Joel Murphy

On Tuesday night, the Boston Celtics pantsed the Los Angeles Lakers, winning game six of the NBA finals 131-92 and winning their 17th championship.

Now, I’m not here to talk about the game (I leave the sports columns to Note to Self). But I am here to talk about the city of Boston, which has become a sports powerhouse in the past decade. Since 2000, Boston sports franchises have racked up an impressive six championships.

In just the past year, the Red Sox won the World Series; the Patriots went undefeated in the regular season, but lost to the Giants in the Super Bowl and the Celtics ended a 22 season draught to become NBA champions. (The Boston Bruins may have won a Stanley Cup in the past year – I’m not really sure, I don’t get the Outdoor Life Network.) By any measure, Boston has become a force to be reckoned with. It’s a great time to be a sports fan living in Boston.

Except …

I’m a sports fan living in Boston and I actually couldn’t care less.

As all of you longtime readers should already know, I moved from Maryland to Boston in December of 2006. Since moving here, people often ask me what it’s like living in a city with so many successful sports franchises. I think people assume that when I moved here, I instantly forgot about all of my teams back home and just jumped on the Boston bandwagon, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

Like many people around the country, I can’t stand the New England Patriots. I think Bill Belichick is classless and a cheater and I think Tom Brady is an annoying pretty boy who enjoys taking sexy photos with farm animals. Even though I am a die hard Washington Redskins fan, I still got a sense of satisfaction watching one of my team’s rivals, the New York Giants, beat the Patriots on the grandest stage.

I feel ambivalent towards the Red Sox. I openly rooted for them to first beat the Yankees, then win the World Series in 2004. (During my best friend’s wedding reception, I even risked the wrath of an angry bride by watching part of the Yankees-Red Sox series with a group of wedding guests.) Hating the Yankees and loving a good underdog story, I was happy to see Boston finally break the supposed “Curse of the Bambino.” But since 2004, the Red Sox have become dominant (while the Yankees have struggled), which has made them no longer interesting to follow.

I have nothing against the Boston Celtics. Out of the three franchises, they are probably the Boston team I like the best. The Celtics have such a rich, impressive history (and a name that plays right to my Irish roots), which makes it tough to dislike them. But, the NBA itself irks me these days. David Stern’s refusal to deal with shady officials puts a taint (tee hee, I said taint) on the entire league, which makes it hard to take seriously. I have more faith in the officials of the WWE than I do in the likes of Tim Donaghy and Dick Bavetta.

So while the Celtics were crushing the Lakers in game six at the TD Banknorth Garden, I was a few miles away in my apartment brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. I didn’t watch a single moment of the game. Of course, I didn’t need to watch the game to know the outcome. The cheering and offkey singing of “We Are the Champions” from the obnoxious drunks in the apartment building next to mine let me know that the Celtics had won.

The screaming was quickly followed up by fireworks from the people in the apartment building behind me. I swear, these people have an arsenal of fireworks stashed away in their place, ready to break out at any occasion. New Years, Fourth of July, Bunker Hill Day – no matter what the occasion, they are in front of their building lighting up sparklers and launching bottle rockets into the sky. A few weeks ago, the power went out on our entire block for several hours. Our neighbors decided to pass the time by – you guessed it – lighting up fireworks.

As if yelling and fireworks weren’t enough to properly celebrate the big win, every car that drove down my street (and I live on a major road) felt the need to honk their horn to let the drunken fans singing “We Are the Champions” know that they too were happy that the Celtics won. This went on until sometime after 2 a.m. The whole time I showed my support for the Celtics by lying awake in my bed, covering my face with a pillow and mumbling under my breath, “Some of us have to work in the morning.”

So if you want to know what it’s like being a sports fan in Boston these days, there’s your answer. Somehow the Celtics victory turned me into a 70 year old man sitting on my porch and cursing at any damn whippersnapper who dared to walk across my lawn.

Look, I love living in Boston. But honestly, I think it’s time to share the good fortune with some of the other great sports cities out there. Perhaps instead of seeing the Patriots have another dominant season next year, the Washington Redskins could end their 17 year slump and win another Super Bowl. That way, I can be the one keeping my neighbors up all night with my loud cheering and obnoxious singing.

I think I’ll go stock up on fireworks just in case.

Random Thought of the Week:

Whoever invented roundabouts should be forced to circle around one in Hell for all eternity.

Joel Murphy is the creator of HoboTrashcan, which is probably why he has his own column. He loves pugs, hates Jimmy Fallon and has an irrational fear of robots. You can contact him at murphyslaw@hobotrashcan.com.

Similar Posts:

• Note to Self – A message from above
• Murphy’s Law – Fear and loathing in Boston
• Murphy’s Law – Saying goodbye to Boston
• Review – Edge of Darkness (Blu-ray)
• Tara’s photos – Boston’s St. Patrick’s Day parade

Courtney Enlow

Last week I was back home at my parents’ house for a little vacation. Very restful, relaxing, all that, plus I got a wicked sunburn which has nicely developed into a tan worthy of my peers’ jealousy. But sometimes, rest gets boring, and one must turn their attention to the television.

Look, this column is called Outside the In-Crowd. But let me step out of my parameters as an outsider and take that oh-so hip saunter into the in-crowd. Allow me to adjust my skinny faux-vintage jeans and Ray Bans and muss up my hair a bit. Ah, there.

Okay, I’ve never watched a single episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. I don’t want to say I’m above it, but I am. I’m morally opposed to reality shows about people who *aren’t* trying to fight for the affections of Bret Michaels. I’m completely anti-shows about these has-been or never-will-be people just living their daily lives like the vapid sacks of putrid egotistical humiliation they are. That’s ridiculous. Who the hell are these people? Why do they matter? Why do they warrant an entire television program, and a popular one at that? Fuck them. Fuck Kim Kardashian and her (rumored) penchant for golden showers. Aim higher next time, Ray J. Right for the eyes.

Then came last Monday morning, some boredom, my devastation over no longer being able to drink coffee (estrogenny reasons, you don’t want to hear about it, move along) and it being too early to lay out poolside. Nothing else was on. What was I supposed to do? All my movies and TV-on-DVD were back in Chicago, THERE WAS NOTHING ELSE FOR ME TO DO. JUST LAY OFF ALREADY. JESUS!

*ahem*

I watched. I watched for three hours. And I. Couldn’t. Stop. I don’t want to be cliché and say how it was like a car wreck. It wasn’t. It was more like that hamster dance website. Just monotonous and lame, but people keep making you watch it because they think it’s hilarious. And it isn’t. But you still stare at it for way longer than is necessary.

Three hours is much longer than necessary. And in that time, I found myself thinking thoughts I’m not proud of. Thoughts like “You know, Bruce seems like a pretty nice guy” and “The mom’s not too terrible” and “I think Kourtney’s way prettier than Kim.” The only acceptable thing that ran through my brain was “Why in the name of fuck is there still an ‘h’ in her name if it’s spelled ‘Khloe’?”

Speaking of things that are super popular that I just watched for the first time, because I’m feeling a particularly saucy pride from having admitted to watching KUWtK, guess what else I watched? Hannah Mon-fucking-tana. WHAT ABOUT IT. (I’m saucy.)

The show itself is kinda cute. You could see why kids like it. It’s no iCarly (on Nickelodeon, and I shit you not, that show is actually awesome. So Nick, if you need another writer for that show, I’m your girl). But it’s cute. The writing and the rest of the cast is, anyway. She’s really annoying. But don’t worry, it won’t be around much longer. Her fans are already starting to outgrow her.

You know, kids today, with their Miley Cyrus and their new sluttier Strawberry Shortcake, I just don’t know. I mean I’m really trying to pick my brain and think about this. Was there a teen sensation in the early 90s? A manufactured gussied up young person turned into a product for our enjoyment? I feel like there wasn’t. That there was a long lull between the Tiffanys and Debbie Gibsons and the Britney (because there can be only one) and Christinas.

Now Britney was sixteen when she burst onto the scene, flashing her navel and making goo-goo eyes at the guy in the bleachers who was actually her cousin (oh Louisiana). There was an uproar, but I don’t remember it being quite the psycho-mess of Miley’s-Naked-Back-gate 2K8. And why not? She was also a Disney creation. She was also a Christian “virgin” (quotations added for sheer snark. Whether or not you buy it is up to you). Is there really a difference between the two?

Miley better hope so.

Maybe that’s why the nation got so pissy. I mean, last time we had such a superstar teenager, look what we did to her. I’m not telling you anything South Park already hasn’t (“Gonna be a good harvest this year …”). And already she’s not exactly doing herself any favors. Pictures of her flashing her bra and underwear are already all over the blogs. And far be it from me, an actual adult, to say anything derogatory about a fifteen year old, so let me travel back in time to when I was fifteen and we’ll let fifteen year old me say it.

“Yeah she’s a skank. And your hair’s not as cute in the future as it is right now in the past, older Court. Now excuse me, Buffy’s on.”

Thanks, fifteen year old me. People always pull the “Oh she’s just a kid, don’t you remember when you were fifteen, I’m sure there’s tons of pictures you wouldn’t want people to see” blah blah blah. No. There exist no pictures of me flashing my thong to the camera while I make a stupid fake-sexy fishlips face. Because girls who do that – they’re walking a very fine line between a child playing dress up and a woman trying to be sexy. I was both too old for that and too young for that. This girl? She isn’t. And who’s at fault? Her parents? The media? Disney? Us for judging her? I don’t really care. All I know is my little cousins watch her show, and I don’t want them emulating her. But I guess I don’t have to worry about that too much, as come next year, or even next month, they’ll move on to the new thing.

That’s the thing about these two shows, and these two people. In a few years, Miley Cyrus and Kim Kardashian will be trivia. Something people joke about on I Love the New Millennium 2: Attack of the Mike Jones or something. They’ll still be trying. Maybe appearing in one of Friedberg and Seltzer’s latest masterpieces (I have my money on Movie Movie. It’s like a movie, but it’s a movie parody!) Or maybe just showing up on the red carpet of really low-end events like all the other has-beens and never-will-be people. And that’s the difference between Miley Cyrus (and KK too) and Britney Spears. Ten years later, whether they want to or not, people still care about Brit (I do. *hushed whisper* IloveyouBritney). People are still interested.

And for that I feel kind of sorry for them. But not sorry enough to see Movie Movie that’s for damn sure.

Courtney Enlow is a writer living in Chicago and working as a corporate shill to pay the bills. You can contact her at courtney@hobotrashcan.com.

Similar Posts:

• Murphy’s Law – Achy Breaky memoirs
• Outside of the In-Crowd – You say she’s crazy? She’s gotch yo crazy
• Outside of the In-Crowd – Duckface is on the loose!
• Positive Cynicism – Stop the world, Miley Cyrus is jogging
• Review – Bolt (Blu-ray)

Ned Bitters

Let us continue with Part II of “Another Screwball Year in Another Run-of-the-Mill Public High School.” Be assured that I have no need to embellish.

* * *

We have a junior who, by November, was failing most of his classes and becoming increasingly difficult to handle in the classroom due to his miserable disposition. He is borderline obese and extremely gay, hence the miserable disposition. However, he has a maturity beyond his years and comes to school dressed more professionally than most of the staff. He is quite articulate and, despite his shitty grades, rather intelligent.

This is where you expect me to describe how a caring, understanding (and probably gay) teacher took this troubled young man under his wing and turned him around. Well, almost. An elderly V.P., tired of dealing with this young man’s discipline issues, decided on a more novel approach. He took him out of most of his classes and let him serve as his quasi-assistant for most of the day. Before long, this young man was helping clear the halls. Then he began serving tardy and unexcused absence papers to students. He carried an administrative walkie-talkie. Eventually, when a teacher would page a V.P. for an in-class discipline problem, this student would show up at the door. One day he came to the room next to mine when the young teacher had called for a V.P. I heard this exchange:

Teacher: “So-and-so in the back row needs to leave my class immediately.”

Junior V.P.: “What did he do?”

Teacher: “He cussed me out when I repeatedly asked him to stop talking.”

Junior V.P. (to bad kid in back of class): “Okay, let’s go …”

Bad Kid in Back of Class: “Shut the hell up, Asswipe…you’re in my third period.”

* * *

During an evening meet, a wrestler suffered an injury severe enough to require EMT treatment. The athletic director, a man in his mid-60′s who has been at the school for over forty years, stood near the injured wrestler while the coach called 911. Immediately after the call, the A.D. ran off to his office. The coach assumed he was going to begin whatever legal process ensues during in such situations. The usually rumpled A.D. returned three minutes later, now sporting a coat and tie and freshly combed hair. The coach gave him a puzzled look. The A.D. said, “Some of the EMT’s from that station are pretty hot, and I want to look good for ‘em.” The wrestler ended up being okay. The coach resigned after the season. The A.D. is returning for year 43. He still keeps a tie and jacket in his office so he can look sharp for cute, young EMT’s. He’s still in his mid-60s.

* * *

After the unexpected mid-year death of a math teacher, we were forced to hire a long-term sub who was all of 21 years old. He was friends with many of the kids, as he lived in a local neighborhood. They’d show up at his house to play video games and just hang out. They called him Mr. Steve, for they found him young and cool. One day a student walked by his classroom door and playfully punched his arm. The teacher playfully hit him back, only a little harder. The student hit back harder. The teacher hit back harder. Soon, they were wailing on each other’s arms. The student caught the teacher in the wrong place, hurting him, and Mr. Steve reacted by thumping the kid square in the chest with a hard right cross. The kid fell to the floor, unable to breathe, in the throes of a seizure. He spent the night in the hospital. It was cool, young Mr. Steve’s last day at our school. No one was too upset. After all, when he was in high school just a few years ago, he had failed the very math course he had been teaching at our school all year.

* * *

One morning at the copy machines, another depressed, defeated teacher was staring at the bulletin board looking over next year’s schedule. Suddenly he brightened. He said, “Oh yes! Next year we start Christmas break on the 19th and don’t have to go back until January 5th! That’s a 16-day break!” Then he paused, cocked his head, did some considering, and said, kind of sadly, “Well, looks like I gotta stay in teaching at least one more year.”

* * *

When our current principal came to our school, he did away with the daily morning sign-in sheet in the office. A true professional, he was under the hilariously misguided belief that his teachers also adhered to professional standards. After a few months, he noticed that many of the same bozos were arriving up to a half hour late. He had the techies install a computer sign-in system so that we could all sign in from our rooms instead making that oh-so-long trek to the office every morning. This worked for a month or so, but then people started ignoring this procedure. The principal mentioned at a staff meeting that he would begin monitoring the sign-in system and docking the habitually tardy teachers. However, he couldn’t follow through on this threat. Two days later, the sign-in system no longer worked. Someone had hacked it and rendered it useless. It was never fixed. Neither was the tardy problem.

* * *

One of our V.P.’s is a hardass former wrestling coach. He does a fantastic job, but let’s just say he’s not too into his classroom observation duties. He’s the prototypical former coach, lewd, brusque, loud and intimidating. (He’s also a softie with a heart the size of Greenland, but that doesn’t belong in this anecdote.) He saw a group of us talking in the hall one afternoon. He came up and griped about how he had to do classroom observations on most of us. He hates doing observations. A second-year P.E. teacher, no doubt intimidated by a man who was recently inducted in the National Wrestling Coaches Hall of Fame, said, “Just let me know when you’ll be in and I’ll have a lesson plan all written up for you.” How did our Mr. Testosterone handle this gesture of professional respect? He literally jacked the young teacher up against the wall and said, “If you waste one fucking minute writing up a P.E. lesson plan I will fucking waste you, do you understand?” When he observed one of my classes two weeks later, I handed him a written lesson plan just to piss him off. I found it in my mailbox later, crumpled into a ball with the word “ASSHOLE!” in red ink. I got a stellar observation report.

* * *

I wrote one of our borderline illiterate seniors a letter of recommendation for his mandatory senior portfolio. I handed it to him during my lunch break just as another teacher was walking into my room. Just after the kid thanked me, the smartass teacher asked the kid, “Would you like me to read that for you?”

* * *

A kid came to my room with a bag of candy tied up with colorful ribbon. I asked him where he got it. He said he won it in Health class. I asked him what he did to win it. He told me, “I got the highest score on the test about healthy eating habits.”

* * *

During the first week of teacher activities, we were subjected to yet another session on how to vary our teaching techniques. We had to read a section of a book, then share what we just learned. (You know, lesson # 7 in the “Lazy Ways to Present Bullshit to Fellow Co-workers in Meetings that Absolutely No One Wants to Attend.”) But since the presenters were friends of mine, I figured I’d help them out and participate. When they took responses, I went first. I said that research has shown that kids respond more to intrinsic rewards (praise and such) than they do to tangible rewards (candy, prizes and such). One presenter, thrilled that someone volunteered to participate, said, “Well done!” She ran over to reward me for my participation. How did she reward me? With a very tangible mini Snickers bar.

Ned Bitters teaches high school and dreams of one day seeing one of his former students on stage at a strip club. You can contact him at teacherslounge@hobotrashcan.com.

Similar Posts:

• The Teachers’ Lounge – Memorable moments 08, Pt. I
• The Teachers’ Lounge – Memorable Moments 2010, Pt. II
• The Teachers’ Lounge – Memorable Moments 2011, Pt. II
• The Teachers’ Lounge – Memorable Moments 2011, Pt. I
• The Teachers’ Lounge – Memorable Moments 2010

(Click to enlarge.)

Jeremiah was raised in the deepest part of the darkest jungle. That’s why he smells like adventure. He currently lives in Elkins, WV with his wife, Becky, and son, Isaiah, who is epic and destined to rule the world one day. You can contact him at jeremiahwentz@hobotrashcan.com.