I Could Use An Ice Cold Crystal Pepsi On A Day Like Today

Back in my younger, more idealistic years when I was helping Donny Good bale hay over the summer, I thought that would be a fantastic book idea. I still think it would be, but then again, I tend to think I can spin anything into a fantastic novel before I actually start writing it. I don’t think it’s as much as the fact that I can’t write it as much that I won’t, as in I get side-tracked and bored and wander off in the middle of chapters. (Half Past Wednesday would have been fantastic had I ever finished it, and someday I may dig out my old Physics notebook with the storyboards scrawled in the back and do just that.)

Regardless, baling hay is the ultimate summer farm job. It attacks you in every way possible. First off, you only do it in the summer, so it’s hot as hell, but you can’t wear shorts because you would probably peel the flesh off of your shins would you do such a thing. Throw in the fact that you’re stuffed in a barn with all the allergens from a given field stuck with you, attacking your sinuses and eyes, and it’s a fantastic time. We unloaded 614 bales today and it was way too easy, due to the fact we had too much help and the bales were really light.

It’s hard to imagine someone who had never unloaded a wagon of hay, or at least been around when someone had, but if I bring it up at school, it would be like mentioning Sheetz or The Herd. It’s weird, but that’s just how my summer back home goes. So now I’m just chilling out, not going to get into my full blown ramblings because I finally broke down and started reading (I know, the English major not just watching DVD’s is odd), so that means I’m now completely consumed with Nick Hornby’s latest (Four people meet each other while getting ready to attempt suicide – completely brilliant) while waiting for the Inferno finale tonight.

So incase I don’t get a chance to update before tomorrow’s Game Six, it’ll be a hard fought battle between the NBA officials wanting a Game Seven and Tim Duncan desperately trying to make amends for his fourth quarter performance last night, and I’ll give the edge to the Pistons. I always predict the Good Guys will easily win tonight on Inferno, that the Buccos might never get out off this funk they’re in, that Bewitched will be decently good, that Tom and Katie will not be together at this time next year, that my job is miserable for the rest of the week while I try to shake the new interns and that Batman Begins will be even better when I see it Wednesday night for the second time with my dad and uncle.

I promise I’ll blog more, I really do. Just trust me.

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MINI NBA RANT TO FOLLOW

What in the world was Rasheed doing?! On an inbounds play, you always keep track of the guy whose inbounding the ball, especially with ten seconds left. The other guy you keep track of is the MJ/Bird/Kerr/Horry guy out on the floor, and sure enough, it was a red-hot Robert Horry. God forbid maybe Manu drives in and ties the game, not that Ben Wallace isn’t in their laying down the smack. Such a huge, huge mental error. And it wasn’t even like Horry popped open or anything, he just was.

Anyway, every time the Spurs win the stupid title it’s always somebody that bails out the stars, like when Speedy Claxton and Steve Kerr saved Tony Parker’s hide in ’03, or with Horry making up for probably the worst 26 point, 19 rebound effort in Finals history. The Pistons haven’t won in San Antonio since 1997, and now they got to do it twice.

Here’s hoping they do, because this thing is finally getting interesting.