Not much going on today. No game this weekend, so get out there and get some exercise. Old Gold coming up, and as you can see they've not been resting on their laurels (or their arses). They've played some tough games and will undoubtably in good shape and hungry to repeat their improbable success from last fall. That simply cannot happen.

On a housekeeping front, get your name to Matt Winch for the bus trip to Amoskeag. You know you're going, so just let him know. Dues, dues, dues.

Link du jour. Too depressing to comment on. What a weenie.

I have to send my thanks to Dom for stepping in to the breach with his post yesterday, but like the rest of you, I'm sure you were more than a little taken aback by his questioning of Hawking-Beckenstein entropy. Spend five minutes watching us practice and you would know that there is still way too much entropy in the universe. And to suggest that there would be an upper limit on the future of human consciousness in an expanding universe? Well, I just don't know where to start on that one. Moore's Law rules!

Oh, and practice is tonight @ 6pm. Fox Street.

Jeez, turns out this blogging thing has become a daily requirement. Well, I'm sorry that the muse escaped me yesterday. To compensate I'll throw some poetry your way. That'll teach you.

Today is the birthday of CP Cavafy. This Greek bloke that lived with his mum above an Egyptian brothel and across the street from a church. I dunno. Maybe I'd write poems too.

"In the inner room of the noisy café
an old man sits bent over a table;
a newspaper before him, no companion beside him

and in the scorn of his miserable old age,
he meditates how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, the art of the word, and good looks.

He knows he has aged much; he is aware of it, he sees it,
and yet the time when he was young seems like
yesterday. How short a time, how short a time.

And he ponders how Wisdom had deceived him;
and how he always trusted her--what folly!--
the liar who would say, "Tomorrow. You have ample time."

He recalls impulses he curbed; and how much
joy he sacrificed. Every lost chance
now mocks his senseless prudence.

. . . But with so much thinking and remembering
the old man reels. And he dozes off
bent over the table of the café."

So for the love of god, why wouldn't you pay your dues, sign up for that bus trip and go to practice tonight? Life's too short, so while you're at it, bring some money or beer.

Coach sent me the wierdest e-mail with this link. He needs to get out more. I'm just left feeling dirty.

Tom seems to not have anything on the go today, so I'll throw this out there for the forwards -- the backs might find it a bit involved and should probably just stick to this inspirational story.

I don't know about you, but the latest update from our Prez got stuck in my company's Spam filter. Apparently it doesn't feel that words like "your own cash" and "get success" are suitable for consumption. While I agree with not wanting to receive e-mail with the former, it doesn't bode too well if it doesn't let you use the s-word via e-mail. Meanwhile it has no problem with "shady drink-fest". Hmmm...maybe it's not so bad after all.

Anyway, unlike Dubya, our Prez is willing to call a spade, a spade and say that the trip to Amoskeag is a Crusade! Indeed it is, although we fully intend to be out of there by June 30th, with an interim government in place. As a result, many old players have been "activated", and Military Sealift Command has arranged for a bus to carry our brave boys in to action. Your club needs you, so sign up with Matt Winch today for an eighteen-month rotation.

Additional campaigns are planned at NERFU and Bull Moose, and before any of that there is the spectre of Old Gold, so it is imperative that you get out to training. If it ever stops bloody raining, we will be at Fox Street tonight, 6pm.

Speaking of Bull Moose, apparently there will be a "panoply of resort amenities", including horses. But it's not what you think.....apparently you ride them.

Panoply. I think that's my new favorite word.

In my continued quest to scrape up the dregs from the very bottom of the Internet, here is today's offering. It's a panoply of dumb ass stuff.

Some PRFC-SSA pictures from this past Saturday. Not the best, but some do make you wonder what was going on and there are also a couple of CB and his evil twin.

Well, the Maine Collegiate Rugby Championship is now behind us, and those irrepressible Colby Mules have done it again. They overcame some tough resistance to capture both the Men's and Women's titles, on a day perfectly set for their own brand of running rugby. Pictures and a full recapping of the day's events will no doubt be forthcoming on the MCRC Website, but for now I will just send thanks from the club and all present to Dom Tracey for his tireless work in making this event possible, and to all our sponsors, and in particular to Charlie Hews and Hews Truck Bodies and Equipment for their continued financial support.

Portland RFC 24 South Shore Anchors 10

Amidst all the youth and vitality of the MCRC two "grown up" sides took the field in an attempt to show these young shavers a thing or two about how to play rugby. Whether they did or not, or whether anyone was even paying attention, is open to debate, but the two sides enjoyed a spirited encounter in some blustery conditions.

As usually my recollection is limited to a few brief vignettes, and the bucketful of beer afterwards doesn't seem to have helped my memory any. As I remember it the game began at a frenetic pace, and it wasn't long before Portland was pressuring deep in to the South Shore half. It also wasn't long before Andy Nelson found himself in the wrong end of a Tractor sandwich, and as a result he now has a few more bits to his collar bone than the rest of us, and a spare sleeve in most of his sweaters.

In the mean time the Portland pressure paid off with a couple of tries, one for Matt Winch which I don't remember much about (sorry Matt) and another for Shaun Durfee which came from a lineout scrap. Moving at full speed from about ten yards out, there wasn't too much that was going to stop him. South Shore had a few lineout scraps of their own, and they capitalized on some tap ball to string together a few passes and score their first try.

Well, that's enough about them. The second half brought in plenty of fresh legs; some of them even attached to fresh bodies. Portland continued to dominate in the scrum and spent a prolonged period camped on the South Shore line. But there were no Smores (or scores) for the home team, when the inevitable try was disallowed because the ball carrier was apparently held up by some invisible force. But hey, I'm not bitter about that, godammit it!

No matter. The concerted pressure soon paid off when Matt Winch was able to shrug off a couple of tacklers to score his second try. According to Matt his two scores were still one less than he deserved, but hey, maybe he's going to need to get his own blog if he wants to go on about that. So, instead of a hatrick for the Winchenator, Mike Desalle took the bull by the horns and carried it, the ball, and a couple of Anchors over the line for another score, Durfee-stylee.

But those plucky old Anchors never quit, and continued hoisting the ball cleverly in to the swirling winds. This paid off for them when they were able to scoop up a dropped ball and run in it for their second try. Anyway, that's about as much as I can remember of the match, and those of you with conflicting accounts should write them on the back of a twenty dollar bill and send them to me, and I'll make sure that history reflects your philanthropy.

Thanks go to Shaun Durfee and Sarah for their hospitality after the match, and to Joey D. for his entertaining picnic table dismount. I'm afraid that he may have hit his head on the way down, since he was incoherent for the rest of the night.

There. I wrote this whole thing and didn't once refer to them as South Shore Wanchors. Such restraint.