Last week the Future Mrs. Larby and I went to see Neil Diamond live and in concert at Madison Square Garden. It was a sight to behold. When he rose out of the stage — oh yes, he ascended out of the floor like a Phoenix rising from the ashes—you would have thought it was the early ‘90s and Patrick Ewing, Charles Oakley and John Starks were running up and down the basketball court. The Garden came alive. I mean, it thundered to the sound of Crunchy Granola Suite. It was out of this world. He looked good. He sounded good. The ladies in the audience were out of their skulls, hanging on every word and shivering with every sway of his hips. For one rockin’ song, I thought this was going to be a magical show. But for me, the thrill ended with the last note of the first tune.

Love on the Rocks, Coming to America, Sweet Caroline, Forever in Blue Jeans, Red Red Wine, Believer…he performed most of the hits. Unfortunately (okay, fortunately) E.T. didn’t make an appearance because there was no Turn on your Heart Light. And, much to my dismay (seriously) he didn’t sing Solitary Man or Girl, You’ll be a Woman Soon. In fact, let’s clarify things and say that the band played and Neil, well, he spoke, quasi-crooned, belted and yes, occasionally, sang his way through his catalog. At times he was a bad parody of himself. And at other times, I could see the twenty-something talent playing the coffee houses in Greenwich Village, before the sparkles and really bad hair took over. He spoke of his movie career and yet failed to mention Saving Silverman. Now come on! ANY time you share a screen with R. Lee Ermy should be the highlight of your career. Don’t shy away, Neil, you were brilliant!

But I have to hand it to him. This guy had every woman in the audience quivering. He even made out with an audience member. I kid you not. Neil was sprawled out on the floor at the edge of the stage and invited her over for a little longfellow serenade (another gem that he didn’t play). 30 seconds later they were still going at it! Crazy. I don’t know if she was planted or what, but he came off looking like the man. And who knows, maybe Neil Diamond is the Man and I just need to take him for what he is. But I was disappointed. It’s 2005, and at age 64 he’s doing all right for himself. But I prefer the 31 year old, on a Hot August Night, and that’s the way I’ll remember Neil…Forever in Blue Jeans, not as the Jazz Singer.

Friday night—nearly 10 months after the October magic of 2004—I watched NESN’s Faith Rewarded dvd for the first time.  Three reasons led to my decision to pop the dvd in the ol’ player:  1) The Sox (fronted by Charles Bronson Arroyo) were getting their arses handed to them by the Twins, 2) The Yankees (led by a no name called Aaron Small) were walking all over the Blue Jays, and 3) Friday night is my favorite night to watch baseball.  Needless to say, things were not going my way that night.  So, rather than start the weekend off on a sour note I decided to BIRG.

BIRG is an acronym for Bask in the Reflected Glory.  It is a term I learned in a social psychology class I took during freshman year.  Dr. Harkins planted this little gem on me one day and I’ve never forgotten it.  The premise is simple:  We feel better about ourselves when we share in the success of others.  The best example is being a fan of a sports team.  It’s not a bad thing.  It’s just a term social psychologists use to explain away our behavior.  For some reason, I really like this term.  It has a great ring to it, kind of like the Italian word schifozo.  But I digress.

All in all the dvd captures the great moments and hands them to the viewer on a silver platter.  The fact of the matter is, you can’t go wrong with this material.  But, for me, it lacks the real drama of the situation.  In fact, I think HBO did a better job tacking on a (happy) ending to their Curse of the Bambino special.  Maybe it’s because Joe Buck’s is the voice that is engrained in my head for each and every play, and the NESN dvd doesn’t use the FOX commentary too often.  Bill Simmons recently praised the special edition dvd that MLB put out of the entire ALCS and World Series.  That is a must own.  I will most definitely shell out the cash for that collector’s piece.  But for now, the Faith Rewarded will have to suffice.  It satisfied my need to BIRG, and Friday night, that’s all I really needed.

I am a displaced Sox Fan.  I have to admit, I’m still not comfortable uttering those words.  It defies logic.  Did I grow up in Boston?  Negative.  Did I endure 28 years (my lifespan) of agony rooting for a team that could never get the job done, no matter how close they came?  Negative.  In fact, in 1986, my 10 year-old self  was jumping up and down when the the Mets beat the Sox due in large part to Bill what’s his name. 

I know, I know, boo me.  Call it childhood ignorance.

It’s a hard stance to justify.  My family is all New York.  And I mean a Brooklyn-Coney Island-Simon & Garfunkel kind of New York.  It’s in my blood.  Somewhere.  Don’t get me wrong, I am NJ suburbs born and raised.  But like they say, you can take the Parents out of the City, but you can’t take the City out of the Parents.  And where the Parents roam, the children are sure to follow.  The older I get, and the more time I spend in Manhattan, the more I realize what the fuss is all about.  But for me, it’s not the trendy bars or the fancy hotels.  It’s not the neon of Times Square or the hipness of The Village.  It’s not The Triangle Below Canal Street or the neighborhood South of Houston.  No, it’s heritage, plain and simple.  It’s the colloquialisms, accents, and the feeling of belonging because it’s familiar.  Because it’s family.  It’s a part of how I was raised.  

And yet it’s not the Mets and it’s not the Yankees.  Hence, the great dilemma.

I can’t explain my infatuation with the Boston Red Sox.  All I know is that it came at a time when I was not interested in athletics on any level.  Basketball, the penultimate sport that held my last bit of attention faded away to self-consuming nothingness.  I abhorred professional sports.  Even after moving to a new city I lost all interst in the professional sports industry.  But on Sunday afternoons at 238 S. Huntington Ave, a tradition began to form.  It was nothing to write home to mom about, just Cool Jesus kicking back and watching the game.  But the roommate took notice, and more importantly, the roommate took interest.  And there, really, it began.  Something familiar.  Something regular.  Something true.  Something that I could identify with.  It wasn’t my parents’ team or the Big City to which I strived to belong.  No.  The Red Sox were an entity, a Common Ground, a way to reach out to Cool Jesus and later others, including LTJ.  The Sox became an example of life, pitiful and brilliant.  They too became a part of my blood.  In sports, longevity doesn’t matter:  Passion and perseverance prevail.  But, if even that fails, entertainment always follows:

Just this last week the Rem-Dawg said, (in his best Ed Sullivan impersonation), "Stay tuned, we have a really big shoe ahead of us, a really big shoe". 

How true.   

Four years.  What’s happened in four years?  Man, that’s a tough one.  It’s so amazing how we can, each and every one of us, pick little microcosms of our lives that actually tell a full and complete story and yet, in the grand scheme of things, are just blips on the radar of life.  Far out.

For me, as I sit here and create a microcosm for myself, I remember world events like 9/11 and anthrax, a space shuttle explosion and Saddam Hussein in a hole.  I remember Hollywood blockbusters like Spiderman 1 and 2, the final two episodes of Star Wars, and perhaps the most quoted movie by our little clique, Old School.  I think of random and inexplicable good times, like seeing a Coors Light commercial featuring a faux polar bear and laughing our asses off.  I think of the Canadian Ballet and the 4th of July.  I think of grooms on tractor trailers and friends stuck in Battery Tunnel traffic.  And of course, I think of the 2004 Boston Red Sox.

I am full of both wonderful and painful memories.  But, in this four-year microcosm of Captain Larby’s life, one event outshines the rest.  On a fateful day, at a place called Pat Flannigan’s, two worlds collided on an ungraceful, yet unavoidably wonderful course.  Almost three months later, on 6/16/2001, the deal was sealed.  And as I sit here and type these words, the Future Mrs. Larby is sitting on the couch reading a book, casually bopping her head to the sounds of Sinatra and I realize that I am truly a happy man.  Here’s to you, A. 

And here’s to you LTJ, without whom things would be very different right now.  And here’s to CJ, Mayor Jeremul, Dr. Danker,  and the rest of the Boston crew who have sustained our core for four years.  Four years seems like such a short, finite span of time and yet the memories seem to go on and on and on…

What can I say?  I’ve been MIA for quite some time.  At my old job, all I wanted was some responsibility so I could leave at the end of the day with a sense of accomplishment.  Now I have that and more, and by the time I get home the LAST thing I want to do is sit in front of a computer.  But my good friend, Old Hoss, or Cool Jesus as he’s known around these parts, reminded me tonight that I am way over due.  Thanks for the kick in the arse, CJ.

Welcome home LTJ and Kim Possible.  We’ll look forward to reading more about the ‘Roo.  Cap’n Larby’s cousin was there, I’ve yet to hear from him.  I’m very curious to know how the Headhunters sound these days.  These guys, led by Herbie Hancock, created some of the funkiest down-home jazz of the 70′s.  I used to blast an LP of Survival of the Fittest in the home of CJ and Cap’n Larby.  It was one of the many eclectic pieces of music that our neighbor once called, "interesting".  (CJ’s contribution was New Edition).  Anyway, I wonder if time has been good to the Headhunters.  I certainly hope so.  Some feel that Herbie Hancock has gone soft in his old age.  Maybe.  But albums like Head Hunters, Thrust and the live gem Flood make me wish I had an afro and grooved during the ’70′s.  Ah well, thanks to the iPod every morning can be like 1975. 

On a personal note, I’d like to congratulate my grandfather, who at 86 years old, just came through knee replacement surgery with flying colors.  Next stop for Angelo, rehabilitation so he can cut a rug with the Future Mrs. Larby at the wedding.  Bravo, Angelo.  I hope I have his gusto at that age.

Cap’n Larby, over and out (but not for too long this time).

Well done, LTJ.  The icons are a stroke of Genius. 

I’m sorry to hear that the scooter won’t make it’s way down to Jersey, but if it’s going to help hook up your pad then it’s all good.  I already have a list of activities that I’m expecting you to participate in:  Most importantly get ready for some serious Wiffle Ball. 

An imponderable:  Would Cool Jesus ever relocate?  

Last night I found myself in the same position that Cool Jesus described below; that is to say typing various diatribes and then deleting them out of concern that no one would be interested.  I guess we need to get used to throwing the arbitrary comment "out there" and hoping someone will bite.   So, here we go:

Allow me to profess my love for Abc’s Lost.  This is one of the best acted, well written network television dramas in recent history.  Next Wednesday marks the season finale and I know I’ll be frustrated as all hell by the inevitable cliffhanger, but man, will it be worth it.   I always thought that Charlie from "Party of Five" had more in him.  And, not for anything, but Kate is hot.  (The future Mrs. Larby is presently casting me a scournful gaze and stating that  "she has mosquito bites", if that means anything to you).   The point is, I dig this show.  What will the finale and next season bring?  Only The Island knows.  More importantly,  what’s in the  hatch?  And, what kind of furry beast is constantly chasing the castaways?