Lessons

I'm going to take a few swimming lessons. As I was waiting for Deb by the large hot tub, I watched four women who were swimming in the lap pool. I couldn't help but admire the graceful way they propelled themselves through the water, each of them majestically gliding along their respective lane.

It occurred to me that I don't look like that when I swim. It also occurred to me that my parents never really taught me to swim, they just taught me how to not drown, and I'm not really sure if that's the case.

Admission of a Fair Weather Fan

I’ve always loved the Red Sox, but to call myself a fan would be slightly disrespectful to the many friends and fellow New Englanders that follow most, if not all of their games. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll watch every game of the World Series and will only miss some of the play if I get a better offer form the lady of the house, and even then I’ll only be gone for a half inning or so. But I feel compelled to admit here and now that I’m a fair weather fan.

 I’ve always been impressed by those folks who avidly follow the Boston sports teams, and I’m awed by friends who possess an encyclopedic knowledge of the current team, former teams and every stat that goes along with them. I can’t claim the same knowledge. Quite frankly I didn’t even know that the Sox had traded away Wes Welker. I suppose my interests lay elsewhere. I mean how many of you reading know the current or original line up of the Moody Blues, or can name any one of the five drummers that have been or are currently in Pearl Jam? I guess everybody has their thing,

So, without shame I’ve admittedly jumped on the band wagon and will be in full attendance tonight. I’ll cheer every time Dustin Pedroia or Freddy Lynn comes up to the plate, and I’ll feel the emotional toil that comes with each controversial call that’s made, (I’m still aching from the Jets game.) I’ll also use the series as an excuse to stay up late, eat poorly and consume beverages that shouldn’t be consumed on a Wednesday evening. I’ve also used the series as an excuse to give up shaving. When my boss questions my borderline homeless look, I’ll simply reply, "I am Red Sox Nation!"        

Good luck, boys!

Simple Sounds of Sunday

I've come to really enjoy Sundays. I think the thing that I appreciate is that regardless of the ever present list of to do's, there's a slow pace and solitude that doesn't seem to exist on any other day of the week.

This morning I woke up early and slowly wandered downstairs. I turned on the stereo,  just loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough to not wake the family, the dogs, and the other strays we acquired the evening before. As the sunlit kitchen filled with sound, I started the coffee. I filled the percolator with cool clear water and counted six level scoops of our favorite New Orleans Market Blend. Sorry Kurig, but we're old school here.  The percolator pulsated and forced the earthy aroma of brewing coffee in time with the gentle groove of the Bill Evans Trio who were busy entertaining a smoke filled Village Vanguard more than fifty years before. Music, like books and movies is a time machine.

I stepped out the front door Tony Soprano style in my white bathrobe and grabbed the Sunday edition of the Foster's Daily Democrat, which is a paper I both embrace and loath, mostly for the same reason, which is that the front page and most of its guts, despite all that is going on in our world, are usually dedicated to stories of cats being displaced because their owner was arrested for stealing chicken eggs or some other local calamities.

In short order I heard the brisk patter of the dogs coming down the steps with my pajama wearing wife in tow. The dogs went out to do their thing, and Deb and I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee reading the paper and reflecting on the previous evening as well as forthcoming day. She looked at me with her sleepy eyes, dishoveled hair and no make up. She didn't need it, and a heart beat increased to the pace of the percolator and the Jazz.

As soon as Bill Evans and his boys finished their set the CD carousel shifted and the music changed to the sound of Stax, Atlantic, and Mussel Shoales. Southern Soul abounded. Redding, Aretha, Arthur Conley joined us as we fried country ham and local brown eggs (Brown eggs are local eggs, and local eggs are fresh eggs)

The day progressed and the disc changer continued to do its job. Nick Drake, The Lumineers, The Civil Wars, Blind Boy Fuller each took their turn in providing the soundtrack to our day as we puttered, cooked, napped, washed, dried and folded. Mundane. Simple bliss occured each time I gazed at the clock to realize it was only ten, one, or even three.  In time their would be dinner, wine, cigars and maybe a fire.  Maybe tonight we'd walk the Boardwalk Empire or Break Bad.

To be honest there wasn't much more to it than that. Even now as I type, I wonder why I'm writing this. Why would anyone want to read it? It's slow and it doesn't move well. It's not compelling, and there's no tension or conflict to hold a reader's interest.

It's like Sunday.

Roast Beef Tour

I don't know how these goofy things begin, but somehow I found myself on an unannounced, unintentional and questionable quest to try, differentiate and determine the best New England style (if it is indeed New England Style Roast beef. To be honest, I don't really know) roast beef sandwich in what was once within the geographic sphere in which I lived. Here are some of my findings

Royal Roast Beef (East Boston) - The place was busy and for some reason filled with representatives of  various local law enforcement agencies. I was temporarily impressed when a rotund Boston cop ordered a large salad until he followed up with, "And a "Supah" Beef with extra sauce and cheese and a lahge orda of rings." There were a number of people busily working behind the counter and my order was taken by a pleasant young lady who was gawking at me, ( I get that a lot and attribute it to my uncanny resemblance to Christian Bale.)

The sandwich was good, but slightly flat. A good balance between the beef, cheese and sauce. The toasted bun was a little doughy but held up fine.

Beachmont Roast Beef (Beachmont) - This is the place that was on my mind and one of my big go tos when I was a young Christian Bale looking teenager. The place has been there for years and the diner car style building hasn't changed much since that time. I reminisced , by sitting at the booth style table that we used to occupy, and I chuckled, fondly recalling the time John Gurliaccio attempted and succeeded in fitting an entire Double Decker beef with sauce and cheese into his mouth at once. I wonder if he's fully digested it yet.

There was literally no one in this place except the unfriendly and unsmiling staff that stood behind the counter, (apparently not big Christian Bale or more appropriately, Vin Deisel fans)

The roast beef sandwich came out considerably hotter that Royal's, both in temperature and spice. The lightly toasted bun was pleasant enough, but to be honest it didn't live up to my memories. Maybe I needed to imbibe a six pack of Heffenreffers beforehand to regain my love for this place.

Bill & Bob's Roast Beef (Route 1 Malden) - Okay, there's no way that there's anyone named Bill or Bob in this place. This place is disgustingly dirty and not a place that should be considered for your wedding reception, children's birthday party or mitzvah. It was cheap, but the the sandwich was just okay and lacked body. B&B literally shave their beef to order, blast it in a microwave.  and drown it in sauce, which makes me wonder what they're hiding.  They also don't toast their bread, so the whole composition was mushy and uninspired. Usually, I would suggest pairing this type of sandwich with a hearty Cabernet or barolo, but a Pepsi seems more appropriate. It's not a bad place in a pinch, but if you're going to eat inside, don't forget your hazmat suit.

Kelly's Roast Beef (Route 1 Saugus) - Kelly's is regarded as the gold standard when it comes to these sandwiches, but I find it interesting that my brothers and many of my peers regard it as "shitty."  They are the most expensive of the places I visited and it was by far the busiest. I'm not sure how to explain this, but the Olive Garden is always busy despite the fact that their food is disgusting. Most people are aware of my views of the Gahden. Those places should be used as practice sites for military drone strikes. Take your bottomless (and tasteless) salad and your horrible bread sticks and die. I hate you, Olive Garden.

The Kelly's Roast Beef  sandwich was presented in a bulky style sesame seed bun that had a nice toasty crunch to it. Their beef is definitely cooked longer and is more medium to well compared to the other places that are on the medium rare to rare side.  They also slice it thicker than the other places, and some of the slices were reminiscent of the insole of a shoe.

I think the good people at Kelly's closely guard their sauce. You won't get it in bottles, you won't get the recipe and you barely get it in the sandwich itself, even if you ask for extra, heavy, smothered or saturated. They are Kelly's and you'll take what they give you, even if you look like Christian Bale.

All in all it was a fun little trip to occupy a busy mind on a rainy drive home. Having read many a RollingStone "Greatest of All Time" list, I expect you'll have your own view of each of these and maybe question why I didn't include your own favorite establishment. I would have, but I got full really fast.

One other thing; trying to differentiate between and judge all of these was difficult, but not nearly as difficult as explaining to my wife why i did it. I told her that many years from now when I die from natural causes, they'll examine me and find extra cheese and sauce in my brain.

Deb says, "That's if they find one.

Farewell From Bean

When I woke up this morning everybody treated me like I didn't know what was coming. Just because I didn't have the capability of speaking their language, they assumed I couldn't comprehend their forthcoming plans as well as the memories and recollections of all the cute things I did when I was a puppy and beyond. They've been talking about it for quite sometime and I'm thankful that they've finally made their decision, because truth be told, I'm ready for the next step of my journey.

I really did enjoy hearing the old tales (no pun intended) like the time Jack brought me along for the ride to get donuts, and while he was in grabbing coffees, I tore through two bags of sugar covered, fat fried dough. I would have laughed when I heard the young woman saying, "How cute. There's a dog in that car with a bag on his head." but I had a jelly donut between my jaws.  His car was a virtual crime scene littered with toasted coconut and chocolate sprinkles spattered all over the place. If I had more time (and opposable digits), I would have scrawled "Dog Shelter Skelter" on the windshield with rasberry jam.  That would have been legendary.

No, I'm ready. I've chased tennis balls up and down Florence street for a good 14 years and my legs simply no longer support my ambition. I no longer see very well and to quote Deb's mother, I'm now "deaf as a haddock. "This latter issue may be due to my advanced years or the consistent exposure to the loud music Jack plays around the house. I don't know what a Bono is, but it sounds irritating.

I know they'll all miss me. My brother Zachary and My sister Vanessa have been nothing but kind to me and never restricted me from hanging with their friends even when they were going through their really smelly teen years.  I haven't like all of their friends and thought that they should of smelled their bums a little more closely, but I guess they were all okay in their own way.  I guess I've always felt that it was partly my responsibility to see them though their childhood years. Now that they've grown I can rest and watch from afar.

Deborah, the woman and leader of the pack is going to be the toughest one to say farewell to. It was she that rescued me from the pound despite the worker who called me "Skittish" and suggested another from my litter. She thought I was smarter than the rest because I ate while the rest rested. The truth is, I was simply hungry. Timing in life is everything, so you should grab the kibble while you can.  She's been my companion and the love of my life, and I hers as documented by song. A song repeated by her for these 98 years.

I've given her my love and tried to repay her in little ways, like the time I bit Jack's finger when he was feeding me. I had no need to nip, but thought I could do a little light damage and stop the hideous guitar playing, thus offering my true mother some much needed peace. It was worth the scolding to not have to hear what the neighborhood refers to as "The Never Ending Medley."

I hope Florence Street stays true to its current form, thus despite the flood of new dogs. I've guarded the children for many years and did my part to keep the place clean, especially during the block parties and Soupahs. The place would be a disaster if I had not been there to cean up the dropped hot dogs, cakes, burgers, and half filled cups of soup and keg beer.

Long before I heard the men talking about the book, "The Art of Racing in the Rain", Tim would refer to me as a "bodhisattva" which is anyone who, motivated by great compassion, has generated bodhicitta which is a spontaneous wish to attain Buddahood for the benefit of all sentient beings. Like most times, I hadn't a clue what he was speaking about, but it sounded good and noble and it made my tail wag. 

Life is an interesting thing and I suppose so is what people regard as the end. Even though Jack and Deb treated me like one of the family, 98 years is a long time to be a dog and I have no regrets. That is except the times I was in the room during their mating ritual, and even those moments weren't too long to be that annoying.

Peace,

Bean, a.k.a, Browndog, a.k.a, Beandog,  a.k.a, Blockdog,  a.k.a, Love of Our Lives,  a.k.a, Boddhisattva!

Bald

It’s not an easy thing being a bald guy. There are numerous unspoken challenges that should warrant handicapped placards, plates and special access, but most of the fully “follicled” world just doesn’t seem to understand.   The goofs and insults come as people generally can’t help themselves and despite any sensitivity to the topic, they insist on offering their comments. I guess it’s an easy thing for them to pick on considering that most of us in this position have a beacon of a head illuminating, reflecting and calling to attention. It’s probably only a matter of time before some Youtube, reality based, and fame seeking goofball attempts to cash in by tattooing his head with a corporate logo for Taco Bell, The National Egg Council or Massingill. To be honest, no one has made more fun of my head than me. It ends up being a bit of a prop and my first strike comments may be a bit of a defense mechanism. I don’t mind being made fun of as long as it’s done by me. I want control over which I have had no control. My thinning was none of my doing and despite my longing for Sting and Bono to come and save my little rain forest, the deforestation continued to the point of complete desolation leaving the barren landscape that has remained.    

Some people are genuinely curious and ask different questions. The one I most often get is, “When did you start losing your hair?”  To which I jokingly respond, “As soon as I said, “I do”. When I said “I do” my hair follicles said, “We didn’t agree to this! We’re leaving.” Deb always affectionately responds, “Oh, they didn’t leave honey, they just moved down to your back.” Touché’, darling!

I’ll never forget the day that I actually decided to shave my head.  I was eating with one of my oldest and best friends, Ralph when he put down his sandwich and offered a bit of North End advice. The conversation went like this:

“We have to talk.”

“What about?”

“We need to talk about your head.”

“What about my head?”

“Look. You put up a good fight, but it’s all over.

“What?”

“And that salad thing that you’re doing in the back of your head, I don’t know what that’s supposed to be, but it bothers me.”

“That bad, huh?”

 It’s over man. Look, you’re a good looking guy and you’ve got a decent mug, so go home and just shave it off. Just end it.”

“Really, you think so?”

“All I know is tomorrow when I see you; I don’t want to see that thing anymore.”

And there’s the definition of a good friend. In all honesty I have had a number of those conversations, but I’ll save them for another day.  Needless to say, I did take his advice. That same Wednesday evening, when Deb went to work, our friend Rick who was a hairdresser at the time came over and cut it. Then he buzzed it. Then we shaved the whole damned thing off.

This, in typical Jack fashion was not well thought out. It was the middle of the week so there was no time to get used to it. It was also the middle of the winter so my head was white as snow and I resembled Lester Light Bulb. Also, I didn’t tell Deb I was going it. When she left work I kind of had a full head of hair. When she returned I looked like I was going through chemo.

When it was all said and done I went to clean the clippings which would have fit nicely into a small McDonald’s French Fries envelope. I had a plethora of emotions going through me. I was nervous to face the world with my new Shrek like appearance, especially everybody at work. I was excited because, well, it was kind of exciting. But more than anything I felt kind of liberated. The mystery of when and where it would end was over and it was what it was. The good thing was I could now enjoy the benefits of my sleek new appearance. Aside from the obvious aerodynamic improvements, I could now, without fear go swimming, agree to roll down the car windows, put the top down, frolic on the beach, or ride horses, much like the women on those commercials that boast that their women’s monthly protection devices, allow all types of fun activities without fear. Editor’s note: I tried like Hell to not write tampons, but it may have been funnier if I had.

You know how when you buy a new car, you start seeing the same one all over the place? It’s the same thing with the bald thing. Once I separated myself from the comb-over world, I saw that I was not alone and that I had a multitude of brethren in their uniforms. Uniforms you ask? Yes, the reality is that 99.9% of guys that shaved it away walk around with essentially the same look; cleanly shaved head and a goatee. I assume the goatee is some sort of half assed way of showing the world that we can actually grow hair above our necks, but most of the time I don’t wear one. I simply think it takes away from my boy-next-door looks. Editor’s note: Most goatees are actually Vandyke’s, but most people don’t know Dick about Vandykes…ba da da da da da da da da da da dum dump!

If by chance you find yourself in a similar situation, here are a couple of tidbits to consider, (in no specific order):

If you live where it’s cold, get a bunch of hats - The old myth is that most people lose up to 50% of their body heat through the top of their head. Well, you’re about to lose all of yours through your newly uninsulated noggin.  I wear a wool hat to bed during the winter time and despite my Ebenezer Scrooge appearance I find myself warm and toasty. This is a great birth control method as well, as this “way cool” look comes with an extra helping of celibacy.     

Leave a little scruff - This is one of those things they don’t tell you when you shave your head. If you go full on Mr. Clean, your wool hat has nothing to grab onto and will slip off like an ill-fitting condom (not that I would know about such things.) Last winter I was walking through downtown Boston and with each step my hat crept up off of my head little by little. I was not only humiliated, but really cold.

If you live in a place where it’s hot, make sure you wear sunblock. It’s bad enough that you’re bald; you don’t want to end up with a Gorbachev sized sunspot so you end up looking like a globe featuring Greenland.   

Lastly, don’t turn yourself into a caricature. Just because you have no hair it doesn’t give you license and it doesn’t help to start wearing goofy hats, loud shorts or whimsical t shirts that goof on your baldness. Don’t get vanity plates with playful acronyms or sayings, and no bowties…actually, that rule should go for everyone.   

Raise Your Hands

If you’ve ever done any serious strength training or what I’ve always called “lifting” you know that after a good session you can expect some soreness. Well, last week I started lifting again. There’s a woman that I know that is a serious fitness buff to the level of competition and magazine spreads.  Upon meeting her I said to myself, “That’s what I want my body to look like’ and after a few discussions, I shared my fitness goals and in turn she wrote out a strength training program.

I began last Saturday and I quickly impressed the other “lifters” in the room with my rainbow colored MC Hammer pants, spaghetti strapped Gold’s Gym t shirt and white lifting gloves as I grunted and growled. Once I moved the really heavy weight bench I did my thing, carefully following the prescribed routine.

The next day I was admittedly a little sore, but not really too bad, although I did have to have Deb open a jar of gerkins for me. The next day I woke up feeling like I had sassed talked Ike Turner in my sleep. I was largely immobile and Deb had to help me put on my socks.

That evening after work, I was scheduled to meet some friends and former colleagues who had just flown in from London and New York. We had a beer or two and caught up when someone in the crew suggested we move to a place called the Coat of Arms which is a little English style pub. The Brits became excited that they could grab a proper pint and throw a few darts.

Our crew which was comprised of four Englishmen all grew up in a pub culture and had been playing darts since they were boys. My friend Carlos who is a big presence in every way and is the anchor man of his local dart team, plus a few other New Yorkers and myself. Speaking of my own ability, I grew up in a house that always had a dart board, and I’ve always regarded myself as a competent player. I knew I would hold my own.

After much chop busting and boasting, sides were selected and we proceeded to play. Aside from out crew there were many onlookers who were intrigued by the different accents and high level of testosterone. When my turn arrived I confidently stood at the line, ready to impress with my skill and accuracy, but alas, the mind doesn’t always control the muscles. I let my dart fly in what initially appeared to be a beautiful arc, only to lose velocity halfway through its flight and it descended faster than Evil Knevil into Snake River Canyon. The image of the Challenger tragedy also came to mind.  The dart spiraled toward the floor but not before taking a good chunk of the wooden frame of the backboard.

The concussion of laughter was spontaneous, ear splitting and continuous as my game never recovered. I overcompensated and hit the wall, and never came close to my intended target. What’s worse is that although my teammates rallied and saved the day, I could not participate in the celebration of high fives because I couldn’t lift my arms.

Walking on Sunshine

I took a new job. One of ancillary benefits of this career move is that I’m now working literally 2.5 miles from Casa De Calabrese. I joked with my people, boasting that I would start walking to work, but most times when I conveyed this I neglected to mention that I worked in the very same building for five and half years and never walked once, but now I’m actually doing it. As with any of my life experiences I have a few observations to offer.

Of the 5,000 or so people that work in this complex, it appears I’m literally the only one walking.

I believe it is because of this fact that the walkway in the complex is extraordinarily dangerous because no one walks anymore and people aren’t use to looking up from their texts to notice the big bald pedestrian with the coconut shell headphones

Also, no one notices me while I’m standing at the edge of the cross walk waiting for someone to stop. It looks like I’m standing on the edge of the track at the Louden Speedway.

When people do notice me, they give me a double look with the expression of “Shoulda called a cab DUI GUY!”

Speaking of DUI, it was trash day here in Dover and as I walked along I noticed that almost every recycle bin was loaded with empty beer, wine and liquor bottles. I never realized how popular peppermint schnapps was up here. Also, as turned the corner to what is the longest stretch of my walk, a trash truck pulled up just ahead of me and I had the luxury of following its rancid smell for a good mile. When I made it into work, I had to douse myself with extra Hai Karate so I wouldn’t smell like Haymarket in July.  

If you happen to be driving through Dover and you see me walking along and singing, don’t stop to offer me and Hall & Oates a ride. We’re really doing this intentionally.

Sunday Gravy

Some people regard it as a sacred thing and some people regard it as a family tradition, consistent and reliable. Some people will argue to the death that it is to be called, “gravy” or more appropriately, “The Gravy” while many other confused individuals will contend that gravy is brown and the red stuff that flows over pasts or what gravy lovers call macaroni (that’s another story) is sauce.

In any event, here’s my take on the Calabrese Sunday gravy. There may be variations from family member to family member, but this is your guide to that delectable, slow simmering, bread dipping, molten bubbling Sunday concoction.

Ingredients:

One Large Onion (large yellow or sweet)

Dried Oregano (believe it or not, dry is better than fresh)

Fresh Sweet Basil (dried is fine if you can’t get the fresh stuff)

1-2 bay leaves

Salt (to taste)

Pepper (to taste)

2 cans of Pastene ground peeled tomatoes

2 cans Tuttarosa ground peeled tomatoes

1.5 pounds of sweet Italian sausage
.5 pound of hot Italian sausage
One small pork butt (stop freaking out, it’s the shoulder)
1 half bulb of garlic (fresh, not dried, powdered or that disgusting crap you get in a jar)
3 cups red wine (doesn’t have to be expensive stuff, 2 cups for the sauce, one for you while you’re cooking)

Process:

Get up early as you’ll want this to be simmering by about 9:00

Put on some nice classical or Italian music. Sinatra’s nice, Bennett or Bocelli work well too.

Pour a glass of wine (yes, I know it’s only 8:00 in the morning, but it’s Sunday and you’re making pretend you’re Italian…actually you’re making pretend you’re an alcoholic)

Mince the garlic with a sharp knife and place in a heavy stockpot that has a healthy drizzle of olive oil (not extra virgin as it has a low smoke point). Let the garlic slowly cook on your stoves lowest setting. (It may not even look like it’s cooking at first, but trust me that cooking is slow will mellow out the flavor and bring out the garlic’s natural sweetness.)

In another pan brown the pork butt (cut it up into smaller chucks, but not too small)

Once all sides of the pork butt are browned, take out of the pan and reserve.
Brown all sides of the sausage
Once your garlic has softened take it out of the pot, but keep as much of the oil as possible.
Chop the onion into 1 inch pieces and place into olive oil. Slowly cook until softened. Don’t let it brown.
Pour another glass of wine
Once the onions are softened, place the sausage and pork in the pan
Add the four cans of tomatoes
Pour approximately two cups of the wine into one of the empty tomato cans and swirl to get remaining tomatoes, repeat with the other three cans.
Add the softened garlic
Add wine into pot with other ingredients
Add oregano (about a table spoon)
Add dried basil (about a tablespoon) If you’re using fresh, add to sauce once the cooking is complete
Add salt, pepper to taste
Add bay leaf (some people pull these out at the end of cooking. My family always kept it in. If it ended up on your plate when you were eating, it meant you’d have good luck, and you wouldn’t have to help doing the dishes. Sometimes we’d reverse it, and you’d have to do all the dishes! I almost choked myself trying to hide the fact that I got the Bay Leaf once…that was last week)

 

Bring all ingredients to a boil then lower the heat to a slow simmer. Stir periodically, taste constantly.

My gravy is usually simmering on the stove for 4 hours or so.
Walk by periodically and dip bread in to taste
Keep listening to music and keep drinking wine.  

Eggs in Purgatory

One other thing we like to do is something called “eggs in purgatory.” This works a little better when the gravy is cold.
Take a deep roasting pan and add enough gravy so it’s about an inch and a half to two inches deep in the pan.
With a spoon, create a little hole in the gravy and gently crack a raw egg to fill the hole. Repeat so you have 4 to 6 (depending upon how many people you’re feeding
Place in preheated 375 degree oven and cook till eggs are softly cooked through
Take out of oven and sprinkle parmesan cheese
Serve with thick cut grilled bread (on the barbecue so you get those cool grill marks)

 

Enjoy!

 

 

I Believe!

I, like most people want to believe in a higher power, and it is with this in mind that I seek evidence of a devine force. This morning while I was getting ready for work, I noticed that our inattentive offspring neglected to restock the roll in our downstairs bathroom. While I intended to attend to it, I became distracted and continued preparing myself for the day. A brief time later nature called and I retreated to the downstairs bathroom only to find that the once empty holder had magically been transformed and now featured a big new white roll, full enough to wrap myself and anyone else willing into a Charmin Mummy Cocoon. Niether of the kids were around, so it must of been the act of a higher power. 

You who are reading this may or may not believe, but at that moment I conveyed my thanks. 

Insult to Injury

One of the things they don't tell you when you live your life as a bald man is that in the winter time when you shave your head clean, your knitted winter hat has nothing to hold onto and refuses to stay perched atop of your Lester Lightbulb, Uncle Fester, Shrek like head. If that's not bad enough, the next day the knitted cap refuses to come off of your head due to the Velcro effect of knitted fabric and your horse-shoe shaped, 5 O'clock shadowed stubble.

On the bright side, the lack of quaff reduces wind resistance and allows you to run super fast. This assuming you can run super fast in the first place. Which of course, I can't.

Patriots Playoff Loss

It pains me to see everyone around here so bummed out because our millionares lost to Baltimore's. No potential SuperBowl victory for us. I guess the local, rabid sports fans will now have to wait for the Bruins to win the Stanely Cup before they can turn cars over, burn dumpsters and riot in the streets.

Mistaken Identity

Yesterday, I was driving through South Carolina. While I was waiting at a red light I noticed a young, pretty girl in the sports car in front of me. She saw me in her rear view mirror and immediately smiled and waved. It was obvious that she thought she recognized me, but quickly realized I wasn't her good friend Christain Bale. At the next light I thought about pulling up beside her and saying, "Hey, you thought I was one of your really good looking friends, huh?" but I decided not to. I didn't want to risk her saying, "Oh, sorry about that. I though you were my dad."