making my head their landing pad of choice.

A customer approached me and said, "Excuse me..."

"Yes?" I said, hoping she wasn't going to be a needy bitch like several other people I helped that day.

"Do you do crew?" she asked. Asking a stranger if he participates in rowing is one of the most random questions I have ever been asked, but I answered because she had a British accent and I can't get enough of Elizabeth Hurley.

"No, I'm never done crew before ma'am."

"Well, you have the largest shoulders and widest back I've ever seen."

The compliment through me off guard. I know weird people and situations have a tendancy to flock toward me, but this was more off kilter than most.

"Well, thanks," I said.

"Are you an athlete?" she said.

"Well, I used to play basketball and other sports, so I guess you could say that."

"Do you have problems finding a suit jacket?"

I wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but I hoped she had a husband, brother or man-whore who was looking for a sports coat and needed to find a person of comparable size.

"Yes, I do have problems finding one that fits properly."

"What are your measurements?" she asked.

She was becoming spooky and I wanted this conversation to end, but I didn't know how to end it on the measurement question without being rude.

"Well, I have 48 inch shoulders and a 33 inch waist." I squeamed when I said it because in some way I felt violated by her probing into my size. What if I asked her for her cup size? I bet she's have the Royal Infantry after me in no time.

"Well, let me tell you," she said, with wide eyes and a wise-guy smile on her face, "you may have problems finding a suit jacket, but you'll never have problems finding a woman."

She pivoted away from me and left the store, two flies landed on my shoulder and I stood alone on the floor baffled by an suggestive lass.

A Subway Education

2004-08-12T22:14:00.000-04:00

Roger Kahn sent me to New York City this week to do research for his memoirs. My topic was Stanley Woodward, his first sports editor, who flew in behind Nazi lines in a glider during WWII instead of writing about fastballs and sliders. I had to visit the New York Historical Society to find old newspaper clippings Woodward wrote during his time behind enemy lines in 1944, so I boarded the PATH train in Hoboken and then hopped on the subway at 33rd street.

I was reading a collection of work by Gay Talese, a renown magazine writer, while riding the train and he said, "Ordinary people make the best subjects." Hmm, I thought to myself, What better place to find ordinary people than on a friggin' subway train?!?!

I put my book away and observed the people around me--taking careful notice of their clothes, demeanor, their appearance and belongings.

A group of hyper-active camp kids burst onto the train, breaking a relatively quite ride with screaming and fussing. "Sit down Joe!" said a counselor with heavy eye make-up and hair that didn't belong to her. Most of the kids listened to her, although I'm not sure if they did so out of respect for her or fear of her glass-shattering voice.

"I can't sit down, there ain't no seats left," the kid said. He wore a black do-rag and a Tampa Bay Buncaneers hat tilted slightly to the side. His jeans were worn and his hands were dirty.

"Then you can come sit next to me," the counselor said. The camper walked over with his head down after receiving the ultimate punishment. Nobody likes to sit next to the teacher or, even worse, hold his or her hand.

The train glided into the next stop and the doors whooshed open. The campers all left and on her way out the door the matriarch counselor looked at me and said, "Pray for me." I told her I thought she might need more help than that.

With the children gone I turned my attention to a peculiar fellow sitting across from me holding cross-country training skis with wheels at both ends. The man appeared to be 50-something, balding with a gray mustache and rode the train with his eyes closed. I've never understood why people ride the subway with their eyes closed in the middle of the day, but my best guess is they are scared of other people on the train and can pretend they don't exist by not seeing them. If you glanced at this man you could confuse him with Milton from the movie "Office Space" because he was bespectacled and disheveled.

It was hard for our mystery skier to continue pretending nobody was around when, at the next stop, three gentlemen with instruments barged into the train. The leader of the group said, "Hello ladies and gentlemen, we are here to play a little music and make your ride a little easier and pleasurable today." The skier's eyes opened wide in fright like and arachnophobe seeing a spider. The leader of the bongo-band sat right next to the skier, whose spontaneous leg shaking showed he was nervous. The lead bongo player wore a black sweat band on his forehead, a white T-shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. But the most interesting parts of him were his taped knuckles, which flashed through the air as he beat catchy rhythms on his drum. The other drummer sat next to me--his afro and black T-shirt rubbing the side rail while he intertwined his rhythms those of his partner. The third member of the band had beat sticks and played the role of human metronome. He stood nonchalant, looking around the train like it was a vast area. The skier remained fidgety. He would close his eyes and then open them up for a moment as if he thought the musicians were part of a bad dream and he would wake up any moment.

The drummers beat out three final notes, "Thump! Thump! Thump!"

"Thank you very much," the lead drummer said. A man in a business suit with slicked back hair and I clapped, while everyone else, including the skier, pretended like nothing happened. "We'd appreciate any donations for the homeless you can give at this time," the drummer said while passing around a hat. The suited man gave a dollar and some women gave pity change.

I gave a dollar and said, "Good stuff man."

"Thanks," he said. "I appreciate it."

Something to Tease the Tastebuds

2004-08-07T10:48:00.000-04:00

On Monday I will begin my work as researcher for Roger Kahn, author of "The Boys of Summer" among many other great works. This morning I was thinking about the awesome situation that has fallen into my lap from left field and realized it is oddly parallel to the movie "Finding Forester," where Sean Connery plays a famous author who has gone into seclusion only to be found by a prep-school basketball phenom who aspires to be a writer. Connery teaches the youngster the ins and outs of writing and the kid ends up being something pretty special. I understand there are notable differences between my story and the movie's-- Roger was never James Bond and I am neither black nor a prep-school basketball pheom--but I hope the stories end the same way.

As you all know, I have also been busy shopping my book proposal to publishers only to be slapped in the face by the collective might of their palms. Danny Wild, my sports editor at the New Paltz Oracle, was nice enough to get me in contact with his uncle, who gets children's books published for a living and, hopefully, can help me get mine into the proper hands. To ensure less rejection and more love from publisher, I think I might tweak pieces of my sample chapter to make it flow better.

Here's where you all come in. Pasted below is a snippet from my sample chapter. Read it and give me feedback. Rip it apart if you think it stinks worse than the south-bound end of a north-bound cow, or tell me it's great if it reads like I was under the tutelage of Forester.

Enjoy!

My dad, Sam, drove me to Cornwall Hospital in Cornwall, N.Y. for my 8:00 a.m. CAT scan. I was happy he came with me because he is calm and easy-going—quite the foil of my mom, whose worry leaks from her pores like grease from an adolescent. It’s important to have the right people accompany you to the right places. In times of distress some parents think clearly and remain calm while others ring every bell and blow every whistle. Dad calmed my nerves and Mom frayed them.
I lurched out of the car still on college schedule, where bedtime is 2:00 a.m. and morning starts at noon. I dragged my feet on the sidewalk, my eyes were foggy and I looked like I slept in the clothes I was wearing. The automatic doors opened with a whoosh to a secretary sitting behind a sliding-glass window. She copied my insurance card, took my script and directed us to the radiology department.
“Mr. Bosch?” a sweet sounding voice said.
A blond girl in her 20s stood at the corner of the hall with a clipboard tucked under her right arm. She was dressed in tight, black pants, a white, waist-high lab coat and sneakers. If CAT scans involved girls like her I’d have gotten one sooner. She sat me down on a bench in the hall and asked some pre-test questions.
“Have you ever had a CAT scan before?”
“No, this is my first one.”
“Are you allergic to any seafood?”
“I’m not a big fan of seafood, but I’m not allergic.”
The seafood question is asked before every CAT scan that requires an intravenous contrast—a fancy term for injected dye that makes your insides glow on film. The new CAT contrasts are usually iodine based and similar iodine is found in seafood. Any allergies to seafood may predict allergies to the contrast.
The attractive gal explained that dye would be injected into my blood stream during the test. While being injected, I may get a warm feeling over my body, have a metallic taste in my mouth or feel the need to pee. An uncontrollable and sudden urge to wet myself was the last thing I needed in the company of a beautiful girl.
She took me into the CAT scan room. The machine looked like a 6-foot tall plastic donut with a narrow table attached to the hole. I lay on the table with my head on a pillow and a v-shaped cushion under my knees for back support. My hands were clasped together above my head like stretching after a night’s sleep. This position narrowed my body, allowing me to slide into the machine easier.
“You will get your IV soon,” the girl said. I thought a needle might hurt less coming from her.
Some people shuffled behind a tinted glass window in a control room where computers received scan information from the machine. A tin voice broadcasted over a speaker built into the CAT machine.
“Mr. Bosch we’re going to give you some instructions. You’re going to have to hold your breath a few times. If you feel any pain, let us know.”
The first scan was without contrast. The table slid into the donut, where I stared at some spinning, internal machinery and a red laser. I looked around the machine’s white plastic construction and read a label that said, “Laser Aperture: Do Not Stare.” The sign opened Pandora’s Box. I stared at the laser for 20 seconds before realizing it might ruin my vision. I was comfortable inside the donut, but some patients cannot handle the closed-in feeling of a CAT scan. My late grandmother was claustrophobic and needed sedation and encouragement before getting into, what she called, “those damn machines.” Dramamine was her antidote of choice.
“Take a deep breath…..hold it,” the voice said.
The table crept further into the tube while I held my breath listening for the next command from the loudspeaker.
“Breathe.”
I let out all my air and the table glided out from the donut. Then, as if he popped out of the ground, a tiny Korean man appeared next to me. He wasn’t a shade over 5 feet tall and I could only see his forehead and hair while I lay on the table.
“Ready? One, two, three,” he said.
A prick of pain seared the crease of my arm. He was precise with the needle and scurried out of the room. I wondered what happened to the pretty girl. I felt like I had been cheated on. Of all my nearly 15 CAT scans, this was the only one where the needle was administered by a doctor who bordered on dwarfism and used the element of surprise to his advantage.
The technicians started the contrast drip and sent me for a second pass through the tube. My body took a few moments to react, but when it did the effects were exactly as advertised. A warm sensation flooded my body like heat pouring out of a warm building into winter air. My mouth was infested with a metallic taste that reminded me of burning magnesium in chemistry lab. And I had to pee. Coupled with the warm sensation, the full bladder feeling was dangerous. I wasn’t sure how long I could stop the dam from breaking, and the voice of the CAT scan gods hadn’t bellowed instructions yet.
“Take a deep breath…hold it.”
Holding my breath created extra pressure inside my body. I slid through the machine and my bladder felt like it might geyser a stream of urine into my sweat pants.
“Breathe.”
The table slid into open air. I was poised to dash for the bathroom when the table slid back in.
“Take a deep breath…hold it.”
The second pass through the machine was a cruel and unexpected form of torture. When the table rolled out from the machine again, a nurse came and removed my I.V. She put a Band-Aid over the needle hole, I scurried for the bathroom and let loose Niagara Falls. Escaping my CAT scan with dry pants was a relief and a learning experience. I never entered a radiology department again without first emptying my bladder. The warm sensation left my body when I stood up and the metallic taste left after medical technicians made me drink several cups of water. Drinking after a CAT scan is important because it flushes the contrast from your body—you guessed it—by making you pee.

Maine Day 6: Not My People

2004-07-30T12:10:00.000-04:00

The people of Maine, although most here are vacationing New Englanders, are very nice, but they are not my people. Their mannerisms, daily life and idea of fun is nothing like what I enjoy doing with my native New Yorkers and Jersey folk.

The first difference I noticed is the lack of minorities. I have not seen one black, Puerto Rican, Asian or Indian during my stay. This tends to make me uncomfortable because I am not used to being surrounded by one kind of people. There is one exception, a Jamaican food shack down the road where three pot-smoking gentlemen work.

The abundance of Red Sox fans is another thing that irks me. I thought I could come to Maine and tolerate it because I'm not a maniac and I wouldn't be drinking heavily, but I was wrong. I see about 3,000 Red Sox hats per day and each of the heads beneath them are insane. I have been wearing my Yankee hat just to piss people off, becuase that's what New Yorkers do, and one short, heavily accented man commented.

"Nice hat, I think you're lost," he said.

"No, I know where I am," I told him. "The land of failure right?"

We were at an outlet mall filled with Red Sox scum at the time, but our team representative made the right choice and walked away. By this time my immediate family had been pissing me off so much that I could have injured at least 300 Sox fans by head-butting them with my hands behind my back. I understand that's not saying much since my head is like the battering ram used to break down the walls of Troy.

The vacation has also been painstaking because my family's idea of fun does not jive with mine. They are all about waking up at 7 a.m., getting a big breakfast, going to the beach and sitting there like beached seals, eating assorted seafood for dinner and then perusing little shit-shops before hitting the sack at 9 p.m. Waking up at 7 a.m. is the beginning of the devil's vacation itinerary, I don't eat breakfast, the beach is nice when the water isn't 55 degrees, seafood every night makes me want to impersonate Mary-Kate, little shops are filled with worthless junk hand crafted by the missing Maine Asians, and I can't think about sleeping until midnight at the earliest.

My idea of fun on this vacation would be waking up around 10 a.m., chilling with my cousins for a little while, eating a little lunch while watching Sportscenter, scratching myself in the fresh ocean air, playing some wiffleball on the beach, using my digital camera to record "The Asses of Maine 2k4," stuffing my face with raw meat for dinner, watching a little baseball on TV, going to a bar and drinking until my face slides off my skull and then videotape myself teabagging a Red Sox fan.

Somebody once said, "We agree to disagree."

I would like to find the man who said that, dip a cheerleading baton in a bucket of herpes and jam it in his ass.

Let's see if he agrees with that.

Maine Day 4 & 5: Rejected

2004-07-28T17:43:00.000-04:00

I have an addiction to email, which is why I have checked mine everyday since I got to Maine. Today I received an email from a Rodale Publishing representative about my book for young people with cancer. Here is what it said:

"Dear Adam,
Thank you for sending along your proposal, and thanks for your note this weekend.
You do a really great job of describing your experiences, and you have a great voice. Unfortunately, though, we already have a number of books on our list that deal with cancer as a topic, and I'm afraid that we just can't support another one at this time. "

I felt like Dikembe Mutombo was waving his big Arican finger at me. It may come as a shock to many of you, but this is the first rejection of my budding writing career. My professor at New Paltz warned me it would come and told me what to do with it.

"You're going to get rejected," he said, in his sarcastic tone. "I get rejected all the time, but it doesn't stop me, it pisses me off and makes me want to write more and better."

I'm going to write more and better because I have a lot of people depending on me. I have sent my Chapter 1 transcript to several cancer survivors and foundations. They all say the same thing, which goes something like this. "You describe all the trials and tribulations of a cancer patient so well that I can almost feel myself going through it again. Your descriptions of the tests are perfect. I also like that you have included some humor and some poigniant moments...sometimes I couldn't stop laughing and sometimes I had to stop from crying."

The ability to make someone cry by placing my fingers on a keyboard is surreal to me, although I realize that my words aren't what's producing tears, it's the memories they evoke.

In her book "Bird by Bird," author Anne Lamott said, "To be a good writer, you not only have to write a great deal but you have to care." If this book never gets accepted it won't be becuase I didn't try. I'm going to pitch this thing to anyone who will listen and roll with all the let-downs.

A little tenacity and elbow grease goes a long way.

Maine Day 3: Who Studies on Vacation?

2004-07-27T15:52:00.000-04:00

Today is overcast and not beach weather by any standard. I decided a day as gray as today, where people are slitting their wrists just to see color, would be the perfect opportunity to crack open the books and get studying for my GRE exam, which is only 3 weeks away.

The first chapter of my Princeton Review study book was titled "Plan of Attack," and, no, it is not written by Bob Woodward. The chapter was divided into two sub-chapters called "The Regular Plan" and "The Emergency Plan." The first sentence of the emergency plan was, "If you neglected studying for months and only have a few weeks..." Nothing puts a college kid at ease like knowing he fits under the emergency plan for studying a test that can determine his future school and employment.

Like all other warning signs, I ignored the emergency plan and skipped right to the vocabulary list. After seeing it littered with seven-syllable words, my outlook seemed as good as the weather forcast--shitty. I put check marks next to every word I knew, but the page remained relatively clean. It's okay, I told myself, just crack open the dictionary and get to work.

I pulled the musty, yellow-bound dictionary from my suitcase and opened it to the 'A' section. It landed on Athena, the Greek goddess of love and I wondered what happened to the beach girl with the Corona. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and twisted it open. 'Assuage' was the first word I looked up. I realized it was familiar to me becuase it was one of the vocab words I never paid attention to in high school. The word also haunted me becuase, if properly rearranged, its letters can spell 'sausage.'

I have never been good with vocabulary or spelling. Some of you might be thinking, "And this moron is going to write for a living?" You bet your ass I am, I will be the writer for simpleton America, also known as the majority. The only way I am able to remember difficult words is by associating them with goofy things. Here is a great example.

The word 'enigma' is 'a person or thing that is mysterious or not easily understood.' I could spend days, maybe weeks, writing words and definitions on index cards, but flash cards are for wusses--Batman is for MEN. The Riddler, one of Batman's enemies, was known as a mysterious man who created riddles that were not easily understood. What's the name on his birth certificate?

Edward E. Nigma.

Therefore, combining moron appeal, 4th grade humor and a steady knowledge of comic books makes me a shoo-in for the 99th percentile.

Don't tell the folks at Princeton Review.

Maine Day 2: Simple Machines

2004-07-26T14:07:00.000-04:00

Day two was much like day one--beaches, laziness and people throwing the Red Sox win over the Yankees in my face like it never happened before. I keep my mouth shut becuase I don't want to ruin their hope and remind them their team is only a theoretical contender.

One five-minute encounter with a girl on the beach did break the doldrums of the day and, in typical Adam R. Bosch fashion, I made a fool of myself.

A 20-something girl is walking toward me on the beach with a Corona in hand. The entire time she's walking toward me she's moving in the kind of cinema slow motion that comes right after Rocky lands the knockout punch. But she is not what's causing things to be in slow motion, it's the beer. My immediate family has driven me into such a craze that hops can be my only salvation. For a moment my salivating eyes meaner from the beer and look at the girl, who is wearing a flower patterned brown and yellow bikini and sunglasses like the ones Mary Kate wore into the eating disorder clinic. She raises the beer toward me and I get excited. Maybe she'll offer it to me, I think, and then we can make out on the beach like they did in the Dawson's Creek finale.

She smiles for a second before asking, "Do you know how to open a beer bottle with a cigarette lighter?"

Quite the pick-up line. I wonder why I never thought of that one-liner.

"Of course," I say. And then I blurt the stupidest thing any hairy-chested, 21-year-old, family vacationing moron has ever said. "It's just a folcrum...you know...simple machines."

After hearing Mike preach this to 209876587 kids, it poured from my mouth like drool from a cow. I jimmied the end of the lighter under the bottle cap, used my thumb as a pivot (folcrum for those of you who don't speak nerd) and popped the cap off with my Herculian (pussy) strength.

"Thank you so much!" she said, ripping the beer from my hand and running down the beach like a gazelle from a cheetah.

"No problem," I muttered to myself, holding the beer cap in my hand. I sniffed it to try to get a buzz because the Corona I so heroically opened was now two miles down the beach, fleeting like OJ.

A grocery store was also two miles from the beach--I visited it and left with 12 new friends all named Molson.

Maine: Day 1

2004-07-25T19:35:00.000-04:00

Everytime I go to the ocean and look out at the seemingly endless horizon I wonder what would happen if I plopped a boat among the see-sawing waves and just paddled straight out from the shoreline. Today I thought this might be the cheapest way to get to Europe and take that backpacking trip I always dreamed about. But with my luck and bad aim I would probably end up in Africa where they would give me a tribal name, sacrifice a goat and pierce my frenum.

All jokes aside, the ocean is one of nature's gifts that I can stare and at listen to for hours. The rumbling of waves onto beige beaches is so calming that people make CDs of it. Doctor Phil can't even compete with that. The sight of boats littering the horizon like pimples on the ocean's skin makes you wonder who's on them and what they are doing. I'm a horrible fisherman, but I would love to be surrounded by saltwater for a day, catching lobster and crabs to fill my protruding vacation belly.

The good news from today was the drive--it wasn't that bad. Most of my predicitons were correct. Dad slept, Mom was antsy (peeing), and Nolan listened to his headphones. But much to my surprise Mom and Nolan slept for most of the trip and left me to be with my one true love--AM sports talk radio.

When we got to Maine we unpacked our stuff at the hotel and stolled over to my uncle's beach house where an intense game of beach wiffle-ball was played on the sand. The game was funny becuase the ocean kept forcing us to shift our bases and the bat was so wet that I let go of it mid-swing, landing it between two fat ladies. Luckily, my cousin's girlfriend fetched it because it was in the midst of cellulite city, a place I never wish to travel.

I am looking forward to tonight when my family will watch the Red Sox v. Yankees game. Most of my family lives in New England and roots for the Red Sox, while I am the quintessential New Yorker, prounouncing 'talk' as 'tawk', 'coffee' as 'cawfee' and rooting for the Yankees with a fervor unknown to God fearing men. I plan on sitting in the middle of the living room in my Yankee hat and being as obnoxious as possible becuase Mariano Rivera, a.k.a. 'The Hammer of God,' never loses twice.

The only thing that will calm me down after the game is the sound of the waves resonating through the screens of wood-framed windows.

Maine's Slogan? "It's all in the numbers baby!"

2004-07-25T00:14:00.000-04:00

Today (Sunday, July 25) I am leaving for a one-week vacation in Maine with my family, which is more like an extended form of torture.

I can tell you word-for-word how the trip will go.

I will get in the car at 8 a.m. and begin to drive east, but before I even get on a road big enough to be called an 'interstate' or even post what direction it runs, my mother will have stopped to pee four times, yelled at me to break 11 times, and forgotten two things at home. My brother will have pissed two times, complained about music being too loud and pretended to be reading a book. In the passenger seat my father will have been sleeping for five minutes, snoring for four of them. I will be pissed that I forgot my two ear plugs, yet remembered my three family members.

I will hit my diving groove on route 84, going about 80 mph around 10 a.m. when someone will see a rest stop and have an insatiable craving for a $2.49 bacon, egg and cheese buscuit. They will order orange juice to go with it, only to regain baby-bladder syndrome five miles down the road when we have to stop for a 3rd time for two people to take a 60-second tinkle.

Three hours into the trip we will be half way through Massachusetts, a state I wish didn't exist becuase none of it's drivers have an IQ over 20, nor do they have 20/20 vision. I will be wearing my Yankees hat while driving through New England and people will give me dirty looks because we have won 26 championships and the last time they won anything was 1918, when there were zero blacks in the major leagues.

Five hours later we will be in Maine, where the water tempature is merely absolute zero-- negative 273 degrees celcius for my engineering friends. My dad will think the trip lasted 10 minutes becuase he slept like a 2-year-old, my brother will have asked, "Are we there yet?" 1,000 times and my mother will say that 493-mile roadtrips are not for a 46-year-old woman.

And what about me?

I'll have one big headache.

A View of Humans from a Retail Microscope

2004-07-22T13:04:00.000-04:00

After working in retail for a month I have unique ideas about humans. With no disrespect to animals, who are often more civilized than we, humans are the worst animals walking, swimming or flying the earth. Here are several reasons.

We ignore our own children, yet are shocked when they end up on Dr. Phil crying about what terrible childhoods they had. I have consistently watched kids in strollers cry while their parents finger through the 75 percent-off rack in search of a new dress or shirt to wear to the annual 4th of July face-stuffing party. There are no attempts to calm the child. Nobody picks him/her up and tries to feed, coddle, comfort or change him/her. Everytime I see a sad case of parenting I am happy I had two of the best parents whose children, not wardrobe, was their priority at all times. For my parents it has paid off--they never have to wonder where their kids are, who they are hanging out with, what they are doing or what kind of trouble they are finding. By ignoring their children, these negligent parents are raising kids who will become a thorn in the ass of their new chinos.

Humans are also rude toward one another when they are of equal age. In the fitting room one day a group of women were trying on button-down shirts when they asked me a question.

"Sir, do you think this shirt fits her properly," the matriarch of the group said as she pointed to what looked like her daughter.

"I think it looks very nice," I said.

"We don't," she replied. It was as if she set me up like a bowling pin, just to knock me down for fun.

"Would you like me to get you another size?" I asked, taking the moral high road.

"This is the smallest size you offer so I was wondering if there was anything else we can do about this."

"I'm not sure what you're suggesting," I said. "I guess you could take it to a tailor."

"There's nothing you can do for us?"

It finally dawned on me. They were searching for a discount and, even though this sounds prejudice, they were the kind of Jews with pigtail sideburns.

"No ma'am, there's nothing I can do for you. I'm sorry."

"Thanks for nothing," she said, before daintily tossing all eight articles of clothing on the floor for me to pick up.

Treating someone with utmost respect and being served a flaming bowl of attitude in return is an eye-opening experience. The Golden Rule is to treat others s you want to be treated, but maybe the Platinum Rule is to look out for your best interest at all costs.

We are also an animal that lacks compassion for the less fortunate. We've all pointed a finger at street-side beggar or turned a deaf ear to someone who is sick. I'm not pretending to be the paradigm of charity and caring--I've done this serveral times--but it needs to stop. I had an eye-opening experience this week when a girl running a marathon to benefit the Leukemia-Lymphoma Society came into work seeking a corporate donation from J. Crew. The manager acted interested while the good-intentioned girl was there, but when she left the manager buried the paperwork and did not send it to the corporate office saying it was "silly" and "nothing they would care about." Saving and bettering the lives of thousands who die and suffer from leukemia or lymphoma each year? Gee, I think that sounds like a cause we should all play a part in if we are in a position to make a difference. And as person who manages a store in a chain that makes multi-million dollars per year selling v-neck sweaters, I think she could do something. Dialing a phone number takes fewer muscles than blurting careless bullshit from one's insensitive mouth. I didn't preach or try to enlighten my manager--I just turned the corner and left.

I hope one day she finds out I'm a cancer survivor so she can turn the corner and do what's right.

Wine and Cheese III...some reflection and anticipation.

2004-07-21T21:16:00.000-04:00

After having a few glasses of merlot with my mom's birthday dinner this week, I have often found myself giddy in anticipation of the "3rd annual Adam R. Bosch Wine and Cheese Soiree." No we don't have a date, nor do we have a venue, but like the first soiree we have a tentative plan and a dream bigger than the map of Asia. So to tease your wino taste buds let's recap how this shindig has evolved over two years bottle guzzling glory.

Although Mike, Feldt and I take most of the credit for the idea of a wine and cheese soiree, I believe non of this would have been possible without the accidental contributions of one OMS (Old Man Segali for those of you who are not in the know). It was a stolen bottle of his wine that I drank in haste after performing poorly on a test one day in the Fall of my freshman year. My teeth purple and legs wobbly, I dragged my feet to Pierce dining hall to stuff my big head with three plates of food before scooping ice cream all over myself in a drunken stupor.

Ah yes, the seed was planted. My dining hall antics were so memorable that they insipired us to dedicate an entire night to fine wine and cheeses. The first annual soiree was a small event--there were only a handful of people in Davis 225 and most drank beer. Noodles tried to keep up with the Don of Merlot, but fell out early in the game. I don't remember much about the first annual event, but I do remember that Noodles drank one bottle of red wine and I drank two. He woke up with the with the worst hangover of his life and screamed in the shower, "I feel like a black man raped me in the ear." I remember waking up with few side effects--a little desert mouth, but no headache.

The second annual soiree was the one that had the potential to be the best party ever thrown and was in large part due to the efforts of Mike. The back room at Sig Ep was furnished with cheese tables, sparkling wine glasses, a disco ball and the finest people of Hoboken. The night started with a shot of 151, which Diablo pounded from a shot glass on a string tied around his neck in the same fashion old men keep reading glasses. Later that night, Diablo would save my life by fork-feeding me chicken parm. The most impressive part of the night was the turnout. There was in excess of 50 people sipping wine or other alcoholic beverages while sporting a shirt and tie or a dress with no underwear as required by wine and cheese soiree law. Much of the night is a haze for me. I remember pounding cheese and crackers right before conversing with a girl. I spew crackers onto her forehead everytime I said a word containing the letters "s," "t" or "p." I remember the cops coming because someone in the neighboring house, who had nothing to do with our shindig, had alcohol poisoning. I remember Mike worrying if I could make it home after pounding three, yes three, bottles of merlot. I remember assuring him that if I coudl see his "wop eyebrows" I could see well enough to stumble my way toward my dorm. I remember Justin holding me up to pee. I remember stepping back from the urinal and puking in the most amazing fashion ever seen. I remember dancing in it in my boots. But I don't remember most of the soiree itself, the people who were there or the conversations I had.

So why am I looking forward to the third annual soiree? I know people who have come to me and said the soirees were some of the most memorable times they have had at college and I'm happy that I can have some small part in that.

I say let's make some more memories...even if I won't remember them.

If you study this picture carefully, you will notice that i puked above the urinal post-wine & cheese II. As my roomate Justin Shank said, "It was like someone packed red wine, cheese and crackers into a fire hose and then shot it at the wall---then you danced in it."

Middle school...a.k.a. hell on earth.

2004-07-14T21:31:00.000-04:00

I was talking to Mike recently about my brother, Nolan, moving up to the Middle School from 6th grade. Of course all the elementary schools have an elaborate moving up ceremony where the kids are given certificates and treated like they've actually accomplished something, which they haven't. All the kids stick their chests out with pride not knowing they are moving up to the worst two years of a human's life.

You get to middle school and your first crisis is finding out who your friends are and who is going to accept you. There are cliques in middle school--the nerds, the pretend thugs, the skater kids and athletes. I always thought being an athlete was the easiest way to make friends and I hope it is for my brother. You're part of a team whose players become your friends by default. No searching or campaigning for pals--but be mindful of the thugs, they are crafty little 12-year-olds.

Then there is the first day of gym that scares every kid no matter how confident he/she is. Changing in front of other people?!?! Making that juvenille sin a necessity takes some getting used to--especially when you go into middle school as a chubby kid (ahem...me). Luckily there is always one kid who is fatter and more disgusting than you will ever be. My fat saviors were Fat Nick and Big Steve...look at their names, it was destiny! Fat Nick was already tipping the scales at two bucks and may have developed the beginnings of a shag rug on his back, while Big Steve was 6'1 already and couldn't bend his knees to run. Yes folks, the secret to an easy 7th grade gym class is getting the gym locker next to chubbier kids.

There's also homework. But it's not like elementary school homework that your parents could help you out with and could be finished in 10 minutes. Middle school homework is harder. There are these things called reports, math problems with letters in them and teachers named Vladimir Hajdar who strike fear into lazy, homework-dodging kids. Here's where Nolan, as a mediocre homework performer, might hurt himself. Hajdar mentally broke down kids like him. "You didn't do your homework?" he would say. "Write me a two page essay on why homework is important. You can read it to the class tomorrow." It's moments like these where you can feel the sweat of intimidation drip from your armpit and run down the side of your stomach.

And finally there are these creatures called girls, whom men have been dealing with since before the wheel. Do you remember when middle school was the first time you hugged someone of the opposite sex or had your first dance crisis? Remember middle school dances that looked more like a football game with girls on one side of the gym and boys on the other? In middle school girls get boobs and boys get pimples from sweating while they stare. You might actually go as far as to call one on the phone...gasp!

I think about all these middle school rites of passage and thank *insert denominational deity here* that I don't have to do it again. Middle school may rank #1 on my list of life's worst experiences and things I never want to revisit. Unfortunately, I do have to live the experience through my brother for a second time.

I can only hope we land the gym locker next to Joe Whale.

A picture of Nolan and I just before he left the house for 6th grade moving up day...moving up to hell.

Muhammad Ali is the Greatest Man Alive

2004-07-14T00:11:00.000-04:00

I flipped on the Major League Baseball All-Star game tonight and was angered by how ridiculous sports have become. For starters, the game was sponsored by the movie "I, Robot," which looks nothing like the book and is giving Isaac Asimov dead man's migranes. Then they have the fortitude to start the festivities with a fat man throwing baseballs through a Taco Bell tarp trying to win a million dollars. Oh, and did I mention the human shreak who won this year's American Idol botched the National Anthem?

Baseball, like all sports, is folding in on itself by making silly contests, mascots and promotions the attration instead of the game and its players. My thumb was on the remote ready to turn the channel and lower my blood pressure when Joe Buck uttered something that caught my attention--yes, miracles do happen.

"And here to deliver the first pitch balls is 'The Greatest of All Times,' Muhammad Ali.

If there was anyone who could stop me from turning the channel it was Ali, my favorite athlete of all times and the last athlete who stood for anything important--most of today's athletes only stand for the National Anthem, even when it's sung wrong.

Ali quivered out to the mound with a smile strewn across his face while his body shook from the worsening effects of Parkinson's disease. He handed a baseball to two kids and began shadow boxing the camera. His shaking stopped, his hands looked fast and the hair on my back that will keep me from having an attractive girlfriend stood on end. I've seen him shadow box during interviews on ESPN, but I still get goose skin everytime I see the ailing boxer turned American icon taunt the air with his punches.

Derek Jeter approached Ali for a picture and Ali threw punches toward him. Jeter's eyes widened and he backed away while Ali giggled and seemed pleased that he can still scare awe into a man one-third his age. Jeter laughed off his shock and waved the All-Stars around Ali for a group picture. Everyone smiled and I was shocked to see Ali, in classic prankster fashion, giving bunny ears with his index and middle fingers to Alex Rodriguez. Maybe I shouldn't have been shocked. In the book "The Tao of Muhammad Ali" by Davis Miller, Miller tells stories about Ali tickling him, playing with his children and doing magic tricks.

My point in all this is that Ali is the only trancedent athlete alive. He's the only man with Parkinson's disease who can scare a 29-year-old with right jabs, give a baseball MVP bunny ears and walk away giggling with a standing ovation. He's the only person in America that can draw a crowd of thousands to watch him sign Islam pamphlets and he's the only living athlete that ever stood for anything.

I've always been in awe of Ali. While I watched him float across the green infield grass tonight, I thought I might like to go to try to meet him or go to his public funeral service when his ailing body finally gives in to Parkinson's. There's an old myth that boxers never die, they just lie in rest waiting for someone to count to 10 so they can get up at the last second.

In my mind Ali is immortal--no 10 count necessary.

Can't Hardly Wait

2004-07-11T21:26:00.000-04:00

I can't explain how badly I want this year to end and how anxious I am to begin grad school. I realize where I live now is not beneficial for me socially or professionally.

Socially, I have no friends left who live here. Yes, there is Lonnie and a small gaggle of others, but most of my good friends have moved away--most to Hoboken, some to other places. Oh, and did I mention that I live in the social, cultural and entertainment capital of the world? There's nothing to do here and our most famous citizen is a mayor who marries gay people and lands on People's 50 hottest bachelors even though he's dead broke and has buck teeth that look like Chicklets set firmly with caulk into his gums.

Professionally, I couldn't find a job for two months. I got turned down when I applied to be a dishwasher--a freakin' DISHWASHER!!! Someone told me I was over qualified and if my name was Pablo Bosch I would have been a shoo-in for the job. After two months I finally found a decent job with erratic hours, but good pay. Still, I would have preferred a job in the field I'm majoring in and I believe I would have gotten one easily if I lived in a place that had real newspapers or magazines. Call me cocky, but I feel I can compete with any writer.

Graduate school will be the outlet to change my surroundings and opportunities, so I'm choosing wisely. I take my GRE exam August 18, which is Dave's birthday. The GRE will block me from going to Atlantic City with him, but in the long run it might make me money to blow on craps, hold 'em or boardwalk hookers. The short list is Northwestern, Columbia, University of Southern California, University of North Carolina, Miami University and Arizona State. I'm touching every corner of our great nation except the northwest because I hear it rains there and I'm not into looking like Paddington Bear.

I'm looking forward to finishing up here, leaving and challenging myself to be someone or something great. Will I come back, you ask?

Would Laura fuck Urkel?

Some Random Thoughts on Random Topics

2004-07-09T15:23:00.000-04:00

I have a story to tell and a few comments to make oh, gasp, politics--but first the story.

It was almost closing time at J. Crew on Wednesday night when two women in their late 20s came into the fitting room. I asked them how many articles of clothing they had so that I could put a numbered tag next to their door, but instead of answering me they paused, glared and walked right by into one of the rooms. "Okay," I thought to myself, "don't sweat it, it's the end of the night, just go clean up so we can all get out of here." I did just that. I left the fitting rooms to clean up jeans tossed on the floor, women's shirts that resembled water balloon sling shots and random garbage strewn on shelves.

Fifteen minutes passed before I returned to the fitting room to clean it and leave. The rude women's clothes were hung on the "take back" rack, so I opened every door to remove hangers, garbage and other filth. I got to my final door, pulled it back and found two women standing there in dressed like deer in the headlights of a Range Rover. "That's what they get for blowing me off, not putting a tag on the door and not locking it either," I thought.

The women went to the register and, while they were paying, a man they were with approached me.

"Did you open that door?" he said.

"Absolutely," I said.

"Why?"

"Becuase at the end of the night it is my job to clean out all of the fitting rooms, so maybe if your pals didn't blow me off when I asked them a question, had put a tag on the door, or even used common sense and locked the damn thing, none of this would have happened."

"Oh you think you're a wise guy?" he said.

I'm not sure he knew who he was talking to. The man was a generous 5'5, wore a grungy trucker hat and looked like a mini-lumberjack.

"Listen pal, I don't know if you're trying to intimidate me, but I've worked in places that you wouldn't even set foot in, so I suggest you leave."

"Did you knock on the door, that's all I wanna know?" he said, visibly defeated.

"No, I didn't knock on the door, and when you go to cry to my manager be sure to let her know I didn't."

The stout man left, signed up for a J. Crew card and never said a word.

Score one for the good guys.

I usually don't comment on politics, but there are two or three things that I noticed the past few days.

John Kerry's picking John Edwards was a great move. He came in second in the Democratic primary voting, is well spoken and versed in the issues and actually look more presidential than Kerry. Isn't it sad that appearance is a factor in becomming President? Weighing asthetic pleasure in an election is another one of the ridiculous tenets that politics adopted as our nation evolved.

What's even sadder is the Bush administration's way of subduing the Democratic fervor. The Democratic party was peaking the interest of the American public so what does the Bush administration do? Issue a Terror Alert of course!!! Even the most devout Republican has to admit that this terror alert was issued at a convinient time and in a fishy manner. Just look at two of the quotes from Tom Ridge, the Homeland Security Secretary.

"We lack precise knowledge about these planned attacks."

"We won't be raising the colored terror scale."

Thank God! When I see that thing go from yellow to orange I get a real craving for Starbust candy.

The third big development was the U.S. Senate Intelligence Committee issuing a report that said the CIA's pre-war estimates of Iraq's weapons of mass destruction were "overstated and unsupported by intelligence."

As that story broke on CNN you could hear America sigh a collective, "Duh!"

We've been there for over a year and what have we found--some anti aircraft weapons and PVC tubing. Ah, the dreaded PVC tubing...Saddam's gonna go down for that one.

I always like to end on a good note, so for all of you who need a laugh please go to www.theinvader.org and check out a bright man's theory that Saddam wasn't behind any of Iraq's humanitarian problems...it was all Walter Mathau did it.

That's what happens when you screw with Grump Old Men.

I Think I Should be on The Real World

2004-07-06T23:03:00.000-04:00

One of my many guilty, private pleasures is watching the Real World like it's plot twists will change the course of my life. Tonight I was watching the Real World San Diego reunion show that brought back the cast to rehash old arguments and talk about how tramatizing it was to spend months in a beautiful house in a city where weathermen get paid six figures for saying, "Duh.....sunny." While they bickered I wanted to reach through the TV and choke them all...all but one.

I began thinking about what all-time Real World cast member I would be like and realized I'd probably be like Jacquese from this year's cast. Why, you ask? Let's analyze some of his actions compared to some of mine in similar situations.

Situation 1: One of Jacquese's housemates was arrested for being drunk in public and was put in jail for the night. What did Jacquese do? He stayed next to the phone all night like a sober and loyal friend should.

Adam Situation 1: Anonymous roomate drinks hard liquor one night and tries to fight some fraternity. We drag him back to our lovely freshman dorm room where I stay up all night to make sure he doesn't jump out our window and throw a brick through someone else's, eventually ending up behind bars.

Situation 2: Everyone wanted to go out and drink at a club for one of the housemate's birthdays so Jacquese was the first to volunteer to be the designated driver. Everyone got trashed, made out with strangers and Jacquese drove them home safe and sound.

Adam Situation 2: Everyone wants to get crunked for Andrew John Feldt's 21st birthday so Adam declares himself designated driver. By 3 a.m. everyone is intoxicated except Adam, who drives home Andrew Perry. Andrew blacks out and asks Adam the next morning, "Did I puke in your car?" Thankfully, no, but you were delivered home safely.

Situation 3: When people have weird hook-up sex, want to quit jobs or don't quite fit in, Jacquese always has something insightful or uplifting to say.

Adam Situation 3: I've been dealing with friends and weird hook-up sex for years, I don't allow quitting, am friendly with everyone regardless of their tastes and there's no one better with the English language than your's truely.

It's obvious. I am the spitting image of a good samaritan and former Real Worlder.

My audition tape is in the mail.

An Old Man Before My Time

2004-06-22T14:29:00.000-04:00

Today I'm feeling like an old man and I'm only 21. Why you ask? I got out of bed at 6:30 a.m. and my back decided it didn't want to move, but it did want to serve me a steaming hot bowl of excrutiating pain. The good news is I know why my back feels like a fat kid riding an elephant stepped on it. In the past two days I went heavy on the back muscles at the gym, then played 3 hours of volleyball and hit golf balls for two hours at the driving range. The weightlifting didn't factor into the pain, but the torque of serving and hitting a variety of balls has put me on the couch for the day.

While on the couch I discovered old man factor #2--my sudden craving for classic literature, which has to be stopped right away. I'm nearly 100 pages from being done with Hemingway's "For Whom the Bell Tolls," so I decided my next read will be something more modern. I have two books by David Halberstam to read next, "The Teammates" and "Firehouse." I feel like a trader reading Halberstam since he is a filthy Bostonian, but he comes highly recommended.

I know there is nothing profound in my entry today, but tomorrow you can expect literary gold--or pyrite depending on spinal prognosis.

I feel like a 14-year-old girl.

2004-06-21T11:13:00.000-04:00

I know that by writing this blog I am going against everything I believe in. I always preached that blogs, or online journals, are for 14-year-old girls, people with no lives or people who want to gossip about the knew girl/boy they met who is "totally hot," but secretly has herpes.

No, folks, my blog won't be about any of this teeny-bopper horse shit. I wanted to use this blog as an opportunity to practice writing more often. There won't be any complaining, gossiping, survey filling-out or other crap that serves no purpose. I'm going to come up with ideas and write about them or talk about something interesting and funny that happened during the day.

A great example is Saturday night when we celebrated Feldt's 21st birthday. Before the night started I knew it would be a disaster because Feldt is a man who enjoys beverages and falls asleep sitting up with his hands in his pockets. He defended that sleeping posture by saying it's his "move." Kareem had the sky hook, Feldt falls asleep sitting on a couch with his hands in his pockets and I pee in sinks--classic moves if you ask me.

The celebration began at Cavu, and by celebration I mean Wallkill Senior High School reunion. Some were there to celebrate Feldt's birthday and some where just there because Cavu is in the woods and that's how do things around here. The short list included me, Perry, Bloomer, Terwilliger and his girlfriend, Meghan Brown, Ronnie Moore, Michelle Olson, Aimee, Mary, Squires, Chad Garrison, Ryan Bell, Will Carney, Drew Edwards, Havranick, Doug Miller--oh, and Feldt. I thought I heard "Pomp and Circumstance" playing in the distance, but it was only by brain rattling from the horrific band of 40-year-old losers blasting cover tunes in pitches that didn't agree with the human ear.

The birthday boy came to the bar last and was greeted with several shots, including a shot of Absolute Citron from me. Citron was the first thing we drank as college men, so I thought it might be nostalgic. We stayed at Cavu for about an hour and a half before heading in a drunken caravan to McGillicuddy's, where everything went downhill fast.

How do I know it went downhill? Perry was buying shots at a rate unknown to soft-livered human, Aimee wanted to dance all night and Feldt's eyes were half way shut. Feldt was so drunk that he began missing his mouth and suckling beers like a petting zoo goat.

At 4 a.m. the lights came up and the bar shut down. Bloomer and I walked out of the bar paying close attention to Feldt, Mary, Aimee and Perry, who stumbled like Rocky in the 12th round. I may have been the only person that noticed a cop reprimanding people across the street who were considerably drunk, but I hoped it wasn't foreshadowing. I dropped Perry off and headed home. I rolled in the driveway and noticed my dad already left for work. I'm a waste of flesh, I thought. Coming home from a bar at 4:32 a.m. and realizing your dad has been at work for 32 minutes is the worst feeling in the world. A close second is walking up the front stairs as the sun rises while drums beat behind your eyes.

Feldt's 21st birthday made a lot of alcohol executives very rich. It's a night he won't remember and I won't forget.

Cheers.