alibrat66
2nd String
- Joined
- Aug 23, 2011
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Yesterday, the university at which I work and live announced that they were shutting down the Internet on campus between 4 a.m. and 9 a.m on Friday. To save anyone from trying to figure the time change between Washington, DC and Dubai, that means the game starts at 5 a.m. +/- Friday morning here. After the initial shock of learning that (minga, the IT Director is even a Syracuse grad, and he pulled a stunt like that; basketball junkie he is obviously not), I figured to ask one of my friends off campus if I could bunk with him Thursday night; not my ideal setting, watching the game on my laptop is some guy's house who has no feeling for the Cuse or maybe even college basketball. Once I accepted the reality of decamping to watch the game, I receive another email from IT, saying that the internet in the UAE is very slow because a cable has been severed in the Arabian Sea. Damn trawlers. Last time this happened, it was a 7-10 days before the cable had been repaired. Then the denouement: a huge cyberattack that is bringing the worldwide internet to a crawl. http://www.aljazeera.com/news/europe/2013/03/2013327231735995653.html
Some of you may remember that I was living in Barcelona in 1987; I listened the game on a handheld shortwave radio, and I lost the damn signal a couple of minutes before the end. I ask myself: what is this curse upon me when Syracuse plays Indiana? Did I do something to offend the Hoosier state, like pee on a monument during one of my many mad dashes across the US in cars and on motorcycles. Que Pasa? Consequently, as I sit here, I'm not the Ghandi I hoped to be for the game; he's been replaced by Charles Bukowski. I'm more like a trapped animal, my mind torturing me with scenarios like I'll get to see the game sometime after the fourth of July. How the hell do I not look at any scores until then? Fortunately, I am not currently overly attracted to sharp objects; besides, it's thoughts of harming others or things rather than myself that usually swirl through my head in times of excessive angst.
Some of you may remember that I was living in Barcelona in 1987; I listened the game on a handheld shortwave radio, and I lost the damn signal a couple of minutes before the end. I ask myself: what is this curse upon me when Syracuse plays Indiana? Did I do something to offend the Hoosier state, like pee on a monument during one of my many mad dashes across the US in cars and on motorcycles. Que Pasa? Consequently, as I sit here, I'm not the Ghandi I hoped to be for the game; he's been replaced by Charles Bukowski. I'm more like a trapped animal, my mind torturing me with scenarios like I'll get to see the game sometime after the fourth of July. How the hell do I not look at any scores until then? Fortunately, I am not currently overly attracted to sharp objects; besides, it's thoughts of harming others or things rather than myself that usually swirl through my head in times of excessive angst.