GIVE ME FOOTBALL OR GIVE ME DEATH!!!

I am a New York Football Giants Fan.

As I write this I'm shaking from all the booze and greasy shit food I consumed yesterday slowly working its way out of my system, as I have most Mondays since football season started.

For those of you who understand, and are reading this in the same state I'm writing it, I know you feel my pain and appreciate the struggle.  For those of you who do not, who spent yesterday in Church or being productive human beings, I want to explain Sunday Funday to you, through the eyes of a die hard football fan.

The first day of football season is equivalent to Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, the birth of your first born child, what have you, to us fans.  It's a glorious, magical day when you don your favorite jersey and resume rituals that have laid dormant since that bitter, sad, last day of football in January (or February depending on how far your team made it...remember I'm a Giants fan, I'm used to the January pity party).  It's a game of inches, a game of pride, a game of screaming at the TV like a fucking lunatic for both the good and the bad.  For every person or group of people its different.  So here's what Sunday Funday is for myself and my football family, as we call ourselves.

For at least 16 weeks out of every year we try and take it easy on Saturday nights in order to fully enjoy our Sundays.  For years we've all been gathering at the same place, South Side Inn in our town (although recently renamed The Mahopac Inn, it's still the same home away from home on Sundays and will always be South Side to us, deal with it). One or two of us will get there early and procure our section, move together a handful of tables, and wait patiently for the family to trickle in.  Our family is a diverse group, made up of men and women, fans from all over the league, and every gathering is worth it's weight in liquid gold.  The bar knows us, they know what to expect, they know we will be the loudest, most disruptive, and most fun group of assholes in jerseys at the bar on Sunday.  About halfway into the first quarter almost everyone is there and the insanity begins.

From the first kickoff to the end of the last game the bar air is filled with a chorus of four letter words and screaming, high fives and clapping, the clinking of glasses, slamming of tables, an occasional chair gets tossed (Rachel, I'm looking at you on this one), friendly and not so friendly shit talking, and the blaring commentary of the announcers; it's the unmistakable mating call of the football fan.  Every game we go hard, we milk every minute for as much as we can.  We average a pitcher a quarter, if the Giants are doing well, we'll take a shot or two, if they are doing shitty, a shot or two, if the game is over, a shot or two, because reasons, a shot or two.  The wing and shrimp cocktail specials soak up the alcohol along with pretzels, burgers, the newly added, and fucking delicious, buffalo calamari. Keep your gourmet food and your organic bullshit, on Sunday Funday it's all about the loading up on as many calories and fried food as we can handle before heading home.

Our family is a good one, and a welcoming one.  Even if your an awful Cowboys fan, we will allow you sit with us, or maybe the better word is tolerate.  Also, I finally found a girlfriend who can hang and get into the psychosis that is our family's gathering, which she got to see in full swing yesterday. Instead of running out screaming, she joined in on the fuckery, it warmed my blue blooded little heart.  That being said there have been a plethora of significant others from everyone who make an appearance once and only once, some people just cant handle the awesomeness, and that's their loss.  I guess I can't really blame them, like I said it does get pretty crazy more often than not and it takes a special type of person to appreciate it. For example: the year we beat the 49er's and got into the Superbowl (where we beat the empire of evil, The Patriots, for the SECOND time) I jumped up, fists in the air in celebration and punched a running ceiling fan, spraying the bar with pieces of wood and dust that has probably been there since they opened.  Thankfully everyone was too happy to care and thought it was hilarious.  It hurt like a bitch but fuck it, that was an EPIC win, the victory shots numbed pain.  They completely removed it after that, one less fan moving around the smells of beer breath and wings, oh well;  RIP ceiling fan.

It's not just about football though, and what a lot of anti-sports fans fail to see is that its a reason to get together with a bunch of fun and awesome people for a few hours each week and enjoy each others company.  We call ourselves a family because deep down it really feels that way.  I'm talking years, people, years we've gathered to watch these games.  Sure some have come and gone, I was even absent for almost an entire season because other obligations; and I felt guilty every Sunday, like I missed my weekly visit to see my illegitimate child to let him know I'm here for him as I slipped him a twenty so he liked me better than his mom.  But seriously, it's part of who I am, it gives me something to look forward to every week, something to talk about, a place to go, a reason to get together with friends, and win or lose, we always have a blast.  I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.  South Side really is my home away from home on Sundays.  The only game we watch elsewhere is the Superbowl, where we all gather at my buddy Greg's house and watch the game and go completely fucking ape shit.  There's catering, beer, liquor and huge TV, and a goddamn awesome time.  We literally move the bar to his house for just that one game, a big part of our family tradition. A perfect way to wrap up the football season.  But, even though we move the party for a night, somehow we always end up stopping by South Side at the end of the game.  Whether half of us remember it or not we do it; for one last drink in our family's favorite retreat, one last hoorah, before we close the curtains on another season, and anxiously anticipate September, to start the fuckery all over again.

OK I think I'm going to cry just thinking about it...

GO GIANTS!!!

Hoisting the Black Flag: An Internal Struggle

One of my favorite quotes of all time is by American journalist H.L. Mencken, and it goes as follows:

“Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.” 

I love this quote for a million reasons.  Its visceral, true, and completely fucking bad ass, just to name three.  The line always resonated with me ever since I first heard it, and right now it speaks volumes about the state of mind I'm currently in.  Allow me to explain.  The following is an excerpt from a post I never finished about two weeks ago:

"After all my years on this planet I learned one thing: Hell is not a place, but a state of mind; and in those years I've done many a stretch in that...place of mind, let's call it.  Everyone has a horror story or has had some miserable, shitty thing descend upon them like a rabid bear at least once in their lives, unless they're lucky, but has anyone ever really been that lucky?  In my case, I do it to myself more often than not, the bear is me, myself and I.  My mind is my bane, my cross to bear.  It's gotten me through about just as much trouble as its caused me.  Since as far back as I remember I've been an over analyzer, succumbed to the occasional panic attack, been crippled by anxiety to the point where my body shakes uncontrollably, and I've ridden the depression roller coaster more times than I care to admit. It's during these times I tend lose myself and take a trip off the deep end in an attempt to distract my mind from whatever Hell it's in.  Bottom line: I do some stupid, self destructive shit.  I hurt myself, I hurt those around me, every so often I do some damage that cant be undone.  Even though I fight tooth and nail to not go down that path, rarely do I win when I'm overwhelmed.  It takes a mini rock bottom to wake my ass up before I get my head screwed back on straight and start to be a human again.  I'm only writing about this because today I'm on the precipice of one those such times; I'm starting the decent to rock bottom and picking up speed.

Normally I'm a pretty happy-go-lucky guy, and if I'm not I'm damn good at faking it; I just don't have the energy anymore, I feel like I'm in a hole and this is an attempt to write my way out of it and hopefully get some feedback from the community."

Well, after I put a period to that sentence I literally closed my laptop, and proceeded to find rock bottom, it came pretty quickly.  The weekend that followed was so full of self medicating and reckless behavior I honestly think my life flashed before my eyes at least twice.  It was thrilling, if I'm being honest, and completely fucking stupid, but that's the only way that I found in life to cope effectively, it numbs every feeling I hate.  I thrive on danger and stupidity, the rush of adrenaline that spikes the brain when you know something potentially terrible could happen, but you do it anyway.  It's more addictive than any drug, and coupled with any drug, it's the ultimate escape from reality, but this isn't an advertisement.  In no way do I condone my actions, nor encourage them to others, this is my demon and I will wrestle it alone like I always have.

That weekend I spent more money than I should have on things that I shouldn't have, I went places I don't like being, saw people I don't like being around.  I also saw a lot of good people I haven't seen in a while as well and got some perspective on my situation, before reverting back to the insanity.  The situation is never indicative of the "therapy", its always the same no matter what, but since that weekend ended, and the fog had lifted, I took a long look in the mirror, at the bruises on my face, and asked my self what the fuck, Steve.  I'm 28 and still acting like a child having a temper tantrum.  So I snapped out of it, opened up my laptop and started writing.  I wrote so goddamn much about so many things my fingers hurt.  I had no direction, I was going off raw emotion and random thoughts that popped into my head.  I even dragged my ass, laptop in hand, to some little obscure coffee house I always wanted to visit (I left my beret and skinny jeans home though, I didn't go that hardcore) and drank enough coffee to kill a moose and wrote some more.  But seriously, the writing helped, and I mean it reallllllly helped.

Since then, I've kept the self-destruction to a minimum, I can't drop it all together, just like any drug I crave that rush, especially when those pangs of anxiety, depression, and over thinking hit.  But I've regained control of myself.  I think of all the friends and family (quite a few, unfortunately) I've lost to the types of stupid, random shit I was doing, whether they made it a habit or a one time thing went wrong, and I don't want to be part of that statistic.  So here I sit, coming clean on the internet, like if I post it here I'm signing a contract with witnesses to stop fucking up, to stop taking things that are out of my control out on myself and on those who care for me.  To act like a fucking adult, like a man.  To not make excuses for my actions because I'm having a pity party, boo-fucking-hoo Steve, grow up.

As I sit here, making the final adjustments to screw my head on straight, I pretty much resolved my situation and I'm looking forward to writing more and the future in general.  I always loved writing and never did it enough, and now I'm seeing the potential to make some sort of living off it.  I also made peace with a lot of things and am keeping a positive outlook on life as a whole.  It's not worth it to wallow, even though I'll probably never get over the anxiety, depression, and over thinking, I also know that I won't inadvertently kill myself in the process of trying to.  Which brings us back to the quote.  Mr. Mencken, my friend, I am going to raise that flag, make some changes, and do something.  What they are and what that is is still to be seen, but I know it will have to do with writing.

In closing I just want to say thank you all for bearing witness to this statement and coming along for the ride and I hope to make the ride a lot more exciting in the times to come (although not the excitement I've been hinting at in this piece).  Also I apologize if the writing in here is a bit disjointed, it's how I'm feeling at the moment and I just wanted to get it out there while it was fresh.  I would love to hear any thoughts on this or any ways that you have dealt with any of these types of feelings and issues, and would love to answer any questions I'm an open book, honestly.  And I promise there will be many more wise-ass articles to come, so until then, it's time to get out there and (metaphorically) slit some throats.