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Wednesday 2/9/22

On Saturday I wrote a story called "Hush Little," which I went back into yesterday and did what needed doing. It's excellent. Again, as strong as anything I've ever written.


Wrote a Valentine's Day op-ed on John Keats' letters.


Wrote a 2000 word piece on the relationship between sports and music.


Ran 3000 stairs yesterday and on Sunday, which also marked 2044 days, or 292 weeks, without a drink.


I'm finishing a short story called "Late First Rounder." It's about a college offensive lineman, on the (unnamed) #8 team in the country, whom Mel Kiper has projected as a late first round pick. He's home for Thanksgiving weekend in his senior year, an though it's not stated outright, he's obviously suffering from CTE. All kinds of problems with anger and loss of cognitive skills. He takes his high school girlfriend to this lake where they first sort of got together, in order to break up with her. She's a lot different than he is--going to be a doctor, and you get the sense it's this relationship in name only at this point, and has been for a long time. She's probably with other guys. And depending on how it goes, he might simply kill her, sink her body in the water. If she gets loud, or hits him, that kind of thing. He just thinks the water will take care of it, and he'll get back to his game prep. His team still has a shot at the playoff, and there's his draft status to focus on. But it doesn't go the way he expects it to go.


I need to do pieces on Jelly Roll Morton and James Joyce and I hope I get them done today.


This is a radio interview in which I discuss what ails the Star Wars franchise, Jean Vigo's 1933 film Zero for Conduct, the Grateful Dead's longest version of "Dark Star" from Cleveland in December 1973, the Kansas City 7's 1939 recording of "Lester Leaps In," and the 1979 animated film The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.


I watched Dave Made a Maze, which was okay. Could have been a lot more. Started off interesting, became less so.


Listened to Exile on Main Street, Green Day's Insomniac, the Buzzcocks' Peel session from September 7, 1977, and Art Blakey's A Night at Birdland Vol. 1.


Dickens' short stories deserve more recognition. Making a sweep of them lately. Also reading The Great Big Book of Victorian Mysteries--I like all of these various Great Big Book books--and Charles Brockden Brown's 1799 novel, Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker, an American folk-Gothic horror set in the country outside of Philadelphia.


Tuukka Rask looks to be all done. That is a good thing. The man was incapable of winning a big game. Just who he is, was never going to change. Overrated system goalie, who couldn't play a lot of games and remain effective. Why? I don't know. Maybe he didn't train hard enough. Too chummy. Less invested in winning. Won't make the Hall of Fame and shouldn't. Had his moments. Thought he was excellent--was the best I saw him play--throughout the last Stanley Cup run, but gagged it away in Game Seven of the Finals. Was putrid.


People on Twitter are saying he's the Bruins' best goalie ever. They have no idea that there is such a thing as history. They think that the world began when they entered into it. They might reference Gerry Cheevers--who is not the best goalie in Bruins history--because their dad talked about him. Cheevers also had a light workload and didn't take care of himself. I find this true about everything. No one knows any history. And they're so narcissistic--which is what the world encourages them to be, and certainly social media--that they really do think the sun revolves around them and their time on earth.


The best two Bruins goalies are Tiny Thompson and Frank Brimsek. Far and away. Look them up. And no, this isn't me being some old-timer (as if the C-Dawg were an old-timer!). They are guys decades before my time. How long have I known about them? Since I was ten, eleven-years-old. Why? Because I have eyes, and I'm not a lazy log, and read books.


For a big game, Tim Thomas is your man. Winner. Big game runner-up: Reggie Lemelin. Many want to say Andy Moog was a big game goalie, but that is dead wrong. He killed the Bruins in the 1990 Finals. That team was good enough to beat those post-Gretzky Oilers. People form unnatural, creepy attachments to professional athletes. By which I mean, adults do this. They are sad about "Tukes" and that "Bergey" might be done, and "Marchie" is getting there. Like they are your friends.


I really could care less when someone is done, unless they have a transcendent quality that goes beyond sports. Brady was this way, Ortiz was that way. I root for the team. They are the teams of my region, the teams I grew up with, the teams rich in history. I need a team rich in history, that is a part of the place in which that team is based. The Red Sox, for instance, are every bit as much New England to me as the Berkshires. Guys leave, new guys come in, new eras start, and it's just added to everything that has come before.


Why do people become attached in this fashion I consider creepy as all hell? Because they have no lives. They have empty lives. They don't live for anything. They have nothing to live for, by their own choosing. Look at this journal entry. Look at all that it contains, and it's but an ordinary entry on here. Look at all that you can take from this entry. All that you can explore. How much would all of that add to anyone's life? A lot, right? It's right there.