That Dude With The Stuff That Happens

Operation: Strawberry

2012-01-28T13:50:00.002-05:00

Growing up as a boy in the 80's, slowly becoming aware of the wider world, I soon learned that threats lurked everywhere. A crazed loner could strike down the president all by himself; a strange, scary, incurable disease was spreading across the world. My grandmother told me it could be caught from toilet seats at the mall.

"Don't sit on the seat," she said to me. How was I supposed to empty my bowels at the Bradlee's then? Maybe that is why, even today, I can't poop anywhere but my own house.

Nuclear annihilation seemed a forgone conclusion. While we never had to engage in any "duck and cover" exercises in school, we still felt the presence of ICBMs. For all I knew, they were on their way already.

Perhaps one of the scariest notions for me was Stranger Danger. The thought of being abducted by someone I didn't know, taken away from my parents and my toys, murdered and buried in the woods somewhere was terrifying. The danger was always presented to me as coming from someone who claimed to be there to help. The subterfuge was this: As I was walking home from school (I'm not sure if kids still do this), someone would pull up in a van (always a van), breathless and slightly panicked. There's been a terrible accident, the stranger would inform me, both of my parents were mangled in a horrific car crash, and with their last dying breaths they asked that this person, a good, trusted friend, whom I had never met, was sent to fetch me. My parents' last wishes were to see my face one last time. This stranger/friend was making sure that wish was fulfilled.

Needless to say, I made it out alive. Statistics prove that the majority of children who go missing, even for a short amount of time, are taken by relatives. Yes, the thought of some weirdo taking your child away, probably molesting them, then chopping them up into little pieces is terrifying and disturbing, but the fear-sowing... was that really necessary? Obviously, cases in which things like this happen lead in the news, following the "if it bleeds, it leads" mentality.

(In the 5 minutes of research I did for this piece, I've realized that my Google search history would probably be enough to convict me of something awful.)

Staying at home alone was a BIG DEAL for me when I was young. Short of a Bar Mitzvah, a spirit quest, or a circumcision, it was a hurdle toward my becoming a man. One Saturday afternoon, after much cajoling, my folks decided to let me stay at home while they took my brother with them to the mall. My instructions were very clear, and laid out to me repeatedly: Don't answer the door. Ever. If anyone calls and asks for either of my parents, I was to say that they were in the shower. Both of them, at the same time. Don't use the stove.

After locking the door, closing the blinds, and securing the perimeter, I walked around the lonely house, invigorated. So this is what it's like to be a man, I thought. I should do this more often.

At this time, things like televisions were essentially pieces of furniture. I still remember our first color TV, a behemoth Zenith, encased in wood and weighing what was probably several hundred pounds. We also had an all-in-one stereo system, also wood, which had a lid like the hood of a car, covering a record player, the tuner, and an eight-track player. It lived in the hallway. In my memory, it was eight feet long. It had cabinets that opened up to house LPs.

After convincing myself that the house was secure, I went to my room and lay down on my bed, my arms outstretched over my head, staring at the ceiling. I thought about what my new-found maturity, and all the rights and responsibilities that went along with it, when, out in the hallway, a calamitous racket. I sprang up and ran from my room to investigate. I lifted the hood of the stereo, and everything in it was turned on. The record player was spinning, the eight track playing, the tuner illuminated and only half-tuned between stations. It was on full blast. LOUD. What the heck? Haunted Stereo! I turned it off, and returned, shaking, to my bedroom. Ghosts in the Stereo. This wasn't fun anymore.

To counteract Stranger Danger, my brother and I were given codewords. Any friend/stranger sent to retrieve us after our parents were incinerated in an airplane crash would be apprised of our secret codes. When asked to come along with this odd person we were to ask "What's the secret code word?" If they didn't know the password, we were to run away!!!

NEVER tell your secret word to anyone, we were told. Recently I posted this query to some friends in an online forum:

Me: Growing up, did any of you get the "stranger danger" talk? My brother and I had code-words given to us. We were told to never go with any strangers unless they knew the secret word. Mine was "strawberry".

Alethea: You are NEVER supposed to share that password!!!!!!

I will not tell you mine.

Alex: We had that. I think the secret word was tornado. To this day I'll get into a car with anyone who says tornado.

Alethea: tornado.

Alex: OK! Hey why are you tugging at my belt like that?

Lisa: we had a password too, and my first thought when you posted it here was, I can't BELIEVE you shared your password! i'll never tell what ours was.

Alethea: they are idiots.

Me: Me and strawberry tornado gonna have a good time tonight!

Alex: You just won't admit that you didn't have a password. And you didn't have a password because your parents were content to see you get kidnapped.

I love those guys.

Once I had some shop tools I wanted to get rid of, so I posted them for free on Craigslist. A girl showed up to take my glass saw. I met her at the door and invited her up to the apartment, which she did automatically. As soon as we were alone in my apartment, my Stranger Danger alarm went off and I thought "What the hell is wrong with you?" I could have chopped her into pieces with the very glass saw she was there to take, had I been so inclined. (Oh delightful irony) Obviously she never had a secret word. Or perhaps her common sense had taken leave of her. I just remember feeling incredibly uncomfortable. From then on, any Craigslist transactions took place on the front stoop, in full view of the neighbors.

A few years ago I was at a bar with some friends and I met a guy named George who told stories about when he was kidnapped. His father and mother had had a nasty split once George was born, and his dad had absconded with him into the wilderness; his earliest memories were of his dad siphoning gas from cars in Mexico as they made their way. I remember being jealous of this origin story. I wish I had a story even nearly as interesting to tell about my beginning days. George seemed as if he'd made it out OK. I wonder if he had a secret word?

Original Hipster

2012-01-11T22:11:00.000-05:00

This is me in second grade. I was irritating and pretentious way before it became mainstream.

Also, I Am Eating A Sandwich

2012-01-08T18:07:00.000-05:00

A place for what I consider to be some of my gems from Twitter and Facebook status updates. In no particular order:

I ♥ nihilism!

I bought a pan in Reno, just to watch him fry.

When pigs fly, swine flu.

1337 haiku: a/s/l? omg! gtfo! lmao

Mark Sandman is dead yet all 4 founding members of Motley Crue continue to draw breath on this earth.

Ceiling Cat has called in sick today, so, like, go crazy and stuff.

Take the "How Sexy Are You?" Quiz! My score: 147% Sexy.

I'm the most spectacular failure since the introduction of the McEwok...

I dont think I will ever grow tired of hearing very young children swearing.

Hair cuts come and go. A waffle iron is forever.

Cold Hard Facts: Not Good. Throbbing Hard Facts: Even Worse.

Machoccino: the drink for men.

"I swear on my baby-mama's grave, those are not my drugs." #heardonCops

Did they test viagra on lab animals? The thought of a rat with a boner makes me sad.

Masturbating in a snuggie is some varsity-level shit. #snuggie

Are those space pants? Because I'm a premature ejaculator #candyheartrejects

March is National Women's History Month, and I'd like to let all the lovely women in my life know that I appreciate you broads.

EPIC HOMO #knuckletats

"That's not hot glue..." #sexyartsandcrafts

It seems wasteful to buy a burrito just to stick my dick in it. #lonely

Mom's got more friends than me on FB. #notigerbloodhereIguess

Did I Invent the word "cliteratti"? God I hope so.

This is not the cheerleader pile I paid for #trappedunderalog

You kiss your mom with that vagina?

Tonight me and my Asian-American gang The Guidos are playing our weekly game of Find The Bottle Of Pee.

Today is National Put Your Balls On Things Day #putyourballsonthingsday

Life's been pretty great since I gave up hope.

Can anybody tell me, what's the past-tense of badonk-a-donk?

"Boy, is my face red." - Johnny The Beet-faced Boy

I'm doing really great in my Spanish class! I made the Honor Raoul!

These avacado boots are made for guacin'.

This lululemon bag really comes off as smug and bossy. You're not in charge, bag.

Being a guy is great. At this point, "dressing up" means not having barbeque sauce on my shirt.

I didn't get many trick-or-treaters last night, so I'm going to go for a drive in the van and give out the rest of my candy that way.

When you're a juggalo, every day is Halloween. And your candy is meth.

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see the Das Boot reboot.

Please refer to me by my outdoorsy rapper name: LL Bean J.

If this whole "working" thing doesn't pan out, I can always fall back on my first career writing lesbian erotica.

I'm going to start a dating website for dummies called OKStupid.

Anybody feel like wanging-chung tonight?

Salad dressing shall henceforth be referred to as Veggie Lube.

The best thing that happened to me today was hearing Werner Herzog say the word."woozy".

Little known historical fact: Benjamin Franklin accidentally invented the pot-belly stove while trying to make the world's first sex doll.

Cats don't like wasabi. I learned something today.

A diamond is forever. And so is herpes.

Careful out there, peeps. This snow is heavy and wet. Just like yo mamma.

April is Child Abuse Prevention month. I'd like to let you all know that I was a battered child. I was never deep-fried, but the threat was always there.

I put the stink in distinction.

I wonder why nobody has responded to my Puppy Awards Party Evite?

Times are tough. So to make some extra money I've decided I'm going to pawn my air guitar. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but I didn't realize how much practice goes into it.

Proof

2011-12-10T00:46:00.001-05:00

I'm still writing. I can't get around to editing anything, so nothing gets posted. Reading a lot these days and thinking about how it's made. A painter has to look at paintings, a writer has to read. (And learn to type)

Robot Haiku

2011-02-22T23:05:00.000-05:00

I was talking with Cat, my roommate, one evening about our individual creative writing endeavors, and we both expressed a desire to be more active in our pursuits. And for some reason, we decided that on tomorrow's lunch break, we would text some sort of modern day equivalent of exquisite corpse to each other in an effort to perhaps jump start something creative.

Somehow we agreed later to write haiku about robots. What follows is a record of what transpired.

Me: Robot haikuathon in 321
Fri 12:27

Me: Ev'ry day, welding
Car frames. Endless drudgery.
Must kill all humans.
Fri 12:31

Me: Motherboard, my heart.
Electrons stand in for blood.
I just want to dance.
Fri 12:33

Me: Rover stuck on Mars.
My cousin on Jeopardy!
So very lonely.
Fri. 12:35

Cat: Automated
Phone sex hotline voices.
R2D2 blows.
Fri 12:36

Me: So many zeros
And ones. I lose count sometimes.
Teach me how to love.
Fri 12:38

Cat: Scrap metal insides
My soul is a junkyard dog
Chasing after Ray
Fri 12:42

Me: Add, subtract, divide,
Multiply. An abacus
Was my ancestor.
Fri 12:46

Cat: Your poems flow like
A river of electric waves.
Robotic bard, you win.
Fri 12:51

Around The Interwebz

2011-01-24T22:20:00.000-05:00

On July 1, 2008, I attended a ballgame at Fenway Park. I watched Kevin Youkilis hit his first professional grand slam vs. the Baltimore Orioles. I caught it on film and posted it to Youtube.

Today I got my 8th comment on it, and I thought I'd share.

YOUK!!!!!!!!!!! UR THE FUCKING MAN!!!!!!!!!! FUCK THE YANKEES THEY SUCK DICK BIG TIME IT'S ALL BOUT THE RED SOX U HEARD ME???????? YOUKILIS IS MY #1 HERO/FAN I FUCKING -3 U YOUKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK

MrHk1093 38 minutes ago

YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOU (CANT FIGHT)

kayd1zzz 1 year ago

ahuevos putos

kebin yukilis el mjjOr awwiiwii

omarrin09 1 year ago

[This comment has received too many negative votes]

THE YAN KEES RULEEEEEE

copyright12222111155 1 year ago

YOOOOOOOOK YOOOOOOK YOOOOOOOK

protoma 2 years ago

This tickles me to no end.

Surprisingly, While Playing With Fire, Someone Almost Dies

2010-12-28T19:33:00.005-05:00

Growing up in the woods, it was my job to come home from school and build a fire to warm the house in the winter.

Here's some tips for potential parents: 1) don't leave your kid to his/her own devices after school. Studies show that latchkey kids have troubles later in life; and, 2) Don't leave an unsupervised kid in charge of FIRE.

The only other kid in the neighborhood was Mike. Since we were the only boys in the same grade, it was pretty much a given that we had to be best friends. We were able to get into some pretty good trouble together.

Once we stole a bottle of whiskey from his dad's cabinet and took it, along with our friend Jon, out into the woods one afternoon to drink it. Splotchy snow still lay on the early spring ground. Walking along a familiar path and drinking the hooch, we happened upon a small pond still frozen from the winter. Mike and I, being fairly diminutive, ran out onto the ice with the bottle. Jon, who at 11 years old had been 6' tall and close to 200 pounds, was wisely hesitant to follow us onto the weakened ice. Mike and I walked the the far side of the ice and commenced drinking. As soon as Jon circled his way around, we would walk over to the other side, much to his chagrin.

Jon was afraid of falling through the ice. Not that he could have fallen through and drown. It was really more of a large puddle, perhaps four feet deep at the center. He just had enough sense to know that hypothermia was a pretty significant buzz-kill.

As I stood in the middle of the ice, laughing at the silliness of it all, my right leg gave out from under me. Or, more precisely, the ice gave way under my weight. I sank to my knee in freezing, fetid swamp water.

"Oh shit!" I yelled, as I scrambled to pull my leg out. The pressure put down by my left foot trying to free my right was enough to shatter the ice under it, plunging my left leg in over the knee. The harder I fought, the more ice gave way, and the harder Mike and Jon laughed. I was finally able to fish myself out, soaked to the waist and stinking of filthy pond water.

Suddenly very sober, I realized that I had to get warm. Fast. The two miles to my house was a long, long walk. Soon enough, my wet jeans froze solid. Trying to walk without bending my knees must have been an hilarious site. I wasn't laughing though. I was cold like I'd never felt, and scared of hypothermia.

My drunken friends laughing at me didn't help matters much.

I made it home. I stood by the fireplace, but had to cut my shoes off, as the laces had frozen tight. I peeled the stiff jeans off my cold blue legs and left them to defrost where they fell, and quickly made my way to a warm bath to try to get feeling back into my legs.

I survived, even though I missed Jon getting sick and puking int he middle of the street. (Jon always had a weak stomach, and it never failed to get a hearty laugh from me.)

But that's not the story I wanted to tell.

This one involves fire, not ice.

As stated before, my daily chore was to make fire. Since my task involved making and maintaining fire, I figured that playing in the fire was a perk of the job. One day while hanging in unsupervised, albeit cold bliss, Mike and I discovered a way to project lit matches at a pretty good distance.

How to describe this? Hold a book of matches in your left hand, palm down, with the striker facing down as well. Hold the tip of a match on the tip of your right index finger and place it against the striker. In a brisk motion, run your index finger along the striker, sparking the match while simultaneously thrusting it away from the body. It flies a pretty impressive distance.

So, Mike and I discovered the way to project fiery matches at one another. And oh what a laugh we had doing it. Match fights! One match fight was truly epic in scope, and went on for hours in the basement after we had gotten the fire rolling.

My parents arrived home to find the floor littered with a blanket of burnt matches. They were nonplussed. Imagine working so hard to raise a family and buy a house for them to live in only to come home one day and find that one of your progeny, through sheer stupidity, could have burned it all to the ground. It was about this time that Mike remembered he was late for dinner and beat a hasty retreat.

I should have learned a lesson. Scratch that, I should have had a lesson beaten into me. But it was not to be. I'm sure I got the "Not mad, but disappointed" routine. I'm sure I put on my poutiest pout and my most puppy-eyed eyes. I don't think any grounding or corporal punishment came from it.

Which is probably why this next bit came about.

One afternoon while finding ways to entertain ourselves with fire, Mike and I discovered the cabinet under the sink full of aerosol cans. Furniture polish, glass cleaner, bug spray. It was all flammable, and all ours! Oh joy of joys! The mischief in our eyes must have been ablaze! Quickly we scooped up cans into our arms, hustling off to the wood stove like looters.

Imagine if you will our delight as the first can we tried, spraying into the fire, erupted in orange and yellow flames. We would start our improvised flame-throwers in the fire and draw them out, howling as we waved the raging flames in the air.

Perhaps it was the giddy delight of a budding pyromaniac. Perhaps it was inhaling far too many fumes. Eventually it turned disastrous.

Mike grabbed an extra large can of Raid bug spray. In my memory, the can is dark purple, with yellow letters. He holds it toward the fire, his finger on the trigger, his excitement eclipsing his good judgment, he doesn't realize that he had the nozzle pointed backwards. He presses down with destructive glee, and instead of seeing yellow fire blasting from his hands, he sees nothing, because he has sprayed poisonous bug-killer into his face, his mouth, his eyes.

He dropped the can while shrieking in pain and surprise. "Ahh! Oh! Oh shit! Ooooh!!" He howls, spitting, eyes clenched.

This has somehow gone horribly awry. Imagine that. I dropped the can of furniture polish in my hand and tried to steady Mike. I led him, blind, through the house to the bathroom upstairs, where I pushed his head under the faucet, splashing water into his face, yelling at him to keep his eyes open under the water.

He survived. We still played with the aerosol cans in the fire, but warily. We made damn sure that the nozzle was facing the right way.

But even that isn't the ultimate story I want to tell.

Not long after the bug-spray-in-the-face incident, Mike got shipped off to Montana to live with his mom. I don't remember the circumstances that led up to his moving, just that I was losing an old friend. This was before the Internet, so keeping in touch was a challenge, and eventually became impossible. Diminishing returns, I suppose. We eventually lost touch.

Until 12 years later.

My parents were celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary, and I had borrowed my roommates car to attend the celebration. I made a solemn promise to check the oil diligently and add more as needed, which was almost certain. After leaving the party, I rolled into one of two gas stations in town to fill up with gas. After checking the oil, I walked around the back of the car to pay, only to run into Mike, standing there smoking a cigarette. I stopped short and almost fell backwards against the car.

"I thought that was you," he said, "Wish I'd known you'd be stopping by, I woulda saved that joint."

Through some cosmic misstep, he had landed back east, working the late shift at a gas station, and I had happened to come by with a dry tank. What the fuck was this? It was like seeing a ghost. We talked for a while, each of us with a quizzical look on our faces. For my part, I had thought I'd never see him again. And here he was, smoking a butt.

We exchanged numbers. Since he was in the area, and I wasn't too far away, we made a promise to meet up and reacquaint ourselves. I drove away with my head and hands shaking. "That was fucking surreal," I kept saying to myself. In my amazement, I had forgotten to latch the hood of the car, and had to make an emergency pull off when it threatened to flip up at highway speed.

Weeks pass. We lose touch again. I remembered laying in bed with my girlfriend, telling her about how I had lost my dear friend for a second time. He had died twice.

The very next night, she and I were sitting around trying to figure out what we were to do with our Friday night, when the phone rings:

"Hey it's Mike. I'm gonna be passing through town in about an hour. Wanna hang for a bit?"

This guy really has a flair for the dramatic, I thought. Of course I wanted to hang out. I brought my girlfriend out to meet my old friend. We settled in to a table at a local bar. Eventually we started telling Jill stories about growing up, until Mike dropped this little ditty:

"Yeah, we were messing around in the fire one day, and Brandon sprayed bug spray right in his eyes..."

I leaped to my feet, the chair falling behind me, my finger outstretched, pointing right between his eyes.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH!" I bellowed, as heads swiveled to look our way, "That was you! How long have you been telling that story?!"

Mike had gotten it backward. Maybe because it made for a better story. Who wants to relay a tale of one's own misfortunes? I was so angry at him. Even after convincing him that, yes, it really was him and not me who ate bug spray, I stayed agitated and slightly hostile. I made him promise to make it right to me by correcting himself to anyone who had heard that story. Who knows if he ever did it.

rawknerd

2010-12-27T22:42:00.000-05:00

The Quintessential _____ Album Is...
September 9, 2010 5:45 PM RSS feed for this thread Subscribe
Name a genre. Name its quintessential album. That's it.

I am a paramedic and I occasionally do long distance patient transfers in an ambulance. I'd like to ask my patients what their musical preferences are for the drive (and, of course, whether or not they care for music at all). But my iPod lacks many genres, so I'd like to fill it with a decent representative album from each. Help me help my patients!

Me

it took a long time to come up with it
10:44pmMe

the "jon's erotic massage mix" story has had a good deal of mileage round these parts

thank you for sharing
10:44pmJon

You're welcome.

I almost called you while I was in the store. Figured me telling the story would clear my name.
10:46pmMe

you coulda put me on w the tech
10:46pmJon

So you could tell him we shared a "moment"?
10:49pmMe

a special one

that inspired me to make a list of songs
10:51pmMe

tender songs
10:51pmJon

If he wasn't completely uncomfortable before....
10:52pmMe

yeah

i'm saying:

it's his job to stand there

why not craft a good storry for him?
10:53pmJon

He had plenty of fodder with the disc alone.
10:53pmMe

[when i initially typed that, i wrote it 3x as " a goo d story" even funnier]
10:53pmJon

ew.
10:54pmMe

theater of the mind, man
10:54pmJon

Go rent Gonzo: The Life and Work of HST. Just watched it.
10:54pmMe

did wee watch this at my place?
10:55pmJon

That was Breakfast with Hunter. This covers his whole career.

Well, most of it.
10:55pmMe

check this: thinking about my answers:

http://ask.metafilter.com/164640/The-Quintessential-Album-Is
10:56pmMe

have you read/seen the book GONZO

?
10:56pmJon

No I haven't.

The album thing is so subjective. Even the "genres" are questionable. How many different kinds of Metal can there really be?
10:57pmMe

i like how it's free form

like free jazz

but less irritating

might make for a blog post
10:58pmJon

Is there a football game on?
10:59pmMe

NO vs MINN

the 1st of the season

truth be told i'm pretty bored

listening to Abbey Road

instead
11:01pmJon

Ahhh. Was going to look for the game. Been poking around netflix.
11:01pmMe

nbc

it IS a good game

i just dont care

farve is a definite hall of famer
11:03pmJon

I haven't really paid attention for years.
11:04pmMe

well:

a bunch of guys in tight pants

"touching" one another

reggarding rules that make little sense to anyone

for 60 minutes

which translates to 4 hours

of commercials selling

trucks

boner drugs

and lipitor

= football
11:06pmJon

It's fun to

I'd Hate To Be A Blogger In Philly Tonight

2010-09-14T21:54:00.000-04:00

It's not always sunny in Philadelphia. Especially if you are a blogger.

My Milkshakes Brings All The Gay Boys To The Yard

2010-08-28T00:50:00.007-04:00

I don't know what it is about this little web-diary I have here. Somehow it fills a niche for a number of fellas looking for man-love.

Here is an abbreviated list of search terms that have led hapless visitors to the blog:

"Huge Dudes"

"PORNO HUB PUKING MALE"

"douchebag"

"smooth sexy puke"

"maine law cases taco neck and shoulder"

"puked on me"

"Dude Does College Roommate"

"boys peeing"

"i just peed my sleeping bag"

"metal retardation stories"

"dude eating corn at dunkin donuts"

"Coin-Op Shower camping condom story"

"greg hawkes hot nerd"

"boys peeing"

"hot dude rubs one"

"duded rubbing dudes"

Let it just be said that I heart the internet more than anything ever forever.

Negligent Blogging At Its Finest

2010-08-08T23:07:00.005-04:00

Has it really been over six weeks since I've written anything? Man! I'm the worst blogger ever. And that's not easy. I've got some stories to tell, some updates to make, but there is a delicate matter of some timing on a couple of these... A few things need to pan out, fall into place, and then I can bless you all with the gritty details.

Gritty, sexy, buttery details.

Phony Band Names

2010-06-25T13:30:00.000-04:00

One of the best things about trying to form a band is coming up with a name for your new outfit. How can you convey the message, the essence of your band in just a few characters? Sex Pistols. Minor Threat. Abba. These names tell you right up front what is about to be blasted from the speakers. It's an art, really, finding a perfect circle. I mean, match.

I've long since given up on playing music, though I love it dearly. But I still like coming up with band names. So here are some imaginary bands I've played air-drums in:

The Sweaty Bridesmaids

May Babies

The Greasy Pelican

Kung Fu Sally

Black Seagulls

Little Yarmulke

Sturm Und Drang

Vuvuzela Rhapsody

Horndog Waggle

Slot

Picture Perfect Cunt

This Is Not A Fugazi Tshirt Band

Captain Organ

Sell Me A Car, Commercial

Desktop Microphone

Coffee Shop Laptop Writer

Honey Suck It

My Phone Says A Lot About Me

Mini Skort

Sex Pistils

Iraq Band (get it?!?)

How To: The Phone And Poop

2010-06-17T19:04:00.000-04:00

I was recently on the phone with Kung Fu Sally, babbling away when she interjected.

"Can I call you right back?"

"Sure. Everything OK?"

"Yeah, I gotta use the potty."

I couldn't understand this. I didn't mind if she used the facilities while I was on the phone. Everybody poops, right? I do. I told her she should just do it, but she was too self-conscious. I told her if she hadn't said anything and just went ahead I never would have noticed.

"Have you ever used the can while we were talking?" She asked.

Of course I had. I had used it twice while we were in the midst of our present conversation. She was nonplussed. I didn't understand this.

A little history:

Years ago I had a roommate who shall remain nameless until my legal department clears the permits. For now, let's call him Adam.

Adam had no problem with many things about the phone. He was the only person I've ever met who would hit the bong and THEN call his parents. Astounding. And he had no problem talking away while dropping a deuce.

The One Flaw in his plan was the flushing part. He couldn't do it. His plan was to poop on the phone*, walk away, then return to dispose of the evidence after the call had wrapped up. The swirling waters were just too loud and would expose his guilt and shame to the person on the other end of the line, or so the logic went.

The problem then, was perhaps the chemically-induced short-term memory loss: He would stand up, buckle up, drop the seat and walk away, only to forget to come back later finish the deed.

And here's where I came in. Or rather, later, I would get home and go into the head to make a tinkle only to raise the seat and be clubbed over the head with Adam's Log.

Gross!

And, guys, it happened a LOT. The sound of me yelling, in guttural tones would become commonplace. "AAddAAAAMMMMM!!!!" He would come running, red-faced and apologizing. I'd make him flush, trying to shame him into remembering, but it was for naught. He would still leave a Bowl Baby. Eventually, a part of me began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. I would greet a lowered seat with suspicion. I know there's a Brown Trap waiting in there.

As the adage goes, if you can't beat em, join em. I set about to improve the method.

I eventually invented THE PHONE AND POOP.

The Phone and Poop is pretty easy, actually. You just gotta relax. But you gotta sell it, dammit! You gotta be all DeNiro on the can. You have to believe you can pull it off.

Any incriminating noises will be greeted by you with ignorance. When your friend on the other end of the line asks, "What was that?", you act like you didn't hear a damn thing. You are sitting stock-still in an empty room. You don't have biology. What is indoor plumbing? Sell it. Method acting. What was that sound? You're putting a pot back in the cabinet. That's what you are doing. You are simply folding an old newspaper. You dropped a phone book on the carpet.

Whatever you do, do not admit to the deed! Admitting your actions will only cast you in a suspicious light to the other person FOREVER. And word gets around. If you own up, you could soon be known all over town as a phone pooper. It's okay to be a phone pooper, so long as you are stealthy about it. Think about it like being a secret-agent. What spy is going to walk around blabbing that he's a spy? See? Mum is the word.

Now that we have some of the basics down, let's get into The Phone and Poop 201: The logistics. Tidying up is pretty easy. You only need one hand to take care of that, so we'll skip ahead to the next part: The Hoisting the Trousers. (The Phone and Poop is yet another example of how pants are simply a hindrance and a nuisance.) Hoisting the Trousers takes some coordination. You first have to master the hold-the-phone-to-your-head-with-your-shoulder maneuver, also known as Taco Neck.

And now to make your escape. This is the most difficult part. First, the prep work: Close the lid, open the door, and while standing as far away as possible, hit the lever and BOOGIE out the door. Flee the scene.

But there's more to it than that. First, cover the microphone of your phone. On some of today's cell phones, this can be done with a single finger, if you can find the thing at all.

Secondly, and this is the essence of the Phone and Poop: You gotta get the person on the other end of the phone to be doing most of the talking. This might require some time-management on your part. You have to be thinking ahead and plant this seed in advance. The best topics for this are hot-button issues. Is the person a democrat? Tell them Glenn Beck raises some valid points that are not ridiculous at all. Republican? Ask them "So, that Obama, kicking ass, right?" If it is a woman with a small child, ask her what being pregnant was like. Pet owner? Ask them what the cutest thing their dog/cat/ferret/etc ever did. Or, go for shock value. If your partner in conversation is Catholic, offer to tell them how much money you just donated to Planned Parenthood. Tell your girlfriend you'd like a sandwich with your blow job. Tell your boyfriend that a large penis is not that important to you. This is your chance to get creative! Make the Phone and Poop your own. Make it work for YOU.

But be warned! You may get more than you bargained for with this last bit. Don't raise some issue that is going to give you more trouble than it is worth. Make sure you are able to extricate yourself from the conversation with grace and tact. Don't make enemies. Use the Phone and Poop for good, not evil.

You're welcome, America.

*meaning, poop while on the phone, not actually poop ON the phone.

All My Friends

2010-06-08T23:25:00.002-04:00

Below is a metaphor for all my amazing friends. That's me upside down.

Praise And Adulation

2010-05-29T20:11:00.022-04:00

After a rather difficult week I am heartened to report that some very generous people have come forward and shown me that there is in fact some good left in this world, and they have convinced me not to turn into the full-fledged curmudgeon that I was well on the way to becoming.

Herein, I would like to say a few words about the folks who have helped to restore my faith in the goodness of humanity. In chronological order:

John Stephens. I met John many years ago when we were both coffee jockeys at a cafe on Newbury street. What I didn't know at first was that he was playing in what would become, in my mind, one of the most amazing live bands to play in Boston. The Vehicle Birth was rather short lived, and could put on some of the most absolutely incendiary performances I have ever witnessed, driven often by the unbelievable bass played by John. I remember once at a show, a mutual friend Tyler nudging me, and, motioning to John, during the opening of the song "Sideshow," shaking his head and saying, "The solid brass Balls on this guy..." He was right. John now lives in Brooklyn with his lovely wife. Thanks, John for your generosity. You really helped to cheer me up when I was pretty far down.

Lisa and Dave Simons. I think I met these guys at about the same time I knew John. I met Lisa through another friend at the cafe, and Dave through Lisa. They were installing a mural at what was once the greatest rock club in Boston, The Rat. Invariably, when we get together now, at some point we will lament how old we are and how much we miss that place. I once dogsat Shelby, Lisa's tiny dog for a weekend, and that dog destroyed everything in its vicinity, howling with rage at the abandonment. For some reason, I didn't tell Lisa about it for years. I still don't understand that. Lisa is now the Creative Director at Health Talker, a word of mouth ad agency. Thanks so much you guys for your kindness.

Becky Birnholz. Becky is easily the sweetest, most giving person I have ever had the pleasure to meet. (Sorry, rest of yous!) Not only are we friends, we're also neighbors, so I often have the serendipitous occasion to run into her randomly around the 'hood. She's an apparel design grad from RISD, and I'm looking forward to some roof deck movie nights at her gorgeous apartment this summer. Thanks Becky! You know how to make a fella feel special.

Jane Eisensmith. I met Jane in college at Haystack Mountain School of Crafts. A friend of a friend, I was told "You should meet my friend Jane, you would really like her," which was absolutely true. Jane is one of the good ones, people, and I'm grateful for her friendship. She recently became a mom. I know all babies are at least kinda cute, but James is ridiculously cute. The kid is a cute factory. If cuteness was a river, this kid would be flooding his banks.

See? Thanks Jane! You're the best. And Dan's recent story about the dude eating corn on the cob in line at the Dunkin Donuts has had me laughing for three days now. Pass that along for me, k?

Melody Norton. I've known Melody longer than anyone on this list. We met in sixth grade, and have been good friends since. Growing up together, we had ample opportunity to get into a lot of trouble together. A lot. But it was all of the harmless adolescent type, and we both made it through unscathed. We used to play music together in high school, and she won't hesitate to pull out the video of our performance at a talent show, in which I've got ridiculously long hair and an equally awful outfit. She lives near a zoo in York Beach Maine where she says she can hear the lions in the morning with her husband Rusty, their awesome golden retriever, and one of the biggest horses I have ever seen in my life. Thanks Mel! We've been friends this long for a reason.

Jeremy Majewski. Jeremy and I went to college together but only became friends much later through mutual friends. A renaissance man, Jer continually amazes me with the amount of things he is good at. Baking? Gardening? Cycling? Playing the banjo? Yep. Jer does it. Jeremy also is the anchor to our bowling team The Thunderballs. He's also a very talented illustrator. Check out his website. Thanks Jeremy!

I'm still taking donations here, so if you're feeling generous, have a look. You can also be enshrined in the pantheon of the kind friends of mine here at ThatDude. Thanks again everybody, and be good to one another.

Hat In Hand

2010-05-23T13:28:00.004-04:00

I suppose I should be grateful. I've lived in the city almost 18 years, and this is the first time something truly bad has happened to me. Every time I would hear about a friend or even a stranger getting mugged, robbed, car broken into, I'd think about my good luck. But the pessimist in me would be thinking that my time was coming.

Well, that time has arrived.

My apartment was broken into on Friday while I was at work being a productive member of society. He/they stole my laptop, my digital camera, and some prescription drugs that I was really looking forward to using in a recreational manner this weekend. He/they destroyed some stuff that has huge emotional weight with me and zero financial meaning to anyone.

I'm sad. Hurt. Bewildered and paranoid. Last night involved a weird kind of nesting involving throwing things away that is a little disconcerting and confusing to me.

There are some humorous bits, like me buying new locks and promptly locking myself out. That's a story for another time though. It's easy for me to write about something that I find amusing, in which I usually do something stupid. The painful stuff is very, very difficult to write about.

I don't earn a ton of money, so replacing the stuff is going to be a burden. My friend Amy suggested Chipin.com to me, and that's the ultimate push of this post.

Didn't think there would be a sales pitch, didja?

Begging doesn't come easy to me, and this is all a little embarrassing to me. But if you find yourself with a dollar or two to spare, I hope you'd consider sliding them my way. I will replace my laptop, and I'll even write a post in which I praise your virtue and general awesomeness if you would like.

I'll fill in details about the incident when I'm able to sort them out properly in my head. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and take care of one another.

The Future Is Now!

2010-05-01T01:50:00.006-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the future is now here at ThatDude! I have in my hands a shiny new toy that has held my undivided attention since Friday afternoon. My new smartphone will allow for mobile posts and up-to-the-minute news of the pointless minutiae of my existence. Look forward to many poorly spelled additions in the coming days!

Smooth Move, Polyester Slacks

2010-04-14T23:36:00.010-04:00

Spring of 1982. The big All-School Rollerskating Day was coming up. Once a year my elementary school would rent out the local skating rink and have a Saturday afternoon of wholesome family fun wheeling round, listening to the pop hits of the day. Of course I was going. This was Roller Skating we were talking about. Like sticker albums and Michael Jackson, roller skating was a BIG DEAL.

I was in Ms. Greglein's class, and I had had my eyes on Nicolette for some time. Unlike most kids, who, when they get a crush, punch and kick the objects of their affections, I knew Nicolette was special. She didn't deserve such treatment. She was classy.

I was going to ask her to go roller skating with me. We'd hold hands during the couple's skate, the light from the disco ball bathing us in magic and transporting us to Loveland.

It was to be the first time I asked a girl out.

It's difficult to plan a date when you depend on your parents for rides around. And money. But I was going to find a way to make it work. Nicolette's destiny was to fall in love with and get married to me. We would live in a tree with our 26 dogs and eat cinnamon toast everyday for breakfast. I had it all planned out. I even had names for the dogs.

But first, I had to get her to see how bold I was, how suave and determined I was. Just wait until she got to see my mad skating skills.

Two days before the big event, I spotted Nicolette walking with Francesca to their bus after school. I hurried to catch up, then, acting nonchalant was all, "Hey Nicolette, what's happening?"

She and Francesca said hi. We walked along.

"So... Really looking forward to roller skating this weekend. I was thinking, do you want to go with me to the rink?" I asked.

"Well, I'm going, so I guess I'll see you there?" She replied. I didn't let this deter me. Just play it cool, I thought to myself, you're doing fine. It's probably just a logistics thing. I'll just wow her with my ability to skate backwards, and she'll fall head over heels. Figuratively, hopefully. A concussion probably wouldn't help my cause.

"So, that's cool, I'll see you there," I said as we walked along. Thinking: SWISH! "It's gonna be great."

Then as I turned to go,

CLANG!!!

I walked face-first into a metal pole.

I bounced back and fell on my ass in the lot. I don't even remember if Nicolette or Francesca reacted at all. Perhaps they simply continued on to the buses. As a gangly teenager, or even an adult who could laugh at this stuff, this may have been a huge setback from which recovery might not be possible. I imagine if this scene were to play out now, in the midst of my adultivity, I would hope for the CERN Large Hadron Collider to successfully open a black hole into which I would promptly step, preferring to be ripped asunder by the forces of nature than to ever be seen by the girl in this life again.

In the end it didn't matter. What the hell does a seven year old need with romance? And truth be told, I could never skate backwards. Maybe that pole was saving me from further embarrassment and a possible coma when I split my skull open trying to impress the girl. I still don't understand how all those dogs were to get up into the tree, so perhaps it's all for the best.

In Which Money Falls From My Ass

2010-03-30T21:39:00.000-04:00

Bleary eyed and still half asleep, I'm standing in the shower enjoying the warm water falling on my head. Wakefulness is slow in coming this morning.

I'm pushing what's left of my hair back when I hear a metallic clink on the floor of the tub. Brow furrowed, I look down to see Roosevelt's wet silhouette looking sidelong at me.

That's weird, I think, as I nudge him to the back of the tub with my toe. What's a dime doing in the shower? I get on with my day and give the matter no more thought.

Two days later, it happens again. Clink! Lincoln this time. What's happening here? I look down and around. Another clink! Did a nickel just fall out of my ass? Nearly twisting my neck off, I strain round and see more money. Stuck to my ass.

It took a couple days and a few more lost coins, but I soon solved the mystery. I was coming home from work every afternoon exhausted. I would kick off my shoes as soon as I walked in and lay down for a much needed nap. In the process of turning over, all my change would fall out of my pockets and lay in wait for me.

At night, when I was going to bed for real, I would sleep in my boxer shorts, climbing into my cash-rich mattress. In the process of sleeping on top of the coins, they would adhere to my upper legs, back and ass, and reveal themselves in the shower in the morning.

Not long after this revelation I took to taking my naps on the living room couch instead. Poor Roosevelt...

Poetry From My Spam Box

2010-03-23T23:45:00.005-04:00

Hallo my love, i' from Moskow, 'you?

I Olga.
I beautiful.

Here my photo.

You wish to be on friendly terms with me?? And above the altar made of gold!?

Your long awaited desire will be achieved within 2 to 4 working days of your application.

Permit us to be of service to you: It is very sweet.

My sweet kitty - do you completely forgot about my Russian pussy?

"Come to my site - I have there new photos as well as VIDE0 from my H0ME web camera - and you have a web camera now?"

I want to talk to you almost.

I've got a whole.

Site or its contents.

Happy Birthday Ocho!

2010-03-03T21:46:00.011-05:00

Today is my cat Ocho's 10th birthday. Here are some pictures of Fuzzbutt herself:

Here we are at my last birthday. She's not a fan of the mask. I was pretty drunk by this point.

We both love naps on the couch.

Rambo cat sez "They drew first blood."

As you can see, having a stroke makes Ocho grumpy.

Snuggle buddies. I was sure I'd have to put her to sleep this day. Thanks to the good folks at Angell Memorial Hospital, that was 2 1/2 years ago.

Close up.

Xtreme(tm) Close up.

Mouse guts are hard to get out.

Iz on yr comptr, disapproving yr pr0nz.

Readers! Have Your Say!

2010-02-27T04:04:00.025-05:00

Occasionally I get questions from my readers (Hi Mom!) asking about this or that thing I post here. I thought rather than sending off several exculpatory emails, I would address some common themes in a single post and put all these wild rumors to rest.

Q: What's with the name?

A: What's with your face? (Heh. Burn.)Well, in thinking up a title for the blog, I though to myself: Self, what's the best way to convey our post modern condition in a sentence fragment? And then it hit me: I'm a dude, and stuff happens. The truth probably lies in a Simpsons reference, to be honest. I just rattled off the first prattle that came to mind, and kinda liked it. Plus, it's got that extra, marketable kick of being easy to spell and really has that zing of sticking in the mind. Like a really catchy commercial for a local furniture store.

HisHolinessTheDL writes:
Q: How true are these stories? I mean, really.... Running over a Little Person on your bicycle?

A: 100% true. All of these posts are things which happened to me, perhaps tarted up a bit for the funnier parts. Names have been changed (or not) to protect the innocent, but the rest is hands-on-a-bible true. (No offense, Your Holiness.)

Q: What's the best way to get oil stains out of a shirt?

A: Cover the stain with baby powder and let rest for several hours, as much as 24, then wash as usual. You'll thank me!

Q: What does your Significant Other feel about the Condom Story?

A: The fact of that matter is, my girlfriend is more awesome than your girlfriend. She is unbelievably supportive and encouraging, not just of my writing, but pretty much everything I do, and I love her to pieces. She understands that this happened in the past, years before we ever met, and has no bearing on how awesome we are as a couple.

I guess I should take this opportunity to let the world know that she and I are expecting a special joyful delivery very soon. Yes, it's true! We just ordered a pizza!

Q: Dear recipient,
Avangar Technologies announces the beginning of a new unprecendented global employment campaign.
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Due to company's exploding growth Avangar is expanding business to the European region.
During last employment campaign over 1500 people worldwide took part in Avangar's business
and more than half of them are currently employed by the company. And now we are offering you
one more opportunity to earn extra money working with Avangar Technologies.
druggists blame classy gentry Aladdin

We are looking for honest, responsible, hard-working people that can dedicate 2-4 hours of their
time per day and earn extra Â£300-500 weekly. All offered positions are currently part-timejavascript:void(0)
and give you a chance to work mainly from home.
lovelies hockey Malton meager reordered

Please visit Avangar's corporate web site (http://www.avangar.com/sta/home/0077.htm) for more details regarding these vacancies.

A: Hell YES. I am very interested regarding these vacancies and have gone ahead and emailed you my mailing address along with my Social Security Number, my bank card pin number, my blood type, three copies of my house keys, and fresh DNA sample.

Q:What does the future hold for ThatDude?

A: Jet packs and unicorns, mostly. I'd like to be even more open with the things I'm writing. My friend Sada writes an incredibly funny blog wherein she publishes things she wrote as a teenager, presented and deconstructed with the snark and wit of her older self. First, I wish I saved more of the things I had written as an angsty teenager. Second, I do have a bunch of poetry I wrote in high school. (Isn't that cute? I wanted to be a poet when I was growing up). I have a huge notebook full of them. Huge. And, as the premise would suggest, they're Terrible. I've been trying for over a year to get myself to publish at least one of them here, simply for the Lulz but I just can't bring myself to do it. I can feel my face burning with embarrassment any time I endeavor to read some of it. Sad, really, that the world is being denied my gift.

(Names have been changed to protect the Sexy)

2010-02-21T01:24:00.003-05:00

Some guys are ashamed to buy condoms. The puritanical stigma, the hesitation they feel is so overwhelming, that they must go to extraordinary lengths to hide the fact that they are purchasing items related to sexy activities.

In an attempt to downplay the fact that they are buying condoms, they'll also pick up vitamins, a newspaper, beef jerky, sunscreen, reading glasses, candy bars, decongestant, paper towels, cat food, more vitamins, a soda, batteries, shaving cream, vitamins (with added riboflavin), fishing line, shoelaces, potato chips, and condoms, thinking that the clerk, utterly overwhelmed by the onslaught of incongruous items, will be oblivious to the fact that condoms are a part of the purchase and therefore not think about the sexual activity of the already embarrassed customer.

Not me.

I have never been ashamed to buy condoms. Not once.* I make it my singular purchase. I walk around holding the box over my head, saying it loud, and saying it proud:

"Hey. Check me out. Look at these. Guess where I'm going to put them. Totally! And then guess where I'm going to put them? Right! In a vagina! Yeah, I know, the 12-pack. I got a good feeling about this one... Yup. Hey you, look at my purchase..."

Nowhere was this nonchalant attitude more pronounced than with my time with Stacy. (All names have been changed to protect the Sexy. My name in this story is Jacques. Just because.)

Stacy and I had been dating for a while. We had definitely passed the physical barrier that new relationships always need to hurdle. We had seen each other naked, maybe even a bunch of times. But it was still young, this relationship, still a little flirty. The end-of-date conversation was still probably going as such:

Jacques: So, what do you wanna do?[coy look]

Stacy: I dunno, what do you wanna do?[coy look]

Jacques: I dunno... we could... [super coy look]

This type of conversation can often go on for a good two hours or so, the coyness of the looks increasing exponentially to nearly nauseating proportions. This is usually at the point before which the relationship gets to this stage of routine blandness:

Jacques: So... you wanna?

Stacy: Yeah alright.

Jacques: Let's get this thing over with.

Don't act like you've never been there.

So Stacy and I have just spent the last two hours out-coying one another, and we've made a decision: Her place, naked antics. There's just one problem: we're out of condoms. No sweat, I say, there is a pharmacy two blocks from here, and we walk to the pharmacy hand in hand, full of pre-coital giddiness. We peruse the aisles of the family planning section. I joke about buying the Magnums. She is sweet but realistic, and we settle on the blue box. We walk to the check-out, and miracle of miracles, there is no line. I toss the box on the counter, the clerk rings up the purchase.

I pay. After all, I'm a gentleman.

Clerk: "Do you want a bag for that?"
Jacques: "No, that's okay, I'll just wear them out."

Clerk laughs. Jacques laughs. Stacy doesn't laugh.

Stacy turns crimson, and without a word, does an about-face and walks straight out of the pharmacy.

I find her on the sidewalk, holding her stomach, still flushed. "I can't believe you!"

Foolishly, I had thought that Stacy and I were on the same page about such transactions. As a fool, I was wrong.

It is not long after this that Jacques is single again, and only buys condoms every two weeks so people think he is getting laid on occasion. He's been asked not to return to two different pharmacies, but that is another story.

Next: Buying Pornography For The Single Man.

But seriously, folks: Think twice or maybe thirty times before having kids, OK?

(originally published 1/21/2008)

*since the original publication of this post, it has been impossible to buy condoms without overly self-referential embarrassment, for some reason.

Knock it off, Facebook.

2010-02-18T15:52:00.012-05:00

Stupid Facebook, with your endless distraction. Why do I hate to love you so much? Prolly the same reason I love to hate you. What drives me crazy is these stupid ads in the margins. Who the hell are they aiming these things at? I mean, seriously. For real. Knock it off.

"36 Years Old? Become A Cop!"

Whoa. I'm 36 years old. Maybe I should become a cop! Makes perfect sense. Maybe I can become a cop while growing corn to feed to my mafia. These ads are insidious. Like the mythical Hydra, you click away and another springs up in its place. Insanity inducing.

But the ad that sent me off the rails was this one:

New Recession Relief

Americans with over $10k in credit card debt are now eligible to legally remove up to 60% of it thanks to a new relief program.

What the hell is that, Facebook?

WHAT.
THE.
HELL.
IS.
THAT?

Look at it, Facebook! Look at it!

It's incongruous. That picture and those words make no sense together. Is that the Debt Relief Troll? If I answer his Questions Three, will my debt magically disappear as he gambols off into the forest with my student loan under his arm, giggling and grunting under the weight of it? This image is now seared into my brain, Facebook, and I'm mad at you for that.

A Little Off The Top

2010-02-17T19:38:00.002-05:00

Man... I finally got a haircut today, something I've meant to do for the last six weeks or so. When I sat down in the chair, I explained what I like, with the guideline that I was about two months overdue for a haircut. I think something got lost in translation, because she cut it longer than I like. I try to get some mileage out of a cut, and when I said I was two months over due, that meant that Two months had gone by since I first said to myself "I need to get this situation under control."

The other day I took a nap and woke up with some wild-ass fro. I took this pic, because it seemed monumental and document worthy:

Maybe it seemed worse than it was. I dunno. But I was reminded of this little adventure from a few years ago:

I was again in dire need of a haircut. It was serious. I made a plan to go to the local chain cuttery after work. Let's call it Kwik Kuts, if only because that sounds amusing to me. Also, it was cheap as hell. This part is very important to me: a cheap, fast haircut that allows me to pop in, get a cut, and proceed with my plans of napping on the couch with my cat.

Kwik Kuts! The place to get a Kut. And Kwik!

I found a Kwik Kuts that wasn't far from my work-to-home commute. I diverted and found my way to a parking spot not far from the front door of Kwik Kuts. I looked at the signage, which said "Tow Zone: No Parking 5pm - 8am". A quick check of the watch revealed that present time was 4:25 pm. If I was lucky, I could easily beat the curfew. Kwik Kuts was fast, and if I didn't have to wait too long, I could easily be in and out with time to spare. I fed a few extra quarters into the meter, hoping to get a few brownie points with he parking gods. The sun was blazing that day, my friend. The mercury was surprisingly spry for an early spring day in New England. The temp topped out at an unusual 94 degrees when I opened the door.

I walked into Kwik Kuts, signed in and was quickly hustled into a chair. My plan was working flawlessly. The woman who had seated me was talking to a young woman. She pointed in my direction, and the young lady headed my way. She was plainly dressed, average height, of Asian descent, and had a VERY PRONOUNCED lazy eye.

I try to be as PC as possible. I refer to Asian people as Asians, unlike my father and some of my coworkers, who refer to "Orientals".

I'd like to think that this woman's heritage had little to do with my thought process.

But there is something that is SERIOUSLY disconcerting about being set upon by someone wielding scissors with profoundly crossed eyes. All I could look at was the pointy edge of those tiny scissors, knowing that soon they would be slicing and dicing very close to my eyes and ears.

I froze. Part of my brain was screaming at me "OMG! GTFO! No WAY! Scary Scary Scary!"

And yet another part was, somewhat more calmly, yet certainly alarmed saying "There is nothing wrong with her. She is different than you in some very minor ways, Don't be an ass. Surely she couldn't rise to such a high position without the proper credentials."

But the errant eyeball was not this young woman's only affliction. She was also slow. Well, maybe that's wrong. She was diligent. Attentive to details. Ah hell. Who am I kidding? She was slow. I've never experienced a haircut that took this long. Except the time in college when I let my girlfriend cut my hair. I had long, heavy-metal hair, and she just couldn't get it even, and by the time I was done I was the not-so proud owner of a bowl cut.

Time passes. A lot of time passes. I glanced at the clock in the mirror. It was approaching 5pm. More time passes. A lot more time passes. In my mind I began to see the scenario playing out outside: A tow truck backing up to take my car. The car being towed to god-knows-where in the wastelands of Allston. That half-eaten tuna salad sandwich I hadn't finished at lunch baking away in the heat inside. The bill for getting my car back. That tuna smell baked into every fiber forever. Tuna. Tow lot.

More time passes. Is she cutting each individual hair? Good lord! By this time, however, I'm so committed to this thing that I just have to wait it out. I should have gone with my initial instinct and not let that cross-eyed bitch near me. To hell with political correctness. She should wear sunglasses, then I never would have noticed.

Mercifully, she finally got done. I paid my tab and ran out with a completely unoffensive haircut to find my car plastered with orange parking tickets. Not only had I over-stayed my welcome, apparently I had been lax in getting my inspection sticker updated. All told, this fast, cheap haircut ended up costing me an hour and a half and ninety-five dollars.

Thanks Kwik Kuts!

Laundry Hitlist

2010-02-01T11:49:00.009-05:00

Yesterday, while rooting through some old papers, I ran across this piece of paper that I had written for myself some time ago. How long ago is a matter of debate. This document was written in order to help "thin the herd" as I call it, and reduce the copious amounts of clothes that I own, and therefore the amount of laundry I would need to do. Throwing out old clothes rather than washing them is similar yet diametrically opposed to my other habit of buying new socks or underpants rather than haul the dirty ones to the laundromat. Cracking myself up from the past, I now present:

LAUNDRY HITLIST:

-Any shirt turned pink due to laundry mishap

-Socks with the following attributes:
*Owns holes
*Discolored
*Itchy
*Having not maintained true love [no match]

-Pants no longer able to be comfortably buttoned
(Get over it. They're not coming back.)

-Worn out workpants.
(Let them retire with a modicum of dignity)

-Ill-fitting suit/sport jackets

-Lame and/or ill-fitting shirts

-Anything not utilized in 8 months or more
(exemption: exclusively seasonal clothes, to be filed accordingly)

-Anything that is fashionably unconscionable
(exemption: the "Male Chauvinist Pig" and "Beaver" ties)

I should note that the "Male Chauvinist Pig" tie features a pattern of pig's asses with the letters "MCP" on it as well. The "Beaver" tie is somewhat more subtle, but at the same time, kind of not. I've saved these two items, even though I've not worn them once since this list was implemented.

On the back of this list, perhaps seizing on "less-is-more" fever, is written this:

HITLIST: OTHERS:

-Lame ass books

-Studio trash

-Living room clutter

-Old porno

-Outdated (Tchotchkes)

-Landline

-Empty boxes

-Used envelopes/folders

-Magazine offers (except Playboy)

I've tried to wrap my head around what, exactly, was meant by "Outdated (Tchotchkes)". Obviously, Tchotchkes refers to random trinkets I have laying around. What makes them "outdated," though is beyond me. It seems that by definition these things are outdated, regardless of how old they are.

I'm also amused by my desire to replace Old Porno with New Playboys.

In Which I Try To Keep Warm And Nearly Freeze To Death

2009-12-14T17:42:00.019-05:00

The Earth had once again settled itself into that arc on its trip around the sun wherein our access to light is limited and our access to cold is seemingly bottomless. Winters in New England are mean. It's no wonder the Puritans chose to settle here. Winter, like Life, is meant to be suffered through. Geese have enough common sense to fly south. Sometimes it's a wonder the humans have been able to climb so far up the food chain.

The place where I live is a throwback to days when a bath was a weekly event, and one was lucky to know someone who owned a horse. Although moderate steps have been taken to update the livability of my apartment building, things are sometimes woefully inadequate. Each room, for instance, has only one electrical outlet, which, until very recently, was wired through a fusebox in the basement. If you were to overload a circuit, a fuse would blow, and it was up to you to have a surplus on hand to replace it. Space heaters, then, were pretty much out of the question. Turning one on would quickly overwhelm the meager abilities of the electrical system and leave you in the dark and cold.

Why would I need a space heater to begin with? Interesting question. The only supplies for warmth are placed at either end of the apartment. The stove in the kitchen doubles as a gas heater, and on the front side, a small heater is wired into the wall in the living room. No heat in the bedrooms. The bathroom is placed exactly in the middle of and very far from the two sources of warmth. In the deep dark depths of January, to end a nice hot shower is to start a race against hypothermia, as those droplets left on the skin drain body heat at an alarming rate.

But we humans are a creative bunch, aren't we? It is through our ingenuity and resourcefulness that we have been able to thrive in places like this. We've invented weaving to turn shorn wool into warm blankets, but even those laurels were not enough for us to rest upon. We've sent men to the moon. Surely we can outsmart something as simple as a little bit of cold air.

This is my ill fated attempt at doing just that.

At some point, while wrapped up in sweaters and furry hats, I noticed that my room, simply by virtue of having had my body in it, was subtly warmer than other parts of the apartment.

If temperature in a small space was raised by my presence, than a smaller space would be that much warmer, right?

I dug my cheap pup tent out from the closet, set it up on my bed, and covered it with heavy blankets. Patting myself on the back, I pulled my alarm clock inside, layered blankets on the floor of the tent, and closed up the flap, eager to spend a toasty evening with my great idea.

Perhaps it worked a little differently than I had anticipated. I awoke gasping for breath. I seemed to be sweating yet was cold. So very cold. The moisture from my breath had condensed on the walls of the tent into droplets which fell onto me and my bedclothes, and ran down the walls onto the floor of my cave.

I fought through all the blankets and wrestled with the zipper, spilling out onto the cold floor of my bedroom, soaking wet and gulping down as much fresh air as I could.

Apparently I hadn't thought it all the way through. The whole process of air circulation and condensation hadn't occurred to me until I awoke, suffocating and hypothermic.

Way to go, genius.

Again With The Songs

2009-09-16T21:06:00.006-04:00

After writing this post, I thought I would follow up in a different vein. After reading, someone told me I was a very indie-rock kind of guy, and I suppose it's true to an extent. But I'd hate to come across as smug as I think I sound. Who am I to judge all these talented, hard-working artists? So, in order to take myself down a peg, I herein present a list of songs that I absolutely love, but am embarrassed to admit to even liking.

Bob Seger "Turn The Page"

Everything about this song tells me I should hate it, but I get this song pleasurably stuck in my head with alarming frequency. It's Bob Seger, for crying out loud! The same guy that wrote "Old Time Rock and Roll", a song which makes me shudder. Reasons I should dislike this tune: It's a "road tune", and a storytelling song, two qualities that usually have me scrambling for the radio dial. The saxophone at the beginning should send me fleeing from the room. Once upon a time I kinda liked jazz, and then I suddenly decided to abhor it. The sax is unfortunate collateral damage in that exchange. I shouldn't have a problem with an instrument in and of itself, but because it is so closely tied in with the genre, I can't bring myself to enjoy it. Even the fact that Metallica once covered this song can't erase my like of it.

Christopher Cross "Ride Like The Wind"

I blame my parents for this one. We had a vinyl copy of Chris Cross's self-titled album, and, having little else to listen to, I clung to this one. The rhythm is infectious, and the story line about a badass loner outlaw was very appealing to me. Not to mention the fact that the Godfather of Yacht-Rock, Michael McDonald, sings his smooth-talkin' backing vocals on it. Awesome.

Foreigner "Cold As Ice"

I know. I know. But I can't help myself. You can't really hear it in this live version, but I love the keyboard in the second verse. Neeer Ne Neer Ne Neer Neer Neer Neeeerrrr.... And those vocal harmonies?! Forget about it. I love it. Too bad nothing else Foreigner ever did was this good. If had to judge the quality and value of Foreigner as a band based solely on hearing this one song, knowing nothing about any other tunes, I would nominate them for legend status. It's that good.

Elton John "Tiny Dancer"

This is another one I can blame on my parents. We had a copy of Madman Across The Water laying about, and I still like it. It's a very solid album. I like a lot of Sir Elton's work, right up until about the time of "Candle In The Wind" (yuck!). "Crocodile Rock"? Awesome. Even into the 80's "I'm Still Standing" was on heavy rotation in the early days of MTV, and I was way into it. I still hear "Rocket Man" on a semi-regular basis, and quite enjoy it.

Ram Jam "Black Betty"

This has to be the greatest (by which I mean worst) video ever made. I loved this song til I saw the tools who wrote it. Did they film this in one of the band member's dad's backyard? The bass player is the gayest looking tool I've ever seen, and what the hell is going on with the guy standing to the left? Somebody give that guy a tambourine, for crying out loud. At least then he would give the appearance of being a somewhat productive member of the band. Instead he's the band cheerleader. Yes. The fact that this song finds itself played at a lot of sporting events takes it down a notch, but I don't think you can deny its awesomeness.

Well there you have it. I'm out of the musical closet. Point and laugh if you must. I can take it. I'm sure there are more gems like these to make me look funny, and I'll post them as they come to me.

First They Came for the Dance-punks

2009-09-15T23:41:00.001-04:00

First they came for theDance-punks.
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Dance-punk.
Then they came for the Emo kids
and I did not speak out
because I was not an Emo kid.
Then they came for the Screamos
and I did not speak out
because I was not Screamo.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left,
except for Nu-Metal,
and I think that shit sucks...

(originally published 11/7/2006)

In Which Online Worlds Collide

2009-08-16T00:26:00.000-04:00

You've most likely thrown yourself under the FaceBook juggernaut. If so, you're probably aware of these viral lists that everyone feels the need to make. Not long ago the "25 Things About Me" sensation caused quite a stir on the 'Book and found itself being discussed in popular media. Seems lately the big buzz floats around the "50 bands" discussion, in which one recounts 50 acts one has seen in concert. I signed on, because I love music, but afterward I was left feeling incomplete. Surely there is more to seeing a show than just SEEING the show, so I sent back and annotated my list. The thoughts are completely subjective, my own self-important opinions, with corresponding supporting information/media.

I herein present my list, with notes. Perhaps you have your own list. Perhaps you were at one of these shows with me.

50 BANDS, WITH NOTES

OK, here are the rules. Test your memory and your love of live music by listing 50 artists or bands (or as many as you can remember) you've seen in concert. List the first 50 acts that come into your head. An act you saw at a festival and opening acts count, but only if you can't think of 50 other artists. Oh, and list the first concert you ever saw (you can remember that, can’t you)?

Should you choose this challenge, here's what you do:
Copy my note. Click on “notes” under tabs on your profile page. Select "write a new note" in the top corner. Paste the copy in the body of the note. Make your list. Change the number at the top, and add your title. Once you've saved, don't forget to tag friends (including me) on the right.

* Denotes multiples

1.OZZY!(first concert. won tickets off the radio)
I was excited as hell to be going to my FIRST CONCERT EVAR, but even then, in the late 80's, Ozzy was frail and kinda ridiculous. Still, wouldn't trade it for the world.

2.Anthrax
Opened up for Ozzy. Technically cheating, I know, but WTF. I was a way bigger fan of these guys. I still love their cover of "Bring The Noize".

3.Jane's Addiction
Yeah... I'm embarrassed to say this, but I actually used a line from Perry in my high school yearbook: "You gotta be driven by passion, man. That way know one can own you." Thanks, rockstar. Tell that to my student loan officer and my car loan. Dick.

4.Metallica
Somebody actually tried to steal my shoes at this show. While I was wearing them. And sober. This was long before I decided I hate Metallica, after they had come out so forcefully against Napster. The hatred just got deeper from then on.

5.Jethro Tull
Not my fault. Somebody had an extra ticket, offered it to me, then had the balls to ask me for money at the end of the night. People: you gotta put the money thing out front, otherwise this list would contain 49 bands.

6.Mighty Mighty Bosstones
Freshman in college. Jumped on stage and broke my hand diving off.

7.Chucklehead
Again... freshman. Nobody knows who this band is. My buddy, working the door, gave this 18 year-old a booze bracelet, and I got Wah-Hasted. And danced. I remember peeing on my school, claiming my tuition gave me the right.

8.Frank Black
Saw this show with Pollard, and it was the most drunken, surly, border-line violent crowd I had ever seen. Given another half hour to wait and drink, I'm sure this could have turned into a riot. We bailed early. I saw all the songs I wanted to see.

9.Skeleton Key
These guys were awesome. Saw this one with Joel. If you haven't heard their first record, do yourself a favor. Their second, not so much.

10.Shellac
Again with the Joel. These guys walked a maddening line between awesome RAWK and irritating, drawn out, slowed-down wankery. I would definitely think twice about seeing them again.

11.Clutch*
Some shows were awesome, some were mediocre. One of my favorite bands, still cranking out records today.

12.Red Hot Chili Peppers*
The first time I saw RHCP was a free show at UNH, shortly after "Mother's Milk" had been released. It was outdoors, and pretty fucking awesome. Between songs, Flea clutched to an amp stack and puked his guts out, then played the next song like a 4 string possessed. Amazing, since once I puke, I'm out. John did a beautiful rendition of the chorus to "Tiny Dancer" between songs, which got booed by a dude wearing a backwards baseball hat, thus fermenting such fashion statements to a position of hatred in my mind forever.

The second time I saw them was at Lollapasellout, and my appreciation for them has been steadily declining ever since.

Come to think of it, the following 3 acts were also seen at that "event/marketing extravaganza", so I'll keep my comments short and pointless.

13.Pearl Jam
Still like these guys. Sometimes.

14.Soundgarden
Superunknown is the only thing worth listening to by these guys. Some may say that none of it is, and I couldn't really argue.

15.Ministry
Fell asleep on the grass during their set. Back to the single shows:

16.Death Cab For Cutie
Thus begins the Me-Or-Someone-Had-Free-Tickets-So-I-Went (MOSHFTSIW) bands. Once upon a time I liked Death Cab, and then they kept putting out records, and I realized I hated the singer's voice.

17.The Black Keys*
Without fail an amazing show. Every time.

18.Magnolia Electric Co*
See #17

19.Smog
See #17 and multiply that by pi, slap a vagina on it and propose.

20.Gogol Bordello
It's a rare thing for me to dance. It's also a rare thing for me to go to a show for a band of which I know nothing. Check, and Czech.

21.Man Man
Holy hardest working band in show business! I took Nancie to this one, after she had just stepped off a 27-hour, epic-scope plane ride. She may have been a little too woozy to enjoy it, but she still claimed she had seen Jesus during this set. See for yourself:

22.Be Your Own Pet
MOSHFTSIW: Saw these guys after their first record release, when every one was air-humping and proclaiming "Thurston Moore Approved!!!" Yes, they are VERY young. Yes, she is VERY hot. Yes, I agree, it's not that great.

23.Fugazi*
'Nuff said.

24.Sunset Rubdown
Pretty awesome band, too bad they just released a record that I knew nothing about and only played songs from that. Still, good stuff. This tune is great:

25.Swell
Big in France.

26.!!!
MOSHFTSIW Couldn't care less about their records, but goddam! Those fellas can get the asses on the dance floor.

27.Fucking Champs
Saw them open for Trans Am, not a huge fan, but sometimes people like stuff.

28.Trans Am
See above. Saw these guys play at Garment District (huh?), and they were fairly amazing, and someone threw a stuffed animal onstage and got hooked on the bass head for at least 4 minutes. It's the little things...

29.Ho-Ag
Spazz rock, awesomeness:

30.Neptune*
See above, but played on handmade junk:

31.Lightning Bolt
Holy shit this night was amazing. The venue was a Massart iron-pour on Halloween, smoke and fire framed the courtyard, artschool costumes are the best, and LB blew that shit out. Chris brought a pint of whisky and drank it like water while I sipped PBR tall-boys:

32.Future Of The Left
The last show I saw. I was embarrassingly excited to be an old man going out to a rawk show. They didn't disappoint.

33.Rye Coalition
Opened up for Shellac. Hated them, but love them on record. Odd, I know.

34.Afghan Whigs
Awesome show. They played for 2.5 hours, then took a break and came out and played hours of Motown covers.

Who is that guy introducing the band??

35.Parts And Labor
I was very excited to see this show. Their song "A great divide" is one of the most psycho drum bits ever. Unluckily for me, they had just brought on a new drummer who was... timid. At best. Their follow-up record was pretty good as well.

36.The Mars Volta
Along with #37, these 2 were the bastard step children of one of the most amazing bands ever, At The Drive-In. I want to travel back in time and give myself an atomic wedgie every time I think I had had the opportunity to see ATDI but failed. Stupid! However, since these two split, it was clear to see where each song-writing group had contributed to the band. Once they split, they both kinda sucked in a unique way. When the first Mars Volta record came out, it got my swift nomination for Album of the Year. Then I saw them live. Ugh. See the previous entry on Shellac: Huge, frantic tornadoes of amazing rock interspersed with spaced-out, self-indulgent pap. Awful. I know a band is bad when my feet start to hurt from standing still. This band had me thinking positively about amputation.

37.Sparta
Part B to entry #36.

38.Thursday
Headlined for #37. I've never seen a crowd so violently erupt on note #1. Unfortunately, those fans have awful taste.

39.Constantines
Awesome. From Canada, took the stage with hockey sticks. Irony?!

40.Deerhoof
Played at MIT, and I had to have a sponsor to get me, an outsider, in. Haughty eggheads... Deerhoof was amazing! The drummer was indistinguishable at one point, he was thrashing so hard. And the singer was a pint-sized dynamo.

41.Dismemberment Plan
I brought my friend Jane, and she was put off by the singer, who, according to her, thought he was way sexier than he really was. But don't take my word for it:

42.Drive-By Truckers
Just got off the plane from Europe, was blown out by the southern rawk.

43.Mr. Bungle
Fairly great. Someone groped me in the crowd.

44.Kings Of Leon
MOSHFTSIW. Good set. Short.

45.Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Free show at City Hall Plaza. I wonder how successful they would be if Karen O weren't so hot...?

46.Morphine
Free show at the Hatch Shell. It kills me that Mark Sandman is dead and yet all four members of Motley Crue continue to draw breath on this earth.

47.Portishead
Ran into my former drug dealer just before the show. We hung out in back and traded round for round. Didn't pay much attention to the performance.

48.Six Going On Seven
Awesome. R.I.P.

49.TV On The Radio
Opened up for YYY at City Hall. Had never seen/heard them before. Blown away. A fan was born that night.

50.Tom Waits
Someone asked me once what that show was like. I said it was like getting a blowjob at disneyworld.

Roommate Retardation

2009-07-26T21:27:00.017-04:00

Recently I was listening to an All Things Considered bit about kids who were about to move away from home and start college, and about the roommates they were to soon encounter at their choice of higher-learning institutions. One kid was nervous about moving in with his gay roommate, and had his mom call the school to try to make different arrangements. Long story short: a lot of people wrote and called in to tell stories of their own experiences rooming with scary, culturally different people, and how ultimately, the experience of living with and getting to know these people who were so outside their realm of comfort ended up being a blessing, as they learned a lot and got to know someone who they continued being friends with long after college had ended.

As I was listening, I felt that the program had not addressed the situation in which I had found myself on my first day in college. What does one do when they are arbitrarily matched to room with a moron?

Those were different times, back then. One couldn't look up a new roommate on Facebook or Myspace. Maybe the two would exchange a letter, or a phone call. I opted for the latter, and I knew very soon: This guy and I are not going to get along.

A little background on the living situation: The art school I had chosen to attend had recently completed five floors of a state of the art dormitory, complete with suites with shared bathrooms, media rooms and a communal studio on each floor. 24-hour security stood sentry over the comings-and-goings of residents, and copious socializing space ensured that residents had ample opportunity to network and get to know one another.

This was not the dormitory in which I lived.

Baker Hall was to be my home for my first year of adulthood. Baker was owned by a nearby Technological Institute, and the Art College rented a floor for its overflow population, those who were too poor to afford the new digs, or were late to come to the party. I was a bit of both. Baker was five stories of dorm rooms that could favorably be called Spartan: Square rooms with ersatz cinder block walls, painted white to reflect the sickly fluorescent lights. Two bathrooms serviced the entire floor, one for boys, one for girls. Heavy steel doors with enormous deadbolts protected that 14 by 14 cell, consisting of one window, two beds, two wardrobes, and a low, rickety "work table" and a pair of stiff work chairs. Security was a rarity in this building, and it was a treat to have a security guard that would bother to spend the entire night sitting on a hard plastic chair behind a small metal desk. Homeless people would find their way in, break into the rooms on the abandoned fifth floor and squat until the smell of crack smoke or excessive b.o. would alert someone to their presence, in which case they would be ejected, only to start the whole process over again the next day.

I was the first to arrive to our dorm room. The date was September 6th, 1992. It was a warm and sunny day in Boston, a very exciting day for me, moving from the desolate woods of Maine to the Big City. I quickly set up my stereo and blasted Ministry's "Psalm 69", positive that musical taste was the surest way to broadcast one's personality and interests. For comparison, the room to my right was cranking hip-hop, while the room to my left was offering Kiss. I figured, as a former metal head, completely sold on the grunge revolution, I was sure to make friends quickly.

Then Derek showed up. He was dressed head to toe in Chess King. His hair was shellacked with gel and a "gold" chain hung around his neck. He smiled out the side of his mouth and offered his hand to shake. I took it, sizing him up. No good can come of this, I thought.

Fortunately I had a couple friends from high school who had moved in nearby just a few weeks earlier. I bid Derek a hasty farewell and went over to their apartment to reunite and indulge in some rooftop chemicals with them.

"How's the room?" Jared asked me.

"Is Cell-like a word?" I replied.

"Meet your roommate yet?" He asked.

"I dunno, man," as I hoisted the pipe to my lips.

Looking back on it now, I think there was a kind of Survivalist Mentality that settled in to everyone who lived on the floor. We all knew well that the other dorm was a sparkling hotel, littered with high thread-count sheets and mints on pillows compared to our shanty town. We were alone, left to cling to and support one another through our hardships. Needless to say, many very strong friendships grew out of this shared experience, some of which continue to this day, 17 years later. For a while, with no formal agreement or preparation, someone would wander from room to room, gathering people for dinner at the dining hall. We would all walk in en masse, like a biker gang. Everyone would turn to look warily at these wild and unruly savages, boisterously kicking open the doors and hooting like madmen.

Yet, despite this sinking-ship togetherness, there were some pariahs. As I mentioned in this post, a poor lad earned the unfortunate nickname Stinky Fat Elvis due to his reluctance to shower and his striking resemblance to the Rhinestone Jumpsuit-era Elvis. Many nicknames came out of that building: Wicked Smaht, The Yeti, Kurtlet, Pretentious-H Jhenn.

And then there was Derek. He earned the unfortunate name Corky due to his seemingly lower-than-average intelligence. That poor bastard. It was no secret he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. It probably didn't help that I was his roommate. I certainly did nothing to help his cause.

Some stories to illustrate the point:

Derek had a tattoo of Jessica Rabbit on his ankle. This was well before tattoos were commonplace and widely accepted. But even then, I know that this was the work of a douchebag. The thing was, Jessica was depicted only from the waist up, and Derek would spend a LOT of time making sure that his sock covered up the fact that she had no pelvis or legs. I was never able to ascertain what the reason for this was. Was it designed this way? Did the tattoo artist not know how to do bottoms? Was Derek too much of a puss to endure the bottom half of the tattoo? Or too cheap to pay for the whole thing?

Freshman year means that there are a lot of required courses for the young scholars to take. Unfortunately, Derek and I were placed into a writing course together. At one point, we were having an in-class exam. Derek happened to be sitting ahead of and to the right of me. 10 minutes into the exam, he turned around, and with no attempt at subtlety went:

"Hey roomie" I tried to ignore him. He tried again. Then again.

"What?!" I nearly hissed at him.

"Is #1 like the thing that we talked about last night, when..."

"Derek. Shut the fuck up and turn around," I glared at him. He took on a slightly confused look and slowly turned back to his paper. I looked to the front of the class, where the professor was glaring at us.

A big part of dorm life is just hanging out. It's kind of like summer camp. Spontaneous events would spring up in a room, in the hallway. Sing-alongs, movie screenings, spirited debates. Often these were participated in while wearing casual, at-home garb. After all, this was our home. I remember many a conversation where the theme seemed to not only be Gardner's Art Through The Ages, but sweatpants. But not for Derek. Oh no. Please try to understand, gentle reader. I could not make this stuff up if I tried. Derek would routinely walk around the halls dressed in black socks (positioned to display Jessica, natch), a Dallas Cowboys half-shirt tee, and blue bikini briefs. Again. Not Kidding. He would then go on to complain about "How cold it is," while my fellow dorm-dwellers would look on, mouths agape, and incredulous.

Eventually Derek moved out. He lasted maybe a semester. I don't know the reason for his departure, and I don't know if he continued his studies at the school. I did help him move out, however. Loaded his crap into his father's station wagon, stood on the curb waving goodbye as they pulled away, went upstairs and jumped on his bed, joyously yelling "Mine! Mine! Mine!".

100 Words

2009-07-22T22:30:00.026-04:00

For the first six months of 2002 I participated in a project called 1oowords.net. Since then, it's become a dotcom. The idea is simple: Every day for a month, write and submit exactly 100 words. This collection, known as a "batch", would be published along with all the other members' batches every month.

It started off innocently enough, an exercise (as this blog is), an excuse to write, with a certain type of pressure in the monthly deadline, and another type of pressure in keeping it within the confines of One Hundred Words. Eventually though, it became oppressive, and it shows in the overall body of my "work". Full Disclosure: I was in the midst of a profound bout of depression at this time, coupled with the pressure of completing my final semester in college, in which I scrapped all of my work with seven weeks left to begin a new body of work from scratch. It came out in the writing, and in my everyday, person-to-person interactions. As I became more and more bored, I would lash out in that "I'm on the internet and anonymous!" type of way. Pathetic.

It got to the point where I was randomly picking through other members' posts, copying and pasting bits and pieces into my own posts, writing "poems" with the scraps and shards.

At another point, I was perusing spam email, posting its content into Babelfish, translating the English into German, copying that German translation, then translating that back into English. BTW: German is teh Funniez.

I herein present a few choice selections from those sad pathetic six months, consisting of some of the Cut/Paste Poems and the English-German-English freakouts. Enjoy?

04/11
A captain of Fury
By age twenty.
To my surprise I’ve survived this long. Disgustingly precise.

I am trying to slow down,
For some reason I’m not afraid.
But I have enough trouble -
I can’t seem to do anything but choke.
I’m more nervous than I look, brutalized with punching.

They just don’t exist. I’m alone, but I don’t care
Because I'm doing ol' number nine right now.
I’ve been struggling to know more.
I made a decision,
Brought it to my bed.
Hand has ceased shivering
Like a child-murderer's lullaby.
Where the hell’s my hammer?
I need this.

04/12
We all suffer, but I declined once again.
I love it here, heart and head riding a winning streak

"Don’t Quit The One Thing You Can Do Right"

Fine beyond her fear: Six hours of other people’s plates.
I was a ghost along the rails,
Deemed "missing" in today’s Post,
Spilled out all over the leg of the man with the big fists.
I’m slightly amused, covered in dirt and weeds.

Dirty, I stood, trembling with anger.

"Nothing. I'm doing nothing."

Just sit around
People are sharing their stories with me
Frankly we can’t win in a world of snares.

04/15
Because its like okay think brain think.
I just couldn’t face all the grossed out faces smelling my creation.
Like its fucking pink.
Like they’re supposed to look out for you.
My dad wants me to side with the union, he’s been loyal to his for like 20 some Years.
Like incredibly lots!
I forgot to renew my plates and registration so technically my car wasn’t insured so Its like endangerment of something or other bullshit.
Before I was like hoping that the time would go by slowly.
Then its like family allowance day or something.
I totally congratulate you!

04/16
This is how I lost my innocence, so long ago that I'd forgotten:

My fever broke, dogs stood rapt;
Genius is a secret that I keep. I don't feel I need to fill her in.
She said she was having a hard time with it.

Today is tomorrow, and I've got this black angel that rides with me.

We have trouble talking.
We're going to counseling to try and work it out.
Right now, she is the Anti-Christ. She'll be with me.
At certain moments we will catch each others' eyes,
See we are not what we pretend to be.

04/19
I learned, like one fish between my back parts squeeze together.
When I was not any more than one boy with a load in mine diaper,
I dreamed over this job.

Bemuttern you means to me, in order to be more practical,
But I would like to become only bottuck fish a Squeezer.
I studied very strongly at the university
And each temptation of the Schnaepse and the inexpensive sex Avoided.
And now I stand the proudest moment ago in my life.
I remember for the remainder of my life
First on feel the professional back part fish squeezing.

04/20
I guess, you hide that matter in yours underpants.
In order to see the fact that I means to adhere to finger
Into my hot slot wet-made.
Two women in hot tub, which receives to it, you bet your donkey!
Do you click here, in order to find out?

They left photos to 'confidence friend '.
Apparent they wanted to show the world:
What material lezzers to the rear closed doors to rise!
Enjoy!
Friday has the largest boobs, which you at all and a delightful body saw,
In order to go with it, and it really loves cords...

04/21
They are need more Fraurapists.
Kueken with Brueckeons those even taking it of a man to gunpoint;
Were probably still away received and to fall in love itself...

"AWW. As sweet. They put my piston in for free..."

Yep is which I, Mr. Fuckbutt,
Because I feel strong over to the hand the topic.
It gives, somewhat wrongly with that straight.
Me meant this already? They are an idiot.
Well, possibly Patsy are sometimes also..
Except... which I not the Ivana Trump hairdo to go has on...
I'm which with the blond angel...
...ha hectar hectar...
(people that clings to)
hectar hectar hectar charlies, MOODS!

04/25
A jewel from Mom’s cakehole quite came out today.
"The Urologist saw my blister by a camera.”
Los Angeles gives me boogers.
It lets me watch out to football and fights begins to wish.
"It's very wet. That’s a good thing."
All my last juices out into a promised five month window,
Squeezing together from now on and continue carrying on
In any new place in which I mean ideas drop
Dwelling around me do not leave.
...receive drunk now and a Bumsen not, giving.
I am that, who receives, to wash all those pots?
I formed mean understanding!

05/15
It’s awcrunch: the cruel heart of listening, it
Lets you know, with no hint of letting-in.
Suddenly:
The bleak fear of letting down turns away in short order, passing out.

By the way, Saturday’s my rotary,

WHITE GIRL: Yo Mutha Fucka, I Holla back!
ME: What?
WHITE GIRL: You heard me motha fucka
ME: Why are you talking like a white girl?
WHITE GIRL: I’m ‘onna fuck you up!
ME: Now we’re getting somewhere. Some wine?
WHITE GIRL: Yo I gotta go hook up wit my peeps
ME: What’s your hurry baby?
WHITE GIRL: Got any cookies?
ME: Right here.

05/31
I read the first valid horoscope I have ever seen today. “Libra: ...anger management starts in the home and ends at your fist.” Amen sister. I’m gonna go put that fucker to work RIGHT NOW. To quote that beautiful song, “...roll up my sleeves, take my crowbar in hand...” I will now punch kitties and flip the bird to children. I’ve got a can full of gasoline and I can’t find my matches. I am a delicate blend of rage and hurt. When I want to hear my opinion I will beat it out of myself. Or beat off. Whatever...

06/15
I have reached that point:
I'd said goodbye.
It was something I just had to do.

tired
tired
tired.

Transfixed by the shadows, the world was about to be washed away In a new flood.

Ruddy face flushed with pleasure,
She closed her eyes, “It’s the big one!”
We called them “breeders”.
The department store believed the staff lockers correctly surmised That soon would have to save himself:
See his pink snout fat, pink belly.

‘I’m worst at what I do best. I don’t sleep much.’

Trained to deny her instincts,
Her eyes would meet mine,
Then glance away anymore.

06/16
It’s hard enough not to wake up.
I’m considering euthanizing the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.

There
Are
Certain
Rules:
An
Unspoken
Code

A fleeting buzz is like a contagion.

A man of god can be so persuasive.
I later realized he may have just had a runny nose.

Crazy piece of work, to fix what has been broken.
You do well with sharp objects.

What a shame:
Everything is an excuse to 12-step.
Impossibly clumsy.
Maybe I’m just hopelessly wanting to hang it up and walk away.

I have stopped worrying about me – for now, at least.

06/21
_soaphead_> i'll quote:
jimboelrod_1> please....
_soaphead_> hang on
_soaphead_> ready?
jimboelrod_1> aim
jimboelrod_1> fire
JGBLONDIE> lol
jimboelrod_1> same hand?
JGBLONDIE> dont u just hate that
jimboelrod_1> yes...
JGBLONDIE> me 2

_soaphead_> ..." 'Bitch, you are nothing but a funky zero.
Before me you had one chili chump with no rep.
Nobody except his mother ever heard of the bastard.
Yes, Bitch,
I'll be back this morning to put your phony ass on the train.'..."
JGBLONDIE> omg
jimboelrod_1> sorry
_soaphead_> but wait there's more...
_soaphead_> "...'Bitch, I don't want a whore with rabbit in her. I want a bitch who loves me for life..."

06/24
Often one to want
I’m typically unfortunate.
After some free bowling, and an unbalanced budget,
I was too aware of all that I wasn’t.
What?
At various passing moments.

I’m going to crawl into my childhood:

A collage of pebbles glued to Styrofoam, my name written backwards
Panic if someone has dropped out of sight.
I have a history.
It wasn’t good.

I’m back home now.
I feel surrounded.
I have things on my mind that I can’t sort out.
Life has surprised me.
To end a chapter:
some things rapidly sour.
I need to cut things open more promptly.

The Douchebag Conundrum

2009-07-13T20:31:00.008-04:00

I was having dinner recently with my dear friend Valerie. We had met in college at Student Government Association meetings, and had once worked together after college. I was telling her a story about Bad News Gary. It went a little something like this:

I was at work and needed to go outside to fetch something from my truck. Bad News Gary was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

As I walked by he said, "Man, you've got a lot of gray hair."

I looked at him, "Yeah, maybe. I doesn't bother me any."

"You should dye your hair, like me," he says, with that creepy smirk of his.

"Yeah?" I said, "Lemme see." He pulls off his ratty baseball hat to show what can best be described as a six-week-old Just For Men wash-out of a dye job. I sort of snort and cough a little, trying not to crack up. "Dude. Your hair is purple. You look like a douchebag."

"Whoa whoa WHOA." Valerie waves her napkin in the air for extra emphasis. "That is COMPLETELY inappropriate!"

"What?"

"Douchebag? DOUCHEBAG?!?"

This was shocking to me. I felt "douchebag", "douche", and "douchiness" were perfectly acceptable terms when used in a casual conversation. Granted, I wouldn't call someone a douchebag in front of my Gramma, but we were old friends, and this word was tame compared to some of the conversations Val and I had had in the past. She was a stalwart opponent to its use. She seemed almost scandalized.

"Do you even know what a douchebag IS?" she asked. Jokingly, I said I did not, but that it had something to do with walking with your mom on the beach. We asked our server if she could give us any insight on the matter.

"Well, personally, I NEVER swear," she said. This was, again, shocking to me. Swearing? I put calling someone a douchebag on par with calling them a putz. Surely, not the nicest thing you can call someone, but it's not like saying something nasty about a fella's mother. Plus, it seems as if it has become something else, a way to describe a certain type of moron, usually a "dude", overly confident, and oblivious to how ridiculous he is. There is ample proof on the interwebs to prove this. Like this. And this. And this.

I would love for someone to prove me wrong on this, if you are out there.

[Thanks to my lovely friend Morgan for some help on this post. Check out her blog, she makes some pretty, pretty things. And buy flowers from her, dammit.]

Songs that, despite my hating them, get stuck in my head on a regular basis

2009-07-12T22:40:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I think I've been cursed. I'll get an idea, or an image stuck in my head and I can't get it out. The stuck songs are the worst. Very rarely will I get a song stuck in my head that I actually like. Usually, it's a song I hate, or worse, a jingle, as in the time late last year when I had this insidious tune from a commercial by that awful scam FreeCreditReport.com lodged in my brain, playing on endless loop for at least three weeks. I felt my grip on reality loosening. I wanted to jab a sharpened stick into my ear and extricate these poppy demons. I guess that's what sucessful marketing is all about. You be the judge:

So following is a list of just a few songs that I seem to get wedged into the gears of my mind on a regular basis, and whatever inane mutterings I care to add about said song.

1. Blinded by the Light.

I actually don't really hate this song. I just find it repeating Ad Nauseum recently. I suppose it's my own fault, as, when I heard it recently, I began "writing" a parody version of it. It's called "Goddamn those pants are tight", and I really didn't get much further than that. It goes a little something like this, or something:

Goddamn those pants are tight!
Dressed up like a douche
you know that you're a hipster, right?

Goddamn those pants are tight!
Dressed up like a douche
big sunglasses at night?

Goddamn those pants are tight!
Dressed up like a douche
have you got your bangs done right?

2. The Joker.

Again, this is another example of me trying to entertain myself by inventing parody lyrics to this awful, awful song. Where Steve Miller writes:

I really love your peaches
Want to shake your tree
Lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey all the time
Ooo-eee baby, Ill sure show you a good time

I go:

Really like canned peaches
Diet Coke is caffeine free
Huggy huggy in a Snuggie it costs $12.95
Ooowee baby, buy a Corona, get a lime...

Also, I genuinely hate this song.

3. Dude Looks Like a Lady

This one is the worst. THE WORST! I hate this song for its insidious ability to lodge itself so tenaciously in my brain for HOURS, usually right before I decide to take a nap. Man! Once upon a time, Aerosmith was actually a pretty good band. Toys In The Attic was a great record, IMO. But this is the absolute nadir of midlife mediocrity. Self-indulgent crap. I fucking hate this song, as well as this era of music in general. It just serves as further proof that, as a band, once you stop doing drugs, you start sucking.

Stay tuned, misanthropic hipsters, more to follow.

I Heart Lunatics

2009-07-01T20:58:00.010-04:00

I found this piece of lined notebook paper folded up on my front stoop as I was about to embark on my evening constitutional to fetch booze and porn. (What?) Is it an ominous warning? Should I be worried? What is the message this crazy mess is trying to get across? I now present, verbatim, this missive I discovered not one hour ago:

[side 1]

tears for Mchl Jcksn?

THIS IS IT

N 6 13

Un dabieux ne viendra loin du regne,

La plus grande part la voudra soutenir:

Un Capitole ne voudra point qu'il regne,

Sa grande charge ne pourra maintenir.

OBAMA

Which, roughly translated, means:

W will not come far from the reign,
The greatest part will want to support it:
Capitole will not want qu' it reigns,
Its great load will not be able to maintain.

I love it when raving loonies take the time and effort to rhyme!
It continues, in English:

This is my gift to
you upside down flag
people.

Translate

eat shit + die. losers.

I told you so 2 years ago

wake the fuck up!
tatoo schmuks like like like like I was like your generation is like suckworld. like idiocyness OMG how else like can I describe you like Liberals? retarded. true

Wow! My generation IS like suckworld, now that I think about it. And our idiocyness IS profound. This person knows me well. It goes on:

[page 2]

enjoy your donkey party brief
stayin power. you fucking suck

BUSH AS BABY KILLER?

YOUR BOY B.O. IS KING ABORTION

Dronemaster AFGHAN
wasting villages nightly those
are babies being blasted you fucking
piece of low life shit you have
no reason to live. you don't think.
you are a fucking parrot. try try try
to like rise above your like
roomtemp. IQ ----- think for
yourself. can you do it?! talk to
your friends -- think [triple underlined!] don't parrot

maybe you can possibly see that
liberal deal is a sham. RICH DOCKSUCKERS are
out for themselves -- you are fodder fool for them.
R? not nec. but think USA is not evil but D yes now.

I won't begin to try to debate this well thought out document. It's too pretty. It's precious. I hope this little conspiracy theorist drops off more messages for me! I feel I have much to learn.

The one thing that I can't shake though, is, what the hell is a docksucker?

[EDIT: I posted this note to the "missed connections" section of Craigslist. I'll keep you posted of any weirdos crawling out of the woodwork. You can see the ad here.]

The Last Missive From CrySpace

2009-05-26T22:20:00.000-04:00

[editor's/writer's note: The precursor of this little web-log once lived at an obscure little site called Myspace.com. I blogged there for a while, until I realized it's tools and reliability left a bit to be desired (ie: none). So I moved it here and posted links to what has become known as:

ThatDudeWithTheStuffThatHappens

I didn't mean to provoke anyone, simply to provide a venue for my handful of readers whom I love dearly and owe roughly $43 apiece. Time passed, and I noticed that the benevolent douchebags at CrySpace didn't take kindly to my dissing their site while promoting my own. What follows is my last transmission from that awful place. I closed the account soon after. I can now be found on Facebook and Twitter, and although those are not actively hijacking or censoring me, are already walking a thin line.]

I'm closing my CrySpace account. If you haven't noticed, this place is a dead scene.

It was lame/irritating enough as it was, but now the jack-booted minions of Rupert's are blocking links I post in my "blog". Paranoid much, FoxCorp?

I've opened a new blog at: that dude with the stuff that happens dot blogspot dot com, if you care to look. When I post links to it here, a snarky, oh-so-funny Hijack page comes up with this missive. Prepare yourself for hilarity:

"The link you are trying to visit has been disabled.

You have reached a link that is no longer in service. That means the link was very naughty, and, much like head lice, had to be eliminated before it spread.

You may be asking yourself, 'Hey, what was it about that link that got it in trouble?' An excellent question! Usually, it's one of the following reasons:

- The link was spam! No one likes spammers, and we don't like their links.

- You almost got phished! There are people out there who want to steal your MySpace password. They want to log in as you and send spam, harass your friends, change your profile, and generally run amok. Phishing pages are usually designed to look like MySpace to trick you. Other sites may also ask for your MySpace login information to customize your profile, insert videos or slide shows, track visitors, or any number of other things.Don't make it easy for them. ONLY USE YOUR MYSPACE LOGIN INFO ON WWW.MYSPACE.COM!!

- Viruses are not fun! Neither is adware, spyware, or malware. We cut the links to places that are known sources of infection.

If you really did want to check out some spam, viruses, or phishing pages, we're really sorry to have interrupted. We're sure you can find it elsewhere. There's plenty on the Internet "

Oh you witty bastards! You saw right through my fool-proof plan! Thwarted! Damn it all to hell! Closing my ability to express myself in a free manner outside the confines of your corporate paradise was bad enough, but comparing me to a head louse? Ouch, Myspace. That really hurts.

So... I'm gonna leave this Orwellian nightmare up for another week or so, in case some of my actual friends might not have another way of getting hold of me. Send me an email, and I'll give you your own set of keys to reach me away from this crap-wad. I'll shoot an email to those I think might wanna find me after I cash out from this fascist advertisement masquerading as a hip place for the kiddies to play.

I hate to say it, but I encourage everyone to throw themselves under the Facebook juggernaut. Just for spite.

Filthy Rich. And a Douchebag.

How To Get Telemarketers To Stop Calling.

2009-05-19T21:53:00.001-04:00

Back in the days before home phones became known as "land lines" there were certain types of "irritants" who made their living as "telemarketers". Man, those were great days! 5-disc CD changers were the height of cutting edge. VHS still reigned supreme, giddy with the heady rush of its momentous besting of Beta. The INTERNET was yet an Al Gore wank fantasy.

Fuck blogs! In those days we had Journals! (or Diaries, if you were 12 and a girl) And who read those journals? NO ONE! Those were secret thoughts! We hoarded and kept hidden our inner-most inklings. Our deepest desires, too illicit and dangerous to elaborate were kept wedged firmly between mattress and box spring. Or futon and frame... No one is here to judge.

Our mundane comings and goings were just that: mundane. When I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room, that's ALL I DID. I couldn't tweet that shit because I was not a fucking bird. Facebook was just a face in a book.

So our "land lines" were the only thing keeping us tethered to the outside world. Got an emergency? Call 911! Psycho killer after you? He already cut the phone line! Run away!

Along with the convenience of a designated hard line to tie you in to the rest of society as a whole came the inconvenience of someone calling you at inopportune moments, usually begging for money. So Caller ID was invented. A part of me wonders how much cold calling could have been avoided if the subscription cost of Caller ID could have been passed off to phone beggars, just to keep them from getting hold of me. Just a thought.

Regardless. I found myself the owner of a phone bill. I'd get calls, usually in the evening, after business hours. You could usually tell the nature of the call from the lag between when you said "hello" to the callers response:

"..... [clack, pause, shuffle] Hello, may I speak to Mr. Sullivan?"

You got 'em pal. I'd listen politely, decline politely, and get on with my day as quickly as possible. This did not discourage their ilk.

Eventually, I couldn't take it.

I don't want a subscription. I can't donate. How did the local Socialist party HQ get my number? True story.

One evening, I fielded a call:

"Hello?"

"May I speak with... Mr... Sutherland?"

"Who is calling?"

I listened once again to the pitch. Drastic measures had to be taken:

Me: "[sighs heavily] Oooh. Yeah, see... here's the thing. Brandon died this past weekend in a car crash. I'm here taking care of his effects. I'm sure wherever he is now he doesn't need your service(s). No offense, you might want to take him off your list."

Sometimes I could actually hear the caller cringing on the other side of the line. Eventually I learned to relish that tiny sound.

What I Learned:

Tell enough people you're dead for a long enough time, and soon enough they start to believe it. I'm getting ready to deploy this technique on my stalker.

I didn't mention I have a stalker? Well, it's true. I'm being stalked. It's the strangest thing though, because all she wants to talk about is my student loans. Weird, huh?

Ode to Tank Top

2009-05-04T22:16:00.000-04:00

From January a few years ago:

Ode to a Tank Top

Bless you, half yard of cotton
You should be cocooned in wintry slumber
Yet this unseasonable warmth
Has brought you forth
Dazed and blinking.

What prestidigitator revealed so much
While hiding so much more?
Copperfield has got nothing on you.

What tempest has stirred so violently
So much chaos in my pants?

Bless you, early springtime.
Bless you, spaghetti strap.
Bless you, pale and tender flesh.

A whisper of better things,
So many months ahead.

I have but to sit and wait
For your timely flowering
And savor this vision
Which will carry me through.

(originally published 10/19/2006)

Evaluating My Creepiness

2009-05-02T11:36:00.001-04:00

First off: I need a roommate. Not right away, but May 1st shall see a new chapter in my living situation. If you know anyone who would like to live in a fairly large, no-frills apartment in JP, steer them my way. Oh, and it's the cheapest place in Boston, hands down.

My current roommate Adrienne is great. We get along quite well. She's an arts educator, and when we are able to hang out in the apartment together we have no shortage of conversation. But she's met someone, they've fallen in love, and are moving in together. I'm happy for them, but wish I didn't have to go through the stress and annoyance of finding a new person to share my place.

When I was interviewing Adrienne for the room, an interesting bit of conversation occurred. I informed her that I've never had a lease on the apartment, and that she wouldn't need to sign one, a bit of information which she was very enthusiastic about. Her enthusiasm raised red-flags for me and I asked her about it.

"Well," she explained, "It's good in case this doesn't work out, if we don't get along... if you're creepy..."

I assured her I was not, in fact, creepy. I try to be a decent guy, abide by the rules, all that. But it got me thinking.

What if I am creepy?

They say that people who have body-odor issues don't realize it, because they are around it all the time and can't distinguish their stink from fresh air. When I was a freshman in college a fellow dorm-dweller earned the unfortunate nickname Stinky Elvis, due to his BO and prodigious sideburns. I tried once to be friends with him, but he stank up my dorm room. He didn't realize he smelled bad.

I've known creepy people, too. Bad News Gary was one of the creepiest dudes I've ever met. He was the genesis for me leaving a job, he was that creepy. But I'm sure he had no clue about the fact that he made people's skin crawl. Even now, years later, I'm skeeved out by him. To Bad News Gary, though, each day was like any other. He left in his wake a sea of people with the sudden, strong urge to take a shower, and he had no clue.

So it stands to reason that I could be creepy. I could be a weirdo, and not even know it. That is scary as hell.

I've never had the urge to kill anyone and dress myself in their skin. My sexual piques and proclivities tend to be somewhat vanilla and definitely self-contained. I've never stalked anyone. (Does Twitter count?) So I think it's safe to say that no, I do not stink, and no, I am not creepy.

I am, however, paranoid about both.

Crappy Job III: With Soundtrack!

2009-04-15T23:03:00.013-04:00

My first real job when I moved to Boston was at a one-hour photomat called Moto Photo. The thing that makes the job crappy was that I was paid probably about $6.25 per hour, but other than that, it was kind of an awesome gig. Plus, take it away, Def Leppard!

One of my main jobs was quality control/packaging. The process was fairly automated. Rolls of film were fed into a machine that spit out developed negatives. These were then put into a machine that exposed the negatives onto a giant roll of photographic paper. It was carried, through rolls and conveyors through development chemicals, and spat out at the other side of the machine into neatly cut 4x6 photographs. My job was to collect the piles of photos, look through the entire stack to make sure the colors and alignment were correct, then package the prints in envelopes with the negatives and file them into bins alphabetically for the clients.

On one hand, this experience warped my perceptions for all eternity: I cannot look through a stack of photographs the way a normal person can. I look at them in a rapid-fire manner, scrutinizing for color balance, exposure, etc. I take in what I'm seeing, although it doesn't look like it to the proud owner of the prints. More than once I've heard, "You're not even looking at them!"

But I am. I am.

Working in a place like this, you experience the joy and wonder and good times vicariously. I've been three steps removed from weddings, births, vacations, parties, reunions, sporting events, concerts, celebrity sightings, you name it. This was also the days before digital cameras. We had a number of repeat clients, people I saw several times a week. Insurance companies, galleries, Realtors all needed photographic documentation often. So I got to know some of our regulars. Every once in a while, one of them would have a couple frames left on a roll, and would snap off shots just to fill it out before dropping off. I've seen a number of wife-boobs due to these thrifty urges.

On the subject of naked people: I've seen A LOT of them. I did not ask for or seek out the exposure of nakedness. I simply punched a clock, and voila! Naked people. It's not so bad. I went to art school, after all. I've seen naked people. I've even drawn them.

On one day in particular, I was leafing through photos at my usual breakneck speed. I picked up a stack that looked a lot like a number I had seen before: The College Keg Party, known primarily for the proliferation of red keg cups, baseball caps, and chummy, arms-around-shoulders, cups-hoisted head shots. One girl in particular was featured in a majority of the shots. It became clear, in retrospect, that this girl owned the film at hand, and posed in most of the frames. These were run-of-the-mill pics, boring, really. Until the last few shots. These featured our young lady, pants down, leaning back on a bed with what can only be described as a Huge Apparatus inserted into her lady-bits, with a look on her face like the one that most people reserve for riding on an awesome roller coaster. If this photo could speak, it would say, "WOOOO HOOOO HOOOO!"

Somewhat amused, I nudged my friend Dan, "Hey, heh. Check it out."

Time passes. I'm packaging, Dan is working the counter. I hear a girl's voice, here to pick up #3497. Dan digs in the bin near me, retrieves an envelope, places it on the counter and takes the money. She asks, "Do you guys look at these pictures?" I say, without looking up, "Yeah, sometimes we pass 'em around," to look up and see that girl, aghast. She turns crimson, does an about-face, and bolts from the store.

Whoops! Sorry... She should have gone with a Polaroid.

Stay tuned for Part IIIa: "Way More Excessive Porno Than Even I Can Tolerate In The Work Place."

This Weeks Guest Blogger

2009-03-21T13:27:00.002-04:00

[editors note: Nancie K is the Blog's first guest blogger. She is fairly awesome and maintains her own Blog on her adventures in her community garden. I highly recommend it if you like to garden, eat vegetables, or are the least bit interested in garden drama. -brandon]

I Got Peed On At Camp:

Some of my most vivid summer memories are from camp. It's sort of a thing in the Jewish community to send your kids off to summer camp where they can hang out with other kids, play, learn songs and learn some of the hows and whys of being Jewish. There's also the idea that it teaches independence, but probably more important than all of these is the chance for parents to get rid of their kids for 2, 4, 6 or 8 weeks and enjoy some child-free peace and quiet!

A lot of the fun of camp is the unfettered freedom. You're mostly being supervised by teenagers!

Here is a sampling of things I learned at camp:
1) How to swim and especially how to dive
2) How to play card games like "spit" as well as American, Chinese and Israeli jacks
3) How to play Newcomb and Volleyball
5) What a hickey was and how to give one
6) How to "moon"
7) What all the "bases" are and how to french kiss
8) That the girls in G-3 "did pot" although I think I learned what "pot" was much later on.
9) How to put someone in a "trance," how to hold a seance and how to use a ouija board.
10) bats like the rafters of rec rooms and sometimes like the very curly hair of counselors - ew!

In my youth, I went to a lot of different camps: day camps, sleep-away and even a teenaway camp when I was in junior high where we went someplace cool in the city every day.

Unfortunately some of my camp experiences were better than others and the very first camp I went to was a girl scout camp when I was seven. This is where I got peed on. It's really not that much of a story, but here's what happened:

A girl in my bunk wet her bed and her sleeping bag needed to be washed. While her sleeping bag was at the laundry she couldn't use it and for some reason they couldn't get her stuff washed before we all had to go to sleep that night. My counselor had the brilliant idea that we should just stick her in my sleeping bag with me and she'd get her bedding back the next day and all would be ok. Well, this kid was a bedwetter and so, she wet the bed, but this time it was MY bed. I don't really remember much of what happened next, but I have some vague recollection of them maybe sticking me in her sleeping bag the next night while mine was being laundered. It seems far fetched so maybe it didn't happen that way, but I think these girl scouts were that stupid and it really may have.

I stopped going to that camp. It was lame and there were no boys either!

Links:
Jewishsummercamp.com
Newcomb Ball

My Brush With Fame

2009-03-20T13:49:00.002-04:00

Bored at work, I started cataloging all of my brushes with famous people. I asked around, and nobody had any interesting experiences, except for the boss. He went to a concert with Boz Scaggs' younger brother. How cool is that? Not really, I know.

My earliest memory of a brush with fame was shaking hands with Sugar Ray Leonard at a boxing match at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. I still think it's kinda neat, even though at the time, I really didn't understand who he was.

Along the boxing vein, a later brush with "fame" was when "Hurricane" Peter McNeely asked me for directions on Newbury Street once. He had recently got his ass whooped by Mike Tyson, and I was more than a little amused to have a run-in with him.

Also, at the same job, Curtis Armstrong came in to the store and bought a vest. Don't know who Curtis is? He's more commonly known for the tagline "We've got bush!" in Revenge of the Nerds. That's right. Booger. Or Charles DeMar from Better Off Dead: "This entire mountain is made of snow!"

A couple doors down from that job was another job at a cafe where I had the following brushes with fame:
Greg Hawkes was a regular, and a pretty nice guy. Don't know who he was? Me neither, at the time. He was the keyboard player for The Cars.

I served coffee to Joe Perry at one point. He seemed a little freaked out to be among the commoners. It was too quick an exchange to get any sense of Joe's coolness. Also, once at the airport I saw the bass player for Aerosmith.

Recently I came within feet of the tiniest Dixie Chick. They had pretty tight security. I found out that one of the Dixie Chicks owns a monkey that she takes on tour with her. It's true.

Also, through the same friend, I got into the green room of E-40 and his posse. Don't know who 40 is? Stay there. He's a hardly marginally talented rapper. And he's a DICK. And so are his hangers-on.

The brush that I'm kind of ashamed with took place in Denver, when I ran into Charles Lewton-Brain.

He's a jeweler and sculptor who writes little books on techniques, tricks, and shortcuts. A big writer/teacher, he writes great articles about steamlining one's workspace, and lo-fi techniques. I've been an avid reader of his books and articles, and really respected his knowledge. I ran into him at a conference and was rendered nearly speechless. It was pathetic.

My coolest brushes took place over a weekend recently. I found myself having breakfast in the same room as Mean Gene Okerlund. Fucking badass.

I'm way over it now, but I was a fan of WWF as a wee kid, and Mean Gene was the voice of it. Also, on that same day, I got within two feet of Hulk Hogan. The Hulkster. If seeing Gene was a big deal, Hogan was like walking by Elvis. I also saw a bunch of superstars of the modern fake-pro-wrestling, but don't give a crap about it, so I didn't recognize any of them, aside to say that it was filled with Huge Dudes, and Smokin hot chicks.

Also, living in Boston affords some odd perks: I sat on the orange line opposite former presidential candidate Mike Dukakkis once.

(*no caption necessary)

Walking with Pollard in Kenmore Square, he claimed that we had just walked past Frank Black, but I wasn't paying attention, so I can't confirm that one.

Anyone else?

(originally published 11/10/2006)

Crimes Against Nature

2009-02-20T23:30:00.000-05:00

Assault and Butterfly

Grand Theft Otter

Man Sl-Otter

Crimes Against a Manatee

Hake Crime

Domestic Bass-ault

Henocide

Hamdalism

Joeyriding

Pros Tit Tution

Codomy (depending on state)

(originally published 9/30/2007)

Crappiest Job: The Prequel: Silly String and Gummy Worms

2009-02-11T22:16:00.024-05:00

I nearly forgot about this job, even though it wasn't really a job because I was underage, worked for less than a day, and I didn't get paid. But it really shaped the rest of my working life, I think, when I look back on it.

A friend of John's family was opening a convenience store at the beach, building it from the ground up. John somehow got the go-ahead to come and work some mindless menial task, and was able to finagle a job for me as well. Just getting there was a task in itself. When I approached my folks about the possibility of working after school, they naturally shot that idea out of the sky. I was 13. What the hell did I need with a job? It was out of the question. But I wanted to work, and wanted a little extra cash to burn, so I crafted some elaborate, cockamamie scheme whereby I would ride my bike to school, which would explain why it took me so long to get home in the evening. I left early and biked a mile or so down the road to my friend Josh's house, stashed the bike in the woods and caught the normal bus into school. After class I caught the bus to the beach, where John and I were to begin our working lives. It was a flawless plan.

The gig was easy enough: we were stocking a store, which consisted mainly of opening boxes, removing the contents, setting said contents onto shelves or into coolers, breaking down the boxes, and throwing them into the dumpster. Easy. Piece of cake. I could taste that $4/hour already. I loaded a few shelves, ran a bunch of boxes to the dumpster, and all was going well. Until I went back and found John behind the dumpster.

"Check this out, man!" he said with pride, as he reached under the dumpster and fished out a giant tub of Gummy Worms for my approval. Looking behind him, I could see that Silly String was sprayed EVERYWHERE.

Now, Some interesting things to consider:

1) Things which are important to 13 year-old boys: Silly String and a giant tub of Gummy-Worms.

2) Gummy-Worms are important enough to a 13 year-old to:
a)steal, and
b)hide under trash, supposedly with the intention of retrieving and eating later.

Please understand, gentle reader, I had no intention of storing food under trash and then eating it. I only wanted to throw broken boxes into that trash and collect some cash. But John hijacked that meager dream.

And of course, as luck would have it, as I turned to walk away, leaving John with his Trash-Gummies and his no-longer-silly string, the boss came out through the back door.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Uhh, uhh... " John stutters and attempts to hide the tub, forgetting that part of his guilt is sprayed all over the alley behind him. The boss isn't impressed. He reaches under the dumpster and pulls out the Tub-O-Gummy, and grabs John by the collar of his t-shirt. Meanwhile, I'm going back into the store to keep working.

"Don't go anywhere, kid," I'm told. He's dragging John back inside, and now I'm guilty by association. We're taken back into the store, into the office. John is pushed rather brusquely into a chair. I stand in the corner.

The boss calls John's dad, tells him we're ready to be picked up right now.

The boss doesn't say much for the next half hour or so, and I keep trying to melt into the wall. It doesn't work well.

When John's dad shows up, Bossman follows us out to the car. He waits until John and I are inside, me in the back and John riding shotgun. He tells John's dad through the window, after the car has been started, what happened, how he found us both in the back, conspiring to rob him of his earthly possessions, how John had been caught in the act, red-handed.

John Sr bids his friend farewell, rolls up the window, watches him return to his store. He turns to John and pauses, observing his child for a moment. Then he punches John squarely in the jaw. His right hand rains down again and again against the boy, finding easy weaknesses in the meager defense his boy puts up. He is bigger, stronger. He beats the living shit out of John while I sit in the backseat watching, cursing and spitting. I'm terrified. For all I know, I might be next.

Afterward he drives me to Josh's house, John quietly crying and wiping blood from his nose, me holding the door handle the whole time, ready to bail and take my chances against fast-moving asphalt rather than those meaty fists.

Much like the timeI got caught shoplifting, I don't go back to that store for years. I never really liked Gummy Worms to begin with.

Seeking Guest Bloggers

2009-02-05T00:13:00.004-05:00

Seems as if I've become a medium sized fish in a gigantic pond in recent weeks and I can't quite explain it.

In short: A lot of people are into this blog and want to talk to me about it, usually in person. Sometimes a tale I tell reminds someone of a similar event that happened to them. Just tonight Nancie was telling me how she read about me getting puked on and it reminded her of getting peed on not once but twice at sleep-away camp.

This, friends, is a story that needs to be told.

So I implore you, gentle reader: tell me your story. I shall publish it here with full credit given, links to any site you want, and props for any product you are selling. You will have as much or as little editorial oversight as you wish. I think it would be hilarious. It doesn't have to be so elaborate. Just tell an amusing anecdote. Humiliation always plays well around here, especially when it is directed at oneself (me, usually).

Or maybe it's stupid. You could say that too. But I have faith in the project.

That Time I Got Puked On

2009-02-03T21:08:00.009-05:00

I was attending a sleepover with some of my neighbors, kids my age. We couldn't have been more than eight years old.

Thad was hosting. He was a skinny redhead who usually wore wide-striped long-sleeve shirts. He was funny and a good soccer player. Nathan and I were the guests. Nathan was a little on the dorky side. A little socially awkward. Chubby. I remember once he and my younger brother got into an argument in our garage. Shawn, who was at least a foot shorter, literally jumped upwards and punched Nathan square in the nose. Blood poured out in a torrent, Nathan cried and ran home. Served him right, I thought. We were trying to build a robot.

As I recall, Thad's parents weren't around, and we ate M+M cookies and watched a copy of Friday the 13th on video disc. When his folks eventually came home, it was time for lights out. We were to sleep in the backyard in a tent that Thad had received from his Grandma for his birthday. We crawled into our sleeping bags, me in the middle, Thad and Nathan on the either side, and after some cursory chit chat, fell asleep.

Later that night I awoke wet and confused. What the hell happened? I tried to make sense of what was going on. Had I pissed myself in the night? How embarrassing! What was I going to do? I'll never live this down!

And then I noticed the smell. We all know the acrid stench of vomit. It's horrifying. I sat up. There was puke all over my sleeping bag, my head. I looked to my right, and saw Nathan asleep, a smattering of vomit around his mouth.

That little bastard! He had woken up, puked on my head and gone back to sleep!

I turned to my left and started shaking Thad:

"Thad! Wake up! Nathan puked on me!"

Thad came around and nearly lost it from the concentrated stench. We didn't know what the hell to do. We were just kids, after all. In the hubbub, Nathan awoke and immediately started crying:

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!"

"You jerkwad! You puked on me!"

Somehow Thad's parents were roused, Nathan's parents were called and they took him home, crying and hysterical. I spent the wee hours of the morning in the bathtub trying to wash puke off myself. I swear, for weeks I was picking bits of vomit out of my hair.

I'm glad my brother punched that son of a bitch.

Eating my hand at the mall

2009-01-27T23:35:00.016-05:00

I don't like the mall.

I'll give you a moment to pick your jaw off the floor. That's right. I prefer to spend zero-time at the mall if I can help it. Circle-Slash-Malls. I was going to get a t-shirt made up, but I'd have to go to the mall.

I'm reminded of a little incident that occurred about a few years ago. I was hurting for an Xmas present for my mom. Try as I might, I can't get my family to join me in my Xmas boycott. Something about their being born again Christians... It's a big deal for them.

Kinda like Groundhog Day if your god and savior was a groundhog, and was crucified on a little groundhog-sized cross, and half the fucking world made a mess in their pants several months before Groundhog day, and stressed out and fought each other in parking lots for a spot because they need to buy useless crap that has a groundhog theme.

But I digress. I was in need of an Xmas present for me mum, my time was drawing short, and I had no clue what the hell I could get her for this stupid holiday that I don't even like in the first place. So, against my better judgment, I went to the mall. They got stuff at the malls, right? Surely something will seem appropriate for Mumsie.

I walked around, all scared-like, for what realistically seemed like two hours, my heart racing, my eyes wide, and a thin, greasy film of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

A little background info: I like breaking bad habits, and I broke myself of the bad habit of biting my nails at about 16 years old. I got tired of painful, bloody stumps on my hands. And people who bite their nails always look guilty of something, so I decided to quit doing it. It wasn't that hard, and now I am a reformed nail-biter.

Flash forward to the mall, Xmas time in the present. I'm walking around trying very hard to keep myself from just bolting in any direction, panicking and scratching for a way out. Absent-mindedly I was chewing on my fingernail. The left pointy-one, to be exact.

By this time, I'm freaking out, and not in a "omigod, I'm like totally freaking out," kind of way, but in a way that I feel I might actually die here, in this place with no windows, with its recirculated air, and its awful, awful music. My heart just might explode. I'm going to projectile vomit black bile and then fall over in the puddle, dead. DEAD!

And then I see the slippers. Fucking slippers! "Buy the fucking slippers and get the hell OUT!" [<-- that's my brain yelling at me] I grab a pair of pink slippers and start scanning around for a cashier. As I'm walking around, I notice this intense fire that is radiating up my left arm. I look down at my hand holding the slippers, and there is BLOOD EVERYWHERE.

I ate part of my hand at the mall!

Blood is all over my hand, and now, on this pair of fuzzy pink slippers. Everywhere. Covered. This is not good.

Well, like a good American, I stuck the bloody slippers back on the rack, got a fresh, non-blood-soaked pair (in my good hand), stuck my bloody stump in my pocket, and beat a hasty retreat. I think I really freaked out the girl at the register. She gave me one of those looks that I'm sure amputees and the facially deformed see a lot. That look where the horror sneaks out just a little before politeness kicks in, and you smiiillle, and whatever happens, for god's sake do not look at it...

Everything turned out ok in the end. I didn't die in the mall. Mom got a comfy pair of slippers for Jesus' birthday. I renewed my vow to avoid malls to the best of my ability. My half-masticated finger healed nicely. I have a picture of it, scabs and all somewhere. Maybe I'll go look for that right now.

(originally published 12/22/06)

I Ran Over a Lollipop Kid

2009-01-27T23:35:00.015-05:00

Only one word came to my lips as I sailed through the air. Time slowed down, stretched out and seemed to crystallize around me, and I was stuck in slow motion. I could make out tiny flecks of sparkly material in the asphalt. I felt suspended, caught in an impossible sprawl as I uttered the first and only word that came to mind:

"Fuck."

Upon contact with the street, time suddenly sprung back into motion, over-compensating for its previous lapse. Things now moved very, very fast. Luckily for me, although I never could have known it at the time, I had been forced to take judo lessons as a kid. I was taught to not fight a fall, but to roll along with the force of inertia. I had actually placed third in a regional competition at the age of eleven. But all that was very far away. For now, it was simply: Tuck and roll, tuck and roll.
And so instinctively I tucked, and I rolled to a stop in the middle of the intersection. I came to rest on my back, draped across the pavement like a carelessly tossed sheet. I took a quick inventory of my body and all major systems seemed to be responding. That was good. Now I had to collect myself and get the hell out of the intersection before it was me who was the one getting run over.

I couldn't believe it. I had run over a midget.

I stood up and looked behind me. The midget was getting up as well.
"Are you okay, man?" I asked, not yet sure if this was real.
"Yeah... Are you alright?" He asked back as he hobbled along across the street. Some passersby hurried over to him, asking if he was hurt. I decided it was probably best for me to make a hasty get away. I hopped on my wobbly, warped bicycle and loped down the hill, continuing on my way. This was too coincidental to be real. I could almost taste the blood in my mouth from Karma's bitch-slap.

I am sure there is some dainty, politically correct term for the persons I am describing. Dwarves. Vertically Challenged Individuals. Little People, for crying out loud. But I refuse to use it. This is a story of exploitation and callous, selfish indulgence. I had once used midgets as my personal jesters. It was a reprehensible act, and I continue to expose myself as a jerk by using the term Midget. I may arouse some ire, But I feel it is deserved. Call it a penance of sorts.

It had all started innocently enough, as most of these kinds of things do. I had begun to notice that I had been seeing more and more midgets in the movies I had been renting, and they would always make me laugh. Without fail. Regardless of subject matter, a midget in the cast was a surefire way to have me rolling on the floor, clutching my sides with convulsive laughter. Imagine Marlon Brando as a midget in The Godfather. Goddamn funny, right? I suppose it got a little out of hand, as do most things that start innocently enough. I began renting movies based upon the sole merit of a midget in the credits.
--------------------------------
A short list of classic midget films:

Gone With The Wind employed midgets as extras in background scenes in order to make the main characters seem larger than life. Destination Moon was called the most realistic film ever made to portray a journey to the moon when it was released in 1951. Midgets were used in backgrounds to convey a sense of distance which was just not available on a closed set. Other films put midgets at the forefront, as was the case in The Wizard of Oz, or much later in the Star Wars series. No film, however, featured as many midgets as Terror in Tinytown, the all-Western, all-singing, all-midget film which predated The Wizard. It may sound funny and exploitative, and indeed it is, but Tinytown was actually played straight; as a legitimate musical western, played by midget actors exclusively. (I am aware of the irony of this statement). There were no cheap short jokes or puns intended to poke fun or ridicule. Make no mistake, however: the film was terrible. A certifiable goose-egg. But then again, so very few musical westerns ever make it into Hollywood's Hall of Fame.

Recovering addicts sometimes talk about how they hit rock bottom, and how it forced them to see clearly their problem and to take action. I suppose my rocky bottom on the wild ride of midget fetishism was my rental of the film Bloodsucking Freaks. This is a modern classic of trashy filmmaking, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. The loose premise of the film revolved around young, helpless, half-naked women being gruesomely tortured by (that's right) a midget. I'm not proud to say I rented this movie, and even less proud to say I enjoyed it. That midget was a pint-sized dynamo, a horribly skewed Jerry Lewis. He was brilliantly hilarious, and he was obviously enjoying himself immensely. Disregarding all conventional acting tradition, he made no attempt to pretend the camera didn't exist. He would look directly into the lens and laugh a horrible, bone-chilling cackle through yellow, crooked teeth. I think he may have acted in the film for free, he seemed to be enjoying himself that much.
I suppose the only saving grace for me, if there can be one in this instance, is that I couldn't watch the entire movie. Somehow, seeing women exploited didn't sit so well in my stomach. But seeing a midget exploited? Comedy gold.
Addicts who hit rock bottom don't always kick their vice right away. Some keep to their habit, using it like a pathetic, disintegrating crutch, while they hobble about in a thinly disguised panic. I was no exception. I knew I had done something "dirty" by enjoying that film. I had crossed a line and could never go back again. But it took the event of me running over a midget on my bicycle in front of many witnesses to check myself into midget rehab.

I was riding my bike a lot in those days, and was pretty good at it. I could get anywhere in the city in small time. This particular day I was heading to a friend's house to attend a potluck dinner. She lived at the bottom of a hill. At the top of that hill was the fateful intersection. As I approached, the light turned yellow. I was already making good time, and I stood up on the pedals to get that extra burst of speed in order to beat the light. The mailbox and garbage can on the corner concealed the midget too well. I would have seen any normal sized person, even a really short one, in time to brake or at least swerve. But this wasn't a regular sized person. This was a midget.
Apparently, he too saw the light change, and bolted out into the street, convinced he could make it. He didn't look. He didn't make it either. He ran right out into the path of whizzing, two-wheeled fate. I hit him hard. REAL hard.
For anyone who wishes to know what this experience is like, imagine riding a bicycle at top speed, as fast as you can right into a tree stump. Don't apply the brakes, just careen right into it. That's roughly what this collision was like. Due to his lower center of gravity, he didn't have far to fall. I, however, took the brunt of the impact. I sailed over the handlebars, taking the bike with me, into that vast, slow-motion expanse I described earlier.
Afterward, I loped down the hill, not quite sure what to make of the incident. I arrived at my friend's house shortly thereafter. She opened the door.
"You will NEVER believe what just happened."

[* Although this account is absolutely true and entirely written by me, I feel compelled to inform you, gentle reader, that it is taken from a former blog housed in a site that rhymes with the words SighPlace.com. Since SighPlace is a dying scene and doesn't support blogging quite as easily or nicely as our friends at Google, I've decided to relocate it here. If you've read this before in another location, I apologize for wasting your time. If this is the first time you've heard of my traumatic event, feel free to leave feedback. In the future, I will indicate at the end of any reproduced blog updates (and there are many) the fact that they are relocationed entries with a far less verbose explanation. That is all. Thanks for your patronage.]

(originally published 12/27/2006)

The Crappiest Job

2009-01-26T11:29:00.017-05:00

I thought I would do a bit about all the awful jobs I've ever worked. I have at least one anecdote from each that illustrates how ridiculous, terrible, or ridiculously terrible each one was, and perhaps how it crafted me in some small way into the industrious young man I am today. Or maybe it will just be good for a laugh. At me, not with me.

Without further achoo, Part I:

The Line House.

I grew up in Southern Maine, where the youngest that one could legally work was 14. So, as soon as I was eligible, my friend Mike hooked me up with a job washing dishes with him.

A lot of young men in this country get their start in the working world this way. It doesn't take a whole lot of brain-power to do. It is, however, one of the crappiest jobs on the planet. The smell is the worst part. A pungent blend of bleach, industrial soap, grease, and old food, it really sticks with you. On rare occasions I will walk into a restaurant and catch a tiny whiff of that scent and be transported back to the late 1980's, scrubbing away in that tiny little back room.

The Line House was situated on the town line (get it?) between Kittery and York, Maine. It served your standard diner fare, blended with a few nods to the surrounding fishing industry. Think fish and chips and clam chowder, but nothing more elaborate than that. Burgers and fries, brunch on the weekends, that sort of thing. The burgers were pretty good, however, and it was here that I tasted Cape Cod potato Chips for the first time. One "perk" of the job was unlimited fountain sodas, which, as a teenager, is really all you need in life.

As I said, I worked in a small room with a low-ceiling in the back designated for dishwashing. It couldn't have been more than 12 x 12 feet, with most of the space taken up by a chest-type freezer, two industrial stainless steel sinks, a drying rack, and shelf space on either side: one side for clean dishes, the other side for dirty.

Dave was the line cook, a diminutive guy with tight, curly red hair, who thought nothing of tending the grill with a Marlboro hanging out of the corner of his mouth as he worked the spatula and barked at the waitresses as items were 86'd. He would torment the dishwashers in a good-natured way, and smoke a joint on the back steps with the waitresses after the place had closed for the night. He took to calling me Metal Head, as I had a habit of wearing Megadeth T-shirts and wearing my hair in the mullet style. I'd walk into my shift and be greeted with "METALHEAD!!!" Putting on a white apron, I'd smile, flash The Goat, and walk into the steam-filled abyss of the crappiest job ever.

Washing dishes sucks. It sucks. As a dishwasher, you are wet from your chest to your thighs all the time. Your hands will turn into pink prunes and smell of garlic and bleach for days. They will also blister, from the combination of the industrial chemicals and the searing heat of the washing process. That apron I mentioned does nothing to protect you, either from the water or the food and grease that ends up sticking to you like a ghost. But, as a fourteen year-old kid, I didn't have a lot of career options.

One Saturday in particular, the restaurant was slammed. Packed to the gills. Crammed into a small, greasy, hot and dangerous place, people tend to get a little cranky. Dave was screaming at the waitresses, and I was scrubbing like mad to keep up. Woe be unto the lowly dishwasher if the cook runs out of frying pans. Steve was the owner/boss, and he came into the back, needing more wine glasses. I looked around, and could only see three in the dish room. I washed those quickly and gave them to him. Shortly after, he came back again, and asked a little more pointedly, for more wine glasses. "I don't have any. Every glass in here is out front," I told him, getting a little testy as well.

A few minutes later, he came to me and said, "this is what I need you to do."

The Line House sat on a plot of land owned by Steve's sister, who had a house down a dirt road about 200 yards behind the restaurant. I was to jog down the road, open the garage door, go through the laundry room, and into the kitchen, where a case of new wine glasses was stowed in a cabinet next to the sink. Being the loyal foot soldier that I am, I clicked my heels, saluted, and jogged down that road.

As I opened the garage door, I could hear the telephone ringing. On the other end of that line was Steve, trying to call to warn me about the large German Shepherd that his sister owns.

I walked into the laundry room and opened the door to the kitchen, where I was greeted by the biggest fucking dog I had ever seen. His head was lowered, and as soon as he smelled the grease on me, assumed I was either an intruder or lunch. Or both. He lunged forward and bit me right in the middle of my chest. I'm sure I screamed like a girl, but I know I ran faster than I ever have out of there, the dog biting me twice on my ass as I fled. The t-shirt I was wearing, I later discovered, had a perfectly symmetrical bite mark taken out of the bottom of it.

Everyone from the back of the restaurant had come out onto the back steps to see what was going to happen. Dave later approached me, "Dude! Metalhead! That was fucking inTENse!" My hands couldn't stop shaking for hours after that. When I told my folks about it, my dad was pissed. But I defended the place, saying that Steve was a good guy, it was an accident, they were good enough to give me a job, etc. I know now that I should have sued the hell out of that guy. But sometimes I'm too nice for my own good.

Coldy Bowldy

2009-01-25T22:20:00.010-05:00

It's been rather cold up in these parts the last few days. No real shock in stating the obvious, but it is a nice way to introduce these pictures I took at Nancie's house this morning.

I should say at this point that Nancie and I have joined a bowling league. We've formed our own team, and have been taking a few of our recruits out to scout their performances. The good news is, so far all of our teammates are better than both of us combined.

Our team name is The Thunderballs.

I'll take credit for the team name and minimal-effort logo, thank you very much.

Last night Nancie and I were joined at Boston Bowl with our teammate Jeremy and some potential recruits in the form of Jane and her husband Dan. I'm really beginning to like the Boston Bowl. For one thing, it's open 24/7. NOTHING of any entertainment value is open that long around Boston. Secondly, even at peak hours, it's pretty darn cheap to throw a few sets. Lastly, free socks. Not many places have their own logo socks, embroidered with the American flag on them.

At first the complimentary socks seem like the best part. And they are, in a way. You can't take a Pin home as a souvenir, and those shoes don't match with any outfits. So the socks are a pretty cool little take-away, until, that is, you've gone there a few weekends in a row, and the socks start piling up on the floor of your car. Nancie actually refused the socks last night. But I found a simple alternate use for the comp-sock: Behold the Boston Bowl Beer Bottle Cozie!

Buy one get one free! And since you get them free anyway, I think you might actually make money on the deal. Beat that!?

Anyhow... There we were, all in our fresh socks (except Nancie), ready to bowl. I think I was fourth in our fivesome. I grabbed the ball I had picked, set myself up, approached, released, and... Wham! The ball caught on my thumb as I released, hooked HARD to the left, hit the gutter and then skipped into the adjacent lane where a bunch of kids were rolling. It's a good thing those kids had the bumpers up, because that ball probably would have skipped into at least one other lane if it had the chance. Humiliated, red-faced, I turned to face my current and potential teammates. They of course thought it was hilarious. I put on my most sheepish smile and turned to my lane-neighbors, sputtering apologies. In the end, one of the kids ran down the lane to fetch the ball, I had a do-over (since I had missed my lane completely), and all was right with the alley.

Maybe I should stick to Skee-ball.

The Default Hot Chick

2009-01-10T00:39:00.006-05:00

I've noticed in certain social situations a phenomenon that I've come to label as the Default Hot Chick Situation.

In this day and age of gender equality, one thing perhaps has yet to be addressed: the fact that guys want to take their clothes off and rub against chicks. Or dudes, I guess. But I can only speak from experience here, and I haven't had a whole lot of dude-rubbing urges. At least not lately.

The way the Default Hot Chick situation works is thus: In any situation there are bound to be some participants of the female variety. By nature, one of these females are to be perceived as more attractive than others. That female becomes, through no fault of her own, the Default Hot Chick. I suppose some Sociologists could have field day with these assertions. (Since I'm a sociological layman, I can only hope that there are countless tomes already penned in this vein.)

For instance: Where I cemented this theory was a job I had straight out of college. Three women worked in this place, two of which were in their fifties, one of which was almost as equally wide as she was tall. (She was very short, and worked in the basement, where the ceiling barely cleared my head) The other Cinco-genarian wore enough perfume to be recognized from 15 feet away with one's eyes closed.

The Default Hot Chick (or DHC, as she will henceforth be known) was in her mid-20's, not unattractive, yet not really a stunner. And yet I found myself wildly drawn to her. Not in an inappropriate sense. I'm a professional, and can separate my job from my throbbing biological urges. (Oh there is a huge story to illustrate this last bit forthcoming) But nevertheless, she was the only show in town, as it were.

I don't mean to be a jerk in writing this. I'm not a "Bro". I'm merely setting up, through an anecdote from my adultivity, an experience from when I was a pre-pubescent pup, and the weirdness that can grip a boy, or a man, and can make him act in irrational, sometimes comically bizarre fashion. More to follow.

Screaming into the wind

2009-01-10T00:25:00.006-05:00

Both members of the fanclub have been up in arms about my lack of attention given to the blog in recent months. The truth is, months ago, on the blog of a guy I went to high school with I found this image:

Puts this whole blogging thing into a bit of perspective. I'm just another monkey screaming into the wind. In space no one can hear you scream. In cyberspace everyone can hear you scream. It's just that no one cares.

Stay tuned for updates. I'm about to tell a weird and embarassing tale from my adolescence, and the story of my arrest, and more anecdotes of pointless minutiae that I'm the only person to read over and over again.

Hub On Wheels 2008

2008-09-21T21:46:00.026-04:00

I'm going to sleep well tonight. Early this morning, my Biker Gang, the Boston Ramblers joined four thousand other cyclists for this year's Hub On Wheels Ride. It was incredible. Storrow drive and the Riverway were closed off for us, and for once, we bikers ruled the mean streets.

Hub On Wheels benefits Technology Goes Home, which is a great cause, but regardless, the tour of Boston is well worth the modest registration fee. We started out early at City Hall Plaza, our ride starting not long after 8 am. The Ramblers rambled, logging just over 30 miles in a stretched-out 2 1/2 hours.

My big "technological" breakthrough for the ride was my handlebar camera-mount. I'm a little proud of it, even though it launched relatively untested. In 14 hours, I've been stopped, talked about, and questioned about its source. I'll post supporting materials shortly. My favorite incident was today along the Riverway, when a gentleman rolled up next to me and asked, "How are the photos?" I told him pretty good so far, it's a little untested, and this is its big premier. His next question: "Where did you buy it?"

"I built it," I said. He rode on...

Here are some pics from the ride, along with as much narration as I can provide. I'm rather pleased with the camera mount. I own what is not known as the nicest, most expensive, or technologically advanced camera. But it seemed to do a good job holding up through the 30+ miles of H.O.W.

Without further ado:

Not long after the beginning of the ride, about to join Storrow Drive:

Yeah! We own Storrow Drive! Reverse THIS!

We rode out to Cambridge, where the route turned around. The sun was in our eyes, the signs said Cars Only, but no cars were around, so we took some liberties:

We exited at the Fenway,

Made our way onto the Riverway,

I pulled over along the route for a costume change. I handle a ride like a Cher concert: Lots of flash and many, many outfit changes. I'm a showman, what can I say?

Here's a shot of the Ramblers at the first rest area, at the Arnold Arboretum, 14.4 miles in, still fresh-faced and optimistic:

From there we went through the Forest Hills Cemetery (one of my favorite places ever, but especially pleasant to bike through) and through Franklin Park. I had some technical difficulties with the camera system here, so few photos, except this one:

Later, after drifting through parts unknown to me of Roxbury, we ended up along Morrissey Boulevard, along the UMass, the JFK library and the beautiful water. Many of the Ramblers said they were now thinking of attending UMass, simply for the view.

I'm not positive, but I think that's a Mark DiSuervo sculpture to the left:

(*addendum: yes it is.)

Eventually we ended up along the water in downtown Boston, and I was forced to rethink my earlier stance that Boston has some of the most stale, boring architecture around.

Here is Chris, freshly arrived at the finish. Look at that grin! Accomplishment much?

The Ramblers: L-R, Chris, Andrea, Jed, Christine, Nancie, me.

(AKA: Nugget, Crash, La-Z J, Sweet Ass, Pokey, Captain Awesome.)

And, of course, no ride would be complete without a photo taken with Zebra Man:

Dental Damnation!

2008-09-16T21:40:00.004-04:00

Last Friday I had my wisdom teeth extracted. Looking at it from this side, it wasn't a huge deal, but as I sat down in the chair my stomach was filled with trembling, vomiting butterflies. I'm a bit of an anxious person to begin with, so it was with not a small bit of nervousness that I entered the office that afternoon. I had done some Googling of the process, reading about the healing and recovery period, a few blogs on the issue, and a horrifying Youtube video which had me gagging and retching, and I came away with this overriding thought: I don't want to do this.

Well, turns out, it really wasn't so bad. When I checked in at the office, I asked to be pointed to the bathroom, and spent a few moments sweating and shaking, splashing water on my face. I figured I would then spend a few moments in the waiting room reciting "calmblueocean,calmblueocean, calmblueocean..." But there was no chance. As soon as I stepped out of the room someone said, "Mr. Sullivan we can take you right now in here." It's a trap!

The worst part was taking the Novocaine, which hurt a bit, but when the doctor gave me a huge shot WAY back in my mouth, my gag reflex was triggered, and I flipped out, flailing and coughing. I shoved the doctor and his assistant away, coughed and kind of sobbed, my eyes runny with tears, drool hanging in ribbons from my lips. Apologizing, trembling and sweaty, I reached for the cup of water offered to me, and was alarmed at the amount of blood as I spit. This wasn't even the gory part. Good lord help me.

The actual process wasn't bad, and went rather swiftly. For this I am grateful. I have to say I highly recommend this doctor. To anyone in the Hub, hit me with an email and I will send you in his direction. I got to keep my teeth (ugly little fuckers), which was a major sticking point with me to begin with. My plan was to make cufflinks from them (wasn't that in The Great Gatsby??) but they're really not all that pleasant to look at. Plus, there's still some blood and "tissue" stuck to them. Not a pretty starting point for jewelry.

So I spent the next few days in a Vicodin haze, wearing pajamas and an ice pack on my face. Black Eyed Susan insisted in coming over to dote on me, something I'm very grateful for. Not that I was helpless, but for the sheer nurturing kindness of her actions. And the back-handed compliments were priceless: "You don't look that bad," and, watching me eat breakfast, "Look at you! You're chewing!"

So, considering how bad it could have been, and how bad I had it cooked up in my head to be, having an extraction wasn't the worst thing in the world. But I don't think I'd recommend it to anyone just yet.

In other news:

I approved the proofs for my inclusion in the latest Make Magazine this morning. It comes out in October, and I'm very excited. I'm sure I'll be posting a lot more about it here as the release date nears.

On Sunday I will be riding 30 miles around Boston for Hub On Wheels. It's a charity ride that raises money for Technology Goes Home, and the route looks awesome. I can't wait, and it should be a lot of fun. To prep up I've gone on a bit of a shopping spree and bought a new seat and fenders for my ride. I'm halfway hoping it rains so I can give the fenders a real go-around. But not really, because riding in the rain sucks.

And in todays primary election, early results say that my candidate for Senate, Sonia Chang-Diaz has won, so WooHoo democracy!

That Awful Sound

2008-08-23T15:04:00.006-04:00

I used to do a lot of 4-tracking, home recordings where I pretty much played everything. In the early days it was pretty rough, because I could barely play the guitar, even though I had been doing it for over a decade, let alone bass or drums or keyboards. Four tracking uses cassette tapes in one direction. Rather than side A and side B, it uses tracks tracks 1 through 4, two tracks out of the right channel, and two from the left.

When I first recorded the drums I had to do it in two tracks: The kickdrum and snare in one, the cymbals in the other. It was pretty bad. I titled my first record (and I use that term loosely)"Foray Into Incompetence," and that's exactly what it was. But it was a lot of fun. I enjoyed making the album artwork, dubbing copies and giving them to my friends.

One of the greatest moments of my life occured in Paris in 1998, when some of my music found its way onto a soundtrack for a Mens Week fashion show. I had never heard it played SO LOUD in my life. It could be heard, no lie, from over a hundred yards away. It was awesome.

Today I found a couple masters from those days, and as I'm listening I've got a huge grin plastered over my face. From a critical standpoint, it's pretty bad, but it was a blast to make, and I can remember what was going through my head during each one, what time of day it was, what the weather was like, if not how to play any of it.

I was picked up a few times for my friend Darryl's Black Apple compilations, which was pretty cool, as I was rubbing elbows with a bunch of the people that I had looked up to when I started recording, people who were infinitely more talented than I was.

A couple weeks ago at work I dozed off during my lunch break and had a dream that one of my records had been selected as one of Rolling Stone's Top 10 Albums Of All Time. And when I woke up I swear I had a huge erection.

Those days are gone now. I finally realized I wasn't very good at it, and that my focus was better off directed elsewhere. But I'm glad I've still got these tapes.

Not So Bright

2008-08-19T22:45:00.004-04:00

This past sunday morning I popped in to see my lovely friend Renee at the cafe in which she works. I won't link to what that place is, because she hooked me up with a bagel and an iced tea, but nevertheless, she's there at 5am most mornings. I thought I had it bad, getting up at the ungodly hour of 5:30 everyday.

I sat down to savor my sesame bagel and cream cheese, and she soon joined me:

"I just had to explain to the new girl what a dumpster is," she says.

Intrigued, I ask for more info. Renee explains that this girl didn't know what a dumpster was, or how it functioned. "Earlier," she says, "I ask her to rotate the dairy, and she looks at me with this wide-eyed affectation and asks, 'you mean, like, the sugar, and stuff?'" Wow. By this time my brow is furrowed with concern for my poor friend who, while not inclined toward violence, just might head-butt this dainty naive.

She went on, "So I asked her what she does, and she says 'I smoke pot,' So... Do you have any hobbies? 'Just pot,' Do you go to school? Just pot? Ok."

I left Renee with a hearty hug, insisting that she was valuable and loved, and it wasn't she who was wrong. At one point she tells me, "I smoke pot too, but I can still function like a mammal!"

With a beautiful, full, sunny day ahead of me, I decide to squander it by spending part of it in the laundromat. I took a good whack at the new Sedaris novel while I was at it, so it wasn't a total loss. As I was loading my wet clothes into the top dryer, I noticed a girl next to me at what I call the Dryer Wall. She seemed distressed, and kept punching buttons on the dryer, shaking her head, adding more quarters.

Confounded, she asked me, "Are these dryers?"

"Yeah," my eloquent response.

"Even this one?" she asks, pointing.
"They're all dryers," I say, loading my unmentionables.
"Isn't it supposed to... spin?"

I assess the situation for a moment. "Yeah. You're feeding quarters into the top dryer" Her clothes were in the bottom.

I told this series of stories to Black Eyed Susan, and she came to the rescue of said girls, positing that they are not necessarily dumb, but perhaps they were just brought up so pampered and cared for that these day-to-day goings on of us mere mortals escape them.

Perhaps. Who am I to say? I just know that as soon as I was of legal age to work (14) I did so. And yes, as a college freshman, I did a load of laundry that turned all my whites pink (possibly while high, I don't remember), but I knew how to run the frigging dryer, and I've never since dyed my whites pink.

Is blissful youth something to be celebrated? I guess when you're as old and cranky as me, it's all too easy to shake your head and say "When I was your age..."

Exciting news!

2008-08-17T23:55:00.003-04:00

I've been away for a while, and the fan club is all up in arms, but I promise new posts soon. Some things in blog form in the works:

My hijacked bike plot has found an audience with the mayor. I hope whatever ordinance gets passed is called "Brandon's Law".

I'm formulating a post about my collection of offensive t-shirts.

I received anecdotal tales of really dumb girls today, followed shortly by my own personal run-in with a really dumb girl.

Pictures and a short video from the Flight of The Angel at the Fisherman's Feast tonight in the North End.

Cat Fartz

2008-08-04T22:06:00.005-04:00

I guess you could call me a cat person. It's not that I dislike dogs. I really like dogs. Dogs have awesome personalities, dogs are loyal almost to a fault, dogs are hilarious, and dogs do tricks and execute tasks.

What keeps me from owning dogs are the following:

-I'm not allowed to own a dog in my building. Fair enough. I signed a lease agreeing to these terms.

-Dogs need walks. It's not that I'm against walks, it's that my life doesn't have the consistency to walk a dog every day at both 5am and 7pm. And furthermore:

-Picking up warm poop does not appeal to me. Period. In this sense I would make a horrible dog owner as well as potential threat to public health.

-Dogs smell. It's true, dog-people. Your beloved animals, regardless of how sweet, well-behaved and obedient they are, do, in fact, smell. Anytime I touch a dog I feel the need to wash my hands. Not because of some weird OCD quirk, but because that smelly dog smell is now living on my hand, and it grosses me out. I can't eat a sandwich with that smell on my hands.

So I own cats. I've lived with/cared for dogs, and I love them all. I've owned two cats by myself, and this is a story about my present cat, the love of my life, Ocho. I love Ocho-Cheecho more than life itself. She's beautiful, and in my eyes can do no wrong.

Until last night.

(isn't she cute?)

I was sitting on the couch with my roommate, watching Generation Kill, with Ocho between us, when suddenly, she (ocho) jumped up and began licking herself in a place not fit for mixed company.

Like a baton from a New York City cop, it hit us at once: Ocho had farted.

Holy crap! I didn't know cats had the ability to fart. I knew dogs could. I used to have a job where the boss brought her black lab along, and he ripped on a fairly regular basis. I had never experienced a cat fart, and let me tell you, it was horrifying. They may be small, those cats, but it only serves to compact the anal vapor that much more.

I know it wasn't a fluke, because she ripped two more before the night was done, and licked herself in the same spot each time. A diet change is in order...

Maybe it's not too late to own a goldfish.

I'm Not From Here

2008-08-03T13:37:00.023-04:00

This weekend Black-Eyed Susan and I rented a car and named him Bjorn. We pointed the prow of that ivory beauty north and spent the weekend seasoned by salt air, playing games, and eating all the foods we both know we ought not.

We left the city at about 2 o'clock on friday and landed shortly after 3 at Perkin's Cove in Ogunquit, Maine, to take a stroll along one of my favorite places, the Marginal Way. For years growing up around here I used to enjoy walking along this path, occasionally venturing out among the tidepools on the craggy rocks, poking around among starfish, anenomes, snails and crabs as they waited for the tide to come back in and rescue them from their temporary prisons. This day we were not so fortunate, as it seems the extent of the wildlife available was numerous snails and small, bluish little blobs that, despite their active movements, I was unable to identify.

From there we took Bjorn to York Beach, a place where I have spent many a summer and many countless brain cells. For B.E. Susan's benefit, who hadn't been around these parts since she was just a wee pup, I swallowed my local pride and consented to do some very touristy things, but which I enjoyed nevertheless. First stop was the York Beach institution the Fun-O-Rama, where we rolled some skee-ball and played a few rounds of air-hockey. Ask B.E. Susan who it is that rules at air-hockey. Hint: Me.

I was a bit disappointed by my lack of skee-ball finesse. The last time I came here was a few years ago. I had some time to kill and decided to throw a few wooden balls to pass the time. I got bored pretty quickly at the straight forward rolling of the balls, which usually only resulted in 10 points, so I got creative with my rolling and tried putting a spin on the ball. Then I tried banking them off the side rails, and what do you know about that, 50, 50, 50, 50. I had cracked the skee-ball code! I kept rolling, and the points kept scoring. The flashing light on this machine was spinning so fast and for so long, people were dropping left and right, induced into epileptic seizures by the pulsating glow. I heard a young man behind me whisper to his friend: "check this guy out, he's awesome!". Prize tickets were rolling out so fast that smoke actually began billowing from beneath the quarter slot. For a few salty moments, there amidst the lights and the din, I was a god among men.

But not this time... I fairly sucked at skee-ball, which meant that not only did B.E. not believe the above story, but now she had proof that I was full of shit. Alas.

Broken and defeated by my humiliating attempts at a game which excites 9 year-olds, we then visited a few tacky souvenir shops, where B.E. bought a coffee mug for her dad, an avid coffee enthusiast. I picked up a miniature keychain license plate with my roommates name on it, as a small thank-you for watching my cat Ocho while I was away. And then we were off to my folks' place, where we supped upon lasagna and listened, oh-so-patiently, to my Dad's long-winded gripes about our next-door neighbor, with whom a dispute has recently arisen regarding the property lines. Yawn.

We later went out to visit with some friends of mine, but it was not an easy task. Susan, born and raised in Brooklyn, is used to the occasional streetlight. They ain't got none o them fancy-shmancy streetlights in Maine. Them's for city-folk and queers. (Whoa, sorry about that! A couple hours back Down East, and I pick the accent up pretty easily. Just ask me how to say "ayuh" and you'll understand). Regardless, Susan was a little stressed out about the lack of light on dark, twisty, narrow roads. Having cut my driving teeth along them, I hadn't seen a problem with it, but that just shows how unconcerned for others I am. After numerous detours, several miles spent driving in circles, and white-knuckle angst from B.E., we arrived at the Dover Brickhouse, a classy little joint in downtown Dover, New Hampshire.

It was Monique's birthday, and it was great to see her and her husband Thor. Matty was working the door, and later Kate The Great showed up fresh from another birthday shindig with her Dojo Bros. Gazpacho, an 80's cover band, was playing upstairs, something we didn't much care for. Until, that is, we heard strains of Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" coming through the ceiling. We hustled upstairs and had quite a hoot watching these guys. They did a pretty good job of the song, and at this point had been playing for hours, an impressive feat in and of itself. Susan and I were less impressed, however, by their cover of Prince's "Let's Go Crazy". You really can't half-ass that one. You gotta sell it, and it seems Gazpacho was phoning it in. In the end, a good time had by all.

DAY TWO

After a night "sleeping" on an "air mattress," I was eager to get on the road and continue our adventure. We started out heading to Rick's All Season, another York institution. This place caters to all clientelle. The staff wears t-shirts that say "Bikers Welcome" on the back. But they also welcome tourists, locals, fishermen (that's why they open at 5am), high school truants (totally not speaking from experience here), hung-over partiers (ditto), those still coming down (double ditto), and anyone else looking for a decent no frills breakfast. The kid manning the register could not have been older than 15, and he doubled, nay, tripled duty as host, busser, and server. The service took a while, but it wasn't an impatient wait. BE Susan ordered decaff with milk, and got the unleaded, but without cow juice. Once our waitress realized what was wrong she apologized, saying "I have no excuse". I found this incredibly endearing, and it earned her and the crew at least an extra 10% tip. As far as the food, I had the "Fisherman's Special" and got all the goodies that breakfast should entail, for a good price, and coffee refills are gratis. I highly recommend this one.

Once we put me as an eligible driver on Bjorn's list, I spent a good hour and a half adjusting all his fancy gadgets just how I liked them, and we were on our way north to our destination of Portland, Maine.

Once we were settled in our yet-to-be-named motel, Susan and I headed to Portland's Old Port, where we were to catch the Ferry to Peaks Island. We found some municipal parking, secured all that we thought we wouldn't need, packed all we thought we would, and headed toward the Casco Bay Lines terminal to purchase tickets. At one point, looking down an alley, we spotted a very drunk, possibly homeless man hugging another human dressed in a full sized, furry lobster costume. It was then that we both realized we had forgotten our cameras at the car.

Fast forward to the ferry ride, each with our cameras, but without our lobster/homeless photos. We connect with a bunch of our (meaning: BE Susan's) peeps. We're all here for not a wedding, but a post-elopement celebration. I've never been to Peaks Island, so I'm grateful for the opportunity. The shindig is taking place at the Fifth Maine Regiment Memorial Building 1888, what I later learn is a summertime retreat for troops during the civil war. It's a beautiful building right on the water.

Inside is a "museum" dedicated to the men who had valiantly served the Union during the Civil War, with a fascinating array of souvenirs from the war and ephemera from the era. It was great, as I like to learn about these things. I took ample photos, including this one:

I took a lot more photos, and admittedly got a little crazy with it. Housed in this former R+R locale were portraits of heroes of the Civil War, one of which was named Horatio Bumpus. It was only later, when I used the men's room located at the front of the building that I saw the sign: "Absolutely No Photography Or Videotaping Without Express Written Consent..."

Whoops. I'm really sorry, American Heroes. You should post a sign at the back as well telling us not to pop shots. So instead of heroic military legends, here are some pics I took on the grounds of flowers:

Knock Knock

2008-07-18T17:18:00.018-04:00

Tweedle Dee: Knock Knock...

Tweedle Dum: Who's there?

Tweedle Dee: Attention Deficit Disorder.

Tweedle Dum: Attention Deficit Disorder who?

Tweedle Dee: I like ponies!

I really don't know if I made that up or heard it somewhere. If I did make it up, feel free to use my stupid knock knock joke.

My pal Genghis sent me this one:

Tweedle Dee: Knock Knock...

Tweedle Dum: Who's there?

Tweedle Dee: September 11th

Tweedle Dum: September 11th who?

Tweedle Dee: You said you'd never forget... :(

Okay, maybe I'm not the knock knock joke master-craftsman I think I am. So here's some pictures from my recent trip to NYC.

Keller and me at the Heavy Metal Bar. Despite the look on my face, I'm having a blast. That's my air-drumming face.

The 2008 Mermaid Parade at Coney Island.

My new Second Favorite Person Ever:

The girl sitting on the top front of the bus was gracious enough to show the crowd her vagina. Twice. Maybe more, but I was only lucky enough to see it twice.

Now, I love vagina and all, but I need to be prepared to see a vagina to appreciate it in all of its wonder and glory. Surprise vagina is just that: Surprising. Had she informed me in advance of the Vagina Show, I could appreciate it a little more, perhaps. As it was, I was a little grossed out. Sorry, ladies.

My new Favorite Person Ever:

Olafur Eliasson show at MoMA:

The wall of moss was very cool. If you turned your ear to it, it absorbed all the sound from the room. A creepy yet exciting experience:

The show continued at PS1:

I was stealthy enough to get a few shots of this piece:

I forget who this artist is, but this is the point at which I got yelled at for taking pictures:

A Series Of Sent Text Messages

2008-07-14T22:14:00.001-04:00

5:43 pm: A photograph of a dead squirrel on the bikepath. He looks drunk.

9:17 am: A photograph of a man dressed in full Boston Celtics regalia being lead away by security at the Boston Municipal Courthouse. It was jury duty, and the Celtics had just won Game 1 of the Finals. Sent with this text: "[sic] this guy is drunk off his ass. a great way to avoid i guess. wish i had thought of that."

6:17 pm: A photograph of a man urinating on the platform of the Jackson Square orange line stop. Sent with this text: "nothing like taking a piss on the subway platform"

5:56 pm: A photograph of Cock Flavored Soup Mix.

11:12 am: "i done split my pants"

11:48 pm: "I have semi-colons;"

11:51 pm: " (o)(o) (_(_) "

7:58 pm: "fung wah fatality this morning..."

2:46 pm: "would it be too forward to invite myself?"

9:15 pm: "o.m.g. i will never ever have a child. details later."

4:30 pm: A photograph of a little yellow mushroom growing on one of my houseplants.

2:30 pm: "oh the benefits of having a foodie for a brother..."

2:40 pm: "omg i was just going thru my sent txts and stumbled upon my junk. lol."

2:34 pm: "let's just say i'll be getting that pony gold plated."

2:42 pm: "followed by a caviar bath"

2:45 pm: "i already bought canada, so... mine."

8:54 am: "im wanted in ct on $ laundering charges. id have to wear a fake moustache, itd just be weird. youre better off going without me."

3:10 pm: "yeah! lets blow something up* ***"

10:55 pm: "extra sexy panties?"

9:37 pm: "poor little tomato! what did he ever do to you???"

9:43 pm: "whoa.thats like, star wars deep..."

11:16 pm: "gtf outta here. no way."

Big Baseball Weekend

2008-07-13T12:50:00.001-04:00

By sheer luck, I was fortunate enough to be treated to a game at Fenway Park on friday night. Nancie's friend Kate knows the strength and conditioning trainer for the Baltimore Orioles, and he was able to provide us with four seats right behind homeplate. It was great! Going to Fenway is such a treat, what a venue to see a ballgame.

Afterward, the bunch of us went out for some drinks, to meet Jay and thank him for the tickets. What we didn't know until the last minute was that Jay was bringing the Baltimore third base coach, three-time All-Star Juan Samuel along! And guess what? Juan was the coolest guy! He talked to anyone about any aspect of the game, had a huge smile on his face the whole time (possibly because the ladies were all ga-ga over him). He even bought a few rounds of drinks, not that I needed any more.

Here's a picture of (l-r) Kate, Juan Samuel, Nancie, and me.

As you can see, the ladies can't keep their hands off Juan:

So at the end of the night, Juan says he can get Nancie and me a pair of tickets for tomorrow's game as well. I couldn't believe it. What an awesome guy! The seats were in the same section, and about 6 rows closer to the field. This night was a bit better to watch because the Sox won, actually, they clobbered the Orioles, and as a bonus, I captured my own footage of Kevin Youkilis hitting his first career grand slam:

Awesome. My thanks and sincere gratitude go out to Nancie, Kate, Jay, Juan, and the Baltimore Orioles.

Okay, So I'm wrong.

2008-07-13T12:37:00.001-04:00

Nancie has a friend Meredith who works for the Mayor's office, and is a wealth of information regarding things like this. Her email reply to a query that Nancie sent regarding my bike-jacking went along these lines:

"there's a whole ordinance (city law) that protects light poles, traffic signals, street signs, etc. from things in the vandalism category (graffiti, destroying them, disabling them, etc.), and that includes locking bikes. It's kind of a one size fits all ordinance, so there's no gray area -- nothing may be affixed, permanent or temporary.

Of course, you never catch the guys who are vandalizing the poles, only the bikes that are attached . . .

My guess is that the locking bikes thing is only enforced in areas where the business owners want it to be. Technically, the sidewalk is City property, but business owners have what's called a site cleanliness plan which they are required to file and uphold -- having to do with sweeping the sidewalk and keeping private fixtures off it, etc.

I'd be interested to know who the person was who put the additional lock on the bike, and if there was a fine attached. . ."

And so it is, passed down from on high... I was wrong. I can admit when it happens, once every six or seven years. That doesn't mean I'm happy about it. So security guy, I apologize for calling you an asshole, however anonymously. Thanks to Nancie for taking up the cause and Meredith for her sage wisdom. But B+W: please put up some signage for the next poor dope who rides along.

Hijacked!

2008-07-10T16:34:00.001-04:00

I took the day off from work today because I had a doctor's appointment at the new Brigham and Womens Shapiro center . It's a beautiful building, and the artwork is surprisingly modern and interesting.

It was a lovely, cool morning, and I rode my bike because it's approximately five minutes from my house, parking is a nightmare on Longwood Ave, and I'm trying to exercise/downsize carbon emissions, whatever.

I locked my bike against a City of Boston standard issue traffic sign, andwhen I came out, was shocked to find this!

What the goddamn fuck??@? B+W Security had hijacked my bike! They chained my bike to the post along with a sign saying I had to call security to get it relinquished.

So I called the number (twice), and this fresh faced fella showed up.

He said something about a bike rack on adjacent streets, and that I should park there next time. That should have been obvious, as there was ample signage indicating where the bike rack was . (end sarcasm) So, as politely as I could I said, "Have a nice day, asshole," and rode away.

A few things to consider. If you notice in the picture, my bike is locked to a street sign, not to one of the fancy new light poles, which probably cost a lot and want to be maintained, and it's not locked to the handrail in the background. IF I had locked to either of these fixtures, I can totally understand B+W Security's actions. These things are obviously private property, shiny and new, and in the case of the handrail, a bike parked there could be seen as an impediment to public safety.

It's well known that bike theft is a huge problem, and a bike rack does little to deter this. Crowded in among several bikes, a thief will be able to work with less suspicion than on a single bike securely locked directly in front of a building. According to this site, Boston is the third worst city for bike theft. (The numbers might be a little dodgy there, but who cares? I want to keep my bike.)

So, I'm researching a little, got some wheels set in motion, as to the legality of this action. If Mayor Menino is suddenly such a bike enthusiast and is pushing really hard to make Boston more bike-friendly, surely bike security is a part of that plan. But I have a follow up appointment in three months at Shapiro, and I intend on parking in the same spot and bringing some tools with me to reclaim my ride.

Stuck Songs, and Shouts at the Shore

2008-07-09T23:58:00.001-04:00

This song has been stuck in my head for four days:

I blame it on Mtv. In those days I was sharply crafted by its pulsating glow. If only the marketing machine that we know today had been so astute in those days. Perhaps I'd still be wearing Wayfarers and Jams.

Speaking of music, on the commute into work today, I settled on the Breeders version of "Happiness Is A Warm Gun" from the album "Pod". As I was listening, I thought to myself, "This sounds a lot like it was Steve Albini behind the boards."

Flash forward to this afternoon, and after consulting Allmusic.com, my assertions were confirmed.

So the Beatles, too. Mixed in with Cyndi Lauper, my internal soundtrack today.

I've been riding my bike a lot more in the recent days. It's fun and a great way to get sweaty.

Yesterday, however, it was too friggin hot to think about getting into, so for my daily outdoor activity, I opted instead for a walk with my camera around Jamaica Pond.

As I found the path around the pond, I noticed two people talking about 100 yards in front of me. Knowing that this is a neighborhood where it's easy to run into people one knows, I didn't think much about it.
As I got nearer, the two went in different directions. The old man was now walking toward me. About 15 yards in front of me, he abruptly stopped and threw his hands in the air:

"Smile, for crying out loud!" As he shook his hands I noticed his ear lobes, which were abnormally long, shaking back and forth. I couldn't help but conjuring the word "labia".

"You look as if you're going to a wake!" he shouted at me. All I could do was say, "Perhaps I am..." Lame comeback.

As I walked along, I could hear him shouting at the person behind me as well, and I really had to ask myself what this fellow was all about. Does he think he's doing good, yelling at anyone who'll listen to smile? What if I was indeed on my way to a wake? Does he think he's helping or harming society? How did his ears get like that?

My only regret was that I was not on point with my camera, and was unable to get a shot off of this fella. I walked (against my intentions) all the way around the pond to try and pass him again, but I guess he had had enough of berating strangers into enjoying his idea of an ideal world.

Maybe I'll keep up with the pond walks. I've got a pretty good scowl going on...

Potential Titles And Subjects For My Brand New Blog

2008-07-07T23:00:00.000-04:00

Lifted directly from my actual life:

How to answer strangers that ask the following: "That's a nice piece of pussy, yeah?"

If midgets are going to jaywalk, they should have those tall fiberglass orange flags attached to them.

What to do after riding your bike through poo.

What is the protocol for tipping when your waiter/ess abandons his/her post?

An etiquette guide for informing your neighbor that
a) you don't give a rat's ass about their offspring, and in fact,
b) you strongly dislike said offspring for its ability to rouse you from sleep at 8am sharp on sunday morning.

A DIY guide for when your auto mechanic tells you, "Eh, just rip it off. It's not really important."

Suggestions from Nancie, each with valid merit:

"America's Sweetheart"
"I Drive A Monster Truck"
"The Machinist"
"Sidewalk Chalk"
"King Of America"

Tune in next week to see which contestants move forward, and which one goes home, crying like a little bitch...

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