I walk into a packie to grab a bottle of wine, a friend to listen to my records with tonight. My partner is in New Jersey photographing a wedding. Although wine is never a suitable companion compared to the one you love, it does offer the benefits of a warm glow of relaxation, a touch that can be cold and lonely or warm and familiar.

The two men who work at the store are entranced in the game. The Red Sox are in New York, indulging in a rivalry that has existed for as long as I can remember. When I was young, probably less than ten years old, my family was celebrating some holiday at my grandparents house in Connecticut and the neighbor - who meant no harm - casually mentioned that he wanted to burn a hole in the Yankees shirt I was wearing. I didn't understand the concept then, and I still don't understand why he would make a comment like that to a boy my age. Maybe it had something to do with the White Russians that my grandfather always kept flowing in his house.

But I now understand the rivalry, the strife and heartache that is a result of a simple game. High-paying, but simple. As I walk up to the counter with my wine the two men continue to stare at the screen - it's the top of the 5th and nobody has scored yet - and I find myself glued to the screen as well. I can't say that I'm a sports fan - I don't want to even say that I seriously care - but ever since I moved to Eastern Massachusetts, I find myself filling with a sense of pride, of loyal patriotism to the team that means so much to so many. As I leave the store with my brown bag and the man whom I paid returns his focus to the game on the television, I can't help but think to myself...I love New England.

Just to set the record straight

All musings, writes, thoughts, word combinations, paradoxical contemplations, experiences (real or unreal), sentences, paragraphs, analogies, sensical and nonsensical made up words, etc etc etc are the property of Bengers and all attempts to snippet, pocket, or project these anythings will be met with not only great dismay but probably some mental discomfort as I have a ray gun. No, not a gay run, a ray gun. What I'm trying to say is PLEASE DON'T STEAL MY SHIT.