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."

We All Scream

Last night I decided the conditions were right for me to go for a little run, which means there was no one in the neighborhood that was out and about, meaning there was no one to thrust a beer, cigar or any other legal implement of destruction in my hand. Who knows, maybe I was inspired by the Olympics. One other thing I should note is that I describe the run as "little." I almost used the adjective "quick", but truth be told there wasn't anything quick about it.

I decided to use the running method highlighted in the best selling book, "Born to Run" by Christopher McDougall which suggests that runners should run on the balls of their feet or their toes, especially when going long distances. Considering my mini marathon would take me on a trek in excess of two...yes two, miles I figured I'd employ the toe running thing. The reality of it is, if you ask anyone that I grew up with, they'd tell you that my brothers and I walked on our toes anyway, so no real risk.

I ran at a slow pace and pranced through the streets of Dover like a big over sized, bald gazelle, and my legs felt great, but I started to experience a little discomfort in my chest. The mild burning worried me for a second especially when I remembered that said author Christopher McDougall had died on a run, but I was quickly comforted by a more recent memory. This memory was of myself just minutes before my run, standing in front of an open refrigerator eating 3 or 4 slices of cheap bologna bathed in cheap yellow mustard. Was that mustard or retard?

I pressed on, and with no music to inspire or distract me I skipped closer to home. I ran down a side street and took a right just as an ice cream truck took a left onto my street.  I ran into my neighborhood which was now occupied by friends and neighbors who watched what appeared to be yours truly chasing the Ice Cream man. The sad thing is no one thought this remarkable.

Diner

There's a little diner that sits in the shadow of Plymouth State University where my daughter is attending college this fall, (shameless proud father plug, thank you very much.)  The diner is one of those classic places with a long counter, anchored stools, heavy white coffee mugs and a sign that boasts booth service.

My daughter and I were attending the second day of Plymouth State's orientation, and with a little salesmanship I persuaded Vanessa to abandon breakfast at the cafeteria to try out the greasy spoon. Upon telling Deb this, she was less than pleased that I was already conditioning our little one to skip things.

The diner was fairly quiet with only a handful folks of drinking coffee, reading the morning paper and chatting about the news of the day. Vanessa and I sat and were doing the same when she asked me why I liked these types of places. I told her that they were usually an anchor of small town life where people gathered. I told her that you can get a sense of the community and by talking with people you can learn just about everything that is going on, from the recent scandal,  local politics and little league scores.

We ordered breakfast and were talking about Vanessa's upcoming adventure when Neil Young's "After the Gold Rush" began playing on the radio. Without prompt or acknowledgement the waitress started quietly singing the verses to herself, as did the gentleman sitting at the counter. The couple a few booths down from us were each contributing with one quietly singing the few select words he knew while his companion only hummed along. Admittedly, I was quietly doing my best falsetto as I was all in a dream, all in a dream.

It only lasted a few seconds, but it was a great spontaneous demonstration of my point. A brief moment in time that was pure, nostalgic and simple, just like the diner.

Eye Can't Believe This Stuff Happens to Me.

I have a nice little image for you to start you day with. Last week I developed an eye issue. My eyes were more swollen and baggy than my usual "Sicilian curse" look. Initially, Deb thought the swelling could be alleviated by the fashion/home remedy of putting sliced cucumbers on my eye lids. I no sooner laid down with the cukes on my eyes, when one of our dogs came over, sniffed me and ate one of them off of my face.




Eventually, I had to go to the ophthamologist who prescribed two separate eye drops. One was thin and clear, but the other was a cloudy white thick goop. The next day I had to fly to NYC on business. I was running late all morning and barely got to the gate before my flight. I thought it important to put the drops in before I got on the plance. I grabbed a seat in the open and crowded terminal, leaned my head back and put it in the clear drops with no issue, but the thick white crap wouldn't go in. I either kept missing or it would get caught up on my eye lashes. As a hundred or so people were lined up to board the flight I was sitting in front of them with this white syrup running down my face and not a napkin in sight.



Can't wait to read the comments on this one. By the way, my eye is better. Thansk so much for your concern.

Don't Stare Into the Sun

Okay, I only have a few minutes to write this, but it's still making me chuckle.


There's this guy I see at the gym all of the time. Actually, it's probably more accurate to say that I see him there the occassional times I go to the gym, but that's beside the point.

He's a pretty big guy, and he's pretty cool, friendly and funny. The other day I turned into the Men's locker room to see him standing there "buck naked" and a good forty pounds lighter than the last time I saw him. Being the nice guy I am, I instinctively almost blurted out to this unclothed, full frontal dude, "Wow! You look amazing!" It was right there on the tip of my tongue, but thank God I caught myself.

Look, there's nothing wrong in one guy complimenting another guy, but when it comes to the locker room, whether someone is improving, has something in their teeth or they inadverntenly leave their zipper down, they're on their own. You didn't see nothin...

A Different Kind of Night

We have always welcomed people over

but this was a different kind of night

We sat around the large square table

and passed crisp greens and freshly made pasta

The smell of slow cooked garlic steeped in oil wafed throughout the warm house

Much like it has many times before

but this was a different kind of night

Dinner ended and the empty plates remained but the warm red wine continued to flow

as did the words of the poets who had brought us together

We shared the words of newly discovered friends

And read aloud Bukowski, Collins, Oliver and Kooser

but not before we "Howled" with Allen

We each took a page and read with our own little spin

No one being perfect with a slight stumble, stammer and mistep

but it was honest and we all rode together

transcended through each verse, line and stansa

It was a different kind of night

And Deb asked what it meant

And Claude said that it didn't matter

And it didn't.

Rush Hour

I took a drive yesterday, and as I usually do I flipped through the different radio channels in search of new sonic adventures. I’m a button pusher by nature so I quickly drifted past the top 40 stations and made my way through the lower number and left side of the dial where a lot of the independents, college stations and talk radio reside. I landed on a station that was broadcasting Rush Limbaugh. My father in law is a big fan so I figured I’d give a quick listen in the hopes of understanding their perspective.


I only listened for a few minutes, but those minutes were filled with Rush’s theory that all people who subscribe to and purchase organic food are liberals. This didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, but I continued to listen as he politicized organic heads of lettuce and free range chickens. He went on to say that Adolph Hitler was a vegetarian which gave me an immediate vision of Old Adolph meticulously arranging his asparagus spears in the shape of a Swastika.

Overall, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I know there are a lot of people who dislike Rush’s politics, but I found him inspiring. I took that inspiration and got an organic salad.

Dino Duds

I just had a close call.

We’re currently watching a woman’s chihuahua while she’s sorting out her current living situation. He’s a cute little guy, but he’s not nearly as house trained as our own k9’s. I just walked upstairs and I was barefoot as I had just come out of the shower. As I walked, I felt a little cold squish on my foot so I immediately took my weight off and averted an accident on top of an accident. 

I went into the bathroom and grabbed some tissue to remove the offending nugget. But when I returned to the hallway it seemed to have vanished. Oh, it was there, but the fact is is that I’m colorblind so I was playing “Where’s Waldo” with what I assumed was a  piece of poo. 

Then I found it agin. Unfortunately, the way I found it was the same way I had found it the first time, but again, realizing what was happening, my reflexes reacted and the perfect sphere remained as such. 

Picking it up, I gave it a quick look and wondered whether it was a true Dino dropping or a dropped Milk Dud that the kids were eating. “Well, there’s only one way to find out!”  


As horrified as you may be, you shouldn’t fret because disaster was averted. 

Funny thing about those Milk Duds. I’m not sure why the kids eat them. They taste like dog poop. 

Book Group

I’ve never been part of a book group before and to be honest I’ve always been a hit or miss reader. I spent most of my school years avoiding relationships with the likes of Arthur Miller, Charles Dickens and Chaucer, and instead spent my time in the picture filled pages of Creem, Rolling Stone and Hit Parader. For years I couldn’t tell you the characters in Huckleberry Finn, but I could easily rattle off the original line up of the Allman Brothers, Moody Blues or tell you who played lead on “You Really Got Me (it was Jimmy Page).”

Our book group has been affectionately referred to as “Gay Man’s Book Club” for no other reason that it seems strange to guys outside of our group to have a bunch of dudes sitting around munching on finger food and discussing the plot lines, themes, symbolism and merits of Toni Morrison’s “Soma.” When I mention the book group to other friends I always try to toughen our image up by letting them know that the books are really an excuse to imbibe good bourbon, drink beer, fart, and relive our days of past glory, but to be honest it never really works. I may as well be telling them that I’m part of a knitting circle. I always get questions like, “Does the best kisser get to pick the book”, and “is it a formal event or can you wear any old dress?” Why can’t we just all get along?

Speaking of dresses, there’s another book group in our neighborhood that has been organized, facilitated and attended by the women folk in the hood and their ever expanding circle of friends. They have had a consistent streak of reading, meeting and discussing for nine or so years. They appear to be very organized, prepared and they have a system that they utilize to pick their selections. There may be literary weighting and voting involved, and their discussions are probably far more thought provoking than we’ve been able to conjure up. I suspect if they wished to, they could channel their collective energy and intellect and change the world, but in defense of us guys and our meetings… we usually have chicken wings.

The thing about the books that get selected is that they seem to reflect the personalities of the guys who do the selecting. You can definitely pick out the differences between the picks of literary types and what I’ll refer to as the Average Joes. The literary types have provided deep meaning and dense offerings that are widely respected some receiving Pulitzer recognition, while the Average Joes offer tales of football players, private eyes and the occasional crazed zombie invasion.

A few evenings ago I satisfied my wife’s curiosity of our latest reading assignment and read aloud from the first chapter of House of Holes by Nicholson Baker. She lay quietly enjoying the warmth of the electric blanket while I delivered each sentence and paragraph. As the story began to unfold about the woman who found the detached arm, brought it home, fed it fish food and let it sexually molest her and her roommate, Deb grew anxious and stated, “Is this the type of crap you guys have been reading?” What the hell type of deranged book group are you a part of and who’s the sicko who picked this book?” Then she said, “Keep reading. I want to find out what happens next!” As I said, the books reflect the group.

To be honest, I haven’t been able to make heads nor tales of the artistic merit of what we’ve read or what any of it means. That’s why I’m also reading the “Stairway to Heaven: Led Zeppelin Uncensored.” Now that’s some good writing!

Gift Advice

I ran into a friend of mine the other day while we were Christmas Shopping. During our brief conversation, she said she was thinking about writing a book about all the bad gifts people get during the holidays. Much of this was inspired by the countless horrible and ridiculous gifts she had been given by her goofy, off the mark husband. I thought it was a cute idea, so after a little thought I sent her along a top ten list of gift no no's:

10: Never buy anything practical, especially if it's something she can use on you. I don't care how badly you need a new vacuum cleaner, every time it sucks she'll be reminded that the gift did too. Steak knives are a particularly bad idea.

9. It may say it right on the card, but in a relationship, a gift certificate is not a gift, period.

8. Buying something for yourself and trying to pass it off as a gift for her will never work. No matter how cool she may think a plasma TV is, she doesn't want one for Christmas, her birthday and especially your anniversary. Buy it for yourself and take the heat you selfish bastard...

7. Lingerie is a dangerous area and should be avoided. If you go too conservative, she'll resent the gift. If you go too aggressive she'll think you're a pig (which of course...you are.) Feetie pajamas are cute and may work. Forget anything crotchless.

6. When mapping out your present shopping, avoid the following locations: Home Depot, Spencer Gifts, Radio Shack and Hickory Farms.

5. Chocolates and champagne are like broccoli and carrots. They're the side dish, not the present.

4. No porno, especially if you're in it.

3. No beef jerky, ever.

2. Unless you are a craftsman or a jeweler, avoid making gifts. No paper mache, no finger painting and no Play-Do.

1. If she tells you that she doesn't want anything and you find yourself on that special day with nothing but your manhood in your hand, get comfortable because that's how you're going to be for a long, long...Long time.

Good luck everybody!

The Gift

I get sent a lot of stuff. Jokes, limericks, riddles and poems. Many of them aren't very good, but some make me laugh and they always bring an appreciated smile. Of all the funny things I've been sent, this one has always been my favorite. It's a little naughty, but it's nothing by today's standards. It's called "The Gift."

A young man wanted to purchase a Christmas gift for his new sweetheart, and as they had not been dating very long, after careful consideration, he decided a pair of gloves would strike the right note: romantic, but not too personal.

Accompanied by his sweetheart's younger sister, he went to Nordstrom and bought a pair of white gloves. The sister purchased a pair of panties for herself.

During the wrapping, the clerk mixed up the items and the sister got the gloves and the sweetheart got the panties. Without checking the contents, the young man sealed the package and sent it to his sweetheart with the following note:

"I chose these because I noticed that you are not in the habit of wearing any when we go out in the evening. If it had not been for your sister, I would have chosen the long ones with the buttons, but she wears short ones that are easier to remove."

"These are a delicate shade, but the lady I bought them from showed me the pair that she had been wearing for the past three weeks and they were hardly soiled. I had her try yours on for me and she looked really smart."

"I wish I was there to put them on for you the first time, as no doubt other hands will come in contact with them before I have a chance to see you again."

"When you take them off, remember to blow in them before putting them away as they will naturally be a little damp from wearing."

"Just think how many times I will kiss them during the current year. I hope you will wear them for me on Friday night. All my love.

"P.S. The latest style is to wear them folded down with a little fur showing."

My Tribute to Andy Rooney - First Date

My kids are at an age where they are engaged with the opposite sex. I'd like to be able to convey great words of wisdom that may help them as they navigate through their various oncoming relationships, but the fact is, I don't have the "stuff". Case in point: here's my best advice regarding first dates:

When you're out to dinner on a first date it's important to consider the food you'll be eating in front of the person your trying to impress.

I would think of all the foods you'll want to avoid, French Onion Soup would have to be first on your list.

Just imagine yourself using your teeth to reel in that never ending string of cheese like some half assed illusionist.

When in reality, the only magic trick you've accomplished is making your second date disappear.

I don't know why, but this is the crap that occurs to me.

Anybody Got a Filter I Can Borrow?

A Friend of a friend told me about a friend who's friend was looking through his father's iPad. There, he discovered that dear old dad was visiting web sites that were more than a bit shocking.

Knowing this prim and proper gentleman, I was amused by the story and shared it with Deb who responded with a gasp of disbelief, shocked at such a scandalous discovery. She was especially disturbed because the gentleman in question was a very clean cut upstanding citizen and just an all around nice guy.

Later that evening I was reading in bed and I gazed at my always beautiful but always practical better half. I looked her over and noted her favorite fuzzy and well worn slippers. Calling them fuzzy is somewhat inaccurate because the fuzz had been matted down and worn away. She was also wearing a pair of pajamas that I had purchased for her about a decade ago. They were tattered and torn with rips in the knees. Also, due to hundreds of washes they were a few inches too short in the legs displaying her mismatched socks. To keep herself warm, she was wearing my old fleece jacket that I wear around the house and to do yard work. It's about 10 sizes too big for Deb so the sleeves went well past her hands. The jacket had multiple burn holes from cigar ashes and camp fires.

As she stood there, she let out a sigh and said, "I can't believe that Steve was looking at that web site. He's so nice, I'm just shocked!"

To which I replied, "Well, some guys just have their little fetishes."

Deb barked back, "Oh yeah, what's yours?"

"Apparently, homeless women."

...sometimes I just need to keep my mouth shut.

There Goes The Neighborhood

So picture this:

My brother Jimmy and I went to Florida, but before we hit the airport we stopped at Santarpio's for a little dinner since the airlines don't serve their sh*tty food anymore.

We were there with Jimmy's wife and his two boys, and we all squeezed into a booth with Jimmy's wife and two boys sitting across from us.

After a little food and a few beers we sat and talked in the crowded restaurant, when nature called on Jimmy's kids.

His wife Patty grabbed the two kids and brought them to the rest room. While Jimmy and I were sitting there, I noticed the last lonely slice that was sitting there in the traces of oil and corn meal.

I started kidding around trying to get Jimmy to eat the last slice and started to hold it near his face saying, "C'mon...you know you want it."

Just then two older Eastie vets walked by on their way out and looked at us with disgust.

That's when I realized that we were sitting on the same side of an otherwise empty booth.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

There's a hole in the ground where the McDonald's used to be. It's not that Micky D's has packed up and headed off somewhere else, it's that they're building a bigger restaurant, if you can call or categorize McDonald's as a restaurant.

I drove by the fenced off hole and had a brief daydream about how this probably came about. It's a little silly, and it made me chuckle, but there's probably a bit of sad truth to it.

I pictured a board room of McDonald's execs who are in the midst of a staff meeting. It goes a little something like this:

District Manager: "We have a problem in our Dover store. The people there have gotten too fat to get into the restaurant. We need to come up with a solution and we need to come up with it quick. Who's got an idea for a possible solution? Johnson!"

Johnson: "Why don't we start offering more health conscious foods that have lower calories and lower trans fats. We could also reduce the size of the "sugary" sodas. I mean who needs to drink 64 ounces of Coke in one sitting?"

District Manager: Hmmm...That would make a lot of sense. Hmmm, Johnson?"

Johnson: "Yes sir?"

District Manager: "You're fired! Clean out your McDesk and get out of here. Okay, does anybody else have any bright ideas? How about you Smith?"

Smith: "Why don't we build a bigger restaurant with wider doors, wider reinforced seats, and ramps so people can ride their scooters right to the counter?

District Manager: "Smith, you're going places. Let's get your plan into action. Who's ready for lunch?"

end

Men's Large Contingent Weigh in #4

Okay, things are beginning to get a little strange in this little competition. I’m not certain if it’s due to the fact that the clock is ticking and the calendar is dissipating faster than our contestants, but people are getting a bit whacky with their weight loss strategies. During our regularly scheduled weigh-in, our courageous calorie counting carbohydrate avoiding, cream puff filled contestants once again gathered in the small confines of my office to stand and be measured.

I was the first to be weighed and documented a suspicious 3.5 pound weight loss. The suspicion associated with the weight loss is due to the fact that I have been ill with a fever over the past three or four days. Ralph and company suspect that I contracted the virus on purpose, probably by going to various public places and licking door knobs, faucet handles, and any other “cootie” infested surface in the greater Sea Coast area. My wife dismisses the reduction as a mere loss of manhood, as she reports that I was such a pussy while I was sick, that I lost any ounce of respect she had for my masculinity.

Ralph came into the weigh in with a loss of a two pounds, this despite the fact that he is now questioning the accuracy of the scale we’ve been using. Apparently, wife Janine purchased a scale that puts Ralph a whole ten pounds lighter than he’s tracking on our official scale. Janine must have purchased the scale at the Disney store as the weight Ralph said he weighs in at home is straight out of Fantasy Land. Regardless, we all wish Ralph and his Magical scale the best of luck in the final two weeks.

Stephen was next on the scale and has obviously employed the unusual strategy of cutting away small pieces of his clothing that contribute to his overall body mass. This has to be the case, as I can’t imagine a grown forty five year old man showing up for a weigh in fully knowing that that he has to remove his shoes, and showing up with holes in his socks. I’m just thankful that we’re not stripping down to our skivvies, as I can just imagine what kind of shape his Scooby Doo underwear are in…and I don’t care to find out. I suppose that I can’t really fault him as he did log in a modest weight loss of 2.5 pounds.

Our only loser who is labeled as a loser, cuz’ he didn’t lose, is brother Tim. This despite the fact that Tim states that he ran 5 miles just the day before the weigh in. Tim looked sincerely perplexed and we were all a bit perplexed for him. Is it the fact that the 5 miles wasn’t enough to offset all of the beer, brats and bologna throughout the week? Looking at him, we couldn’t attribute the gain to him building muscle. Maybe the measurement tool he used to measure the 5 miles came from the same mystical place where Janine bought Ralph’s magical scale. The mystery continues and may be only solved by “Those Meddling Kids” on Stephen’s Scooby Doo Underoo’s.

With only two weeks left in the contest, our pathetic, pie eating, pizza indulging participants will have to really turn up the heat if they wish to attain their goal weights. Despite all of the bravado and kidding, we all do have our goals and dreams in this contest. It would be nice to look down and see my waist size 32 jeans again. Now that I think of it, it would be just nice to be able to see my feet.

Men's Large Contingent - Weigh In #3

Like the 2004 Red Sox, the valiant members of the Large Men’s Contingent displayed great courage and perseverance with a stunning come-back in weigh in #3. Our trusty scale was greatly relieved and thankful to not have the carry the full burden of the prior week’s poundage as three out of four of our contestants came in under their previous documented and disgraceful “weigh-in” weights.

The recently slandered Ralph was apparently so distraught by the inaccurate reporting of his previous weight that he went on a temporary hunger strike and lost 1 pound. It would have been much more than that but when he heard himself being referred to as Gandhi, he thought we said “candy” and he ran to the corner store for some Mallow Cups. The Sunday trip to the casino for slots and all you can eat Chinese was reported to be an additional contributing factor. Apparently, losing at the casino doesn’t correlate to losing actual body mass. The "Big as a house" always wins.

Tim who was also a loser of 2.5 pounds this week credited his loss to time spent on his elliptical rider. He would have lost more if his wife would have stopped kicking him off of the damned thing. Tim has complained that his weight readings have been influenced by the additional weight of his wife “being on his back all of the time.” Tim has been so inspired by marriage that he’s taken to running away from home. Thus far, he’s only been able to get three miles or so before he gets cold, tired, hungry and missing his miss’s.

There’s not much to report about Stephen who was our only gainer this week, and only by a mere half pound. You would think that the only bachelor in the group would be able to excel past the competition, but Stephen is finding that abstaining from the pepperoni and sausage on his pizzas may not be enough to influence a significant loss. There’s a rumor that Stephen actually exercised last week, but those rumors turned out to be him merely passing by a PX90 infomercial while trying to find the Food Network. He did, however complain of soreness from this incidental activity.

I myself lost 2.5 pounds which is a miracle considering the trip to the Newbridge Café, the multiple Guinness at the Pogues show or the full on southern picnic we had at our house on Sunday. Jack History Month continues to take its toll on my progress and I’m hoping my weight loss will increase once the narcissistic, egomania that is Jack History Month comes to an end. There was some controversy by the other contestants that I had an unfair advantage because of the lack of hair on my head. Once I showed the boys my back hair, and once they stopped retching, they dropped their concern and offered their collective sympathy.

As we move into our weekly weigh ins, there’s more focus and an increased opportunity to challenge each other, as well as more opportunities to bust each other’s chops. For those of you, who have nothing better to do than follow this silliness, please remember that this competition is rooted in the spirit of nutrition, health, camaraderie and goodwill, so please, no wagering and no more sending in doughnuts.

Jack History Month - Frequently Asked Questions

What the Hell is Jack History Month supposed to be? Okay, February is Black History Month and it just so happens that my birthday is the beginning of the following month and Jack seems to appear to rhyme with Black. no disrespect to the prior month and the dedication to a fine people, but Jack History Month is an opportunity to introduce a little levity and cure us of our seasonal affective disorder. It started out as a joke and a goof and spoof. Hey, it’s hopefully harmless fun and something to do, and I’m not asking you to help in my Mafia war, stock my farm or paste my post into your post if you have no post to post.

Are the stories real? Yes, the stories are usually rooted in some historical event, but they’ve been embellished to make them a bit more readable and entertaining, which is a nice way of saying that there’s an element of bull sh*t to them. Let’s call them “Historical fiction. Hopefully, you found some of them hysterical fiction. My wife just says I’m delusional.

Are you really that much of an idiot, I mean what’s wrong with you? The sad fact of the matter is that I’m a bit of a goof ball. Always was, and always will be, but my perspective of this is much like that of male pattern baldness. You can try to comb it over, but everyone still knows what you’re trying to hide. It’s better and far more liberating to embrace it and enjoy the advantages of it. Bald people who shave their head have no problem with the wind, running, or swimming. Self proclaimed goof balls can do goofy things and people say, “well, he’s just being Jack.” It is what it is.

You mentioned my name in a post, shouldn’t I receive royalties or some other form of compensation? More than likely, if you were mentioned, you run in the same social and intellectual category as me, which means at some point you’ll receive some type of government support or an honorarium from a scientific research foundation. Seriously, it doesn’t ever look like I’ll derive any income from this endeavor so, don’t hold your breath.

Do you have a real job? Where do you find the time to write this crap? Yes, I’m gainfully employed, but I do try to carve out a little time in the evenings to write. As you can tell, I’m not a professional writer. My process usually involves a little inspiration, a little wine, and a lot of spell checking. Contrary to public (and my wife’s) belief, I’m not actively on Facebook 24/7. I usually have it on in the background and refer to it when I have some free time.

Are you available for personal appearances or private parties? No, Deb says I can’t do this anymore. The last and only time I made a public appearance was at a local nursing home. I addressed some old ladies Red Hat society. Unfortunately, they kept whooping, whistling, and using their false teeth like castanets while they shoved dollar bills into the waistband of my pants. Thankfully, I out ran their walkers and Little Rascal scooters to safety. Thankfully, I only had to push a few of them out of my way. Actually, it wasn’t a total waste. The tapioca, strained spinach and whipped haddock were delicious!

Do you have any political aspirations or a plan for world peace? Actually, yes. I hope to vote in the next political election and maybe the one after that. As far as world peace goes, I think it would be really cool if everybody was just a bit nicer to each other. Those who have gravitated to these pages to share stories, pictures and communicate seem to possess the fundamentals of what a community should be. The boys from the band WAR said it best when they asked, Why Can’t We Be Friends? Well, why not!

Men's Large Contingent - Weigh in #2

They say that what goes up must come down, and if this hypothesis is true, then it must also be true that what goes down must also come up, yes? Today was a big yes.

The learned gentlemen who are currently competing in the "Men's Large Contingent" weight loss competition proved today that we are far better sprinters than marathoners with each of our respective weight loss strategies sputtering out just past the starting line. Actually, given our dismal results, I'm not sure that any of us could be confused with anyone who sprints, runs, Zumbas or any other calorie burning activity other than the incidental calorie burning that occurs while eating.

Each of us gathered in my office this morning, some with their punitive $20 ready in hand to pay the penalty for losing ground and gaining mass, belly or ass. One by one we took our turns stepping on the scale looking at results that rivaled our SAT scores and wondered what we could have done to prevent the upward slide.

I went first and was disappointed to see that I had gained back a half pound. I wondered where I went astray. Could it have been the countless birthday celebrations, the week in Chicago complete with the classic Chicago dog, or maybe it was the two slices of Sausage, Onion and Ricotta pizza I had the night before the weigh in? It was a mystery thicker than the Fribbles that pulse through my veins.

Ralph went next and found himself two plus pounds from his last reading. could it have been the multiple slices of pizza that he ingested to counter act the many beers he had Saturday night? Maybe the multiple fast food stops on his way to Florida, or could it have been the Chinese food and Banana Split he had the night before he weighed in? It seems like a mystery worthy of those who dedicate their lives to investigating the Loch Ness Monster, Big Foot and Charlie Sheen's sobriety.

Tim and Stephen went next and had the same results and the same pathetic recollections of a nutrition plan that as Ozzy would say, was "going off the rails of the gravy train." We each sat in a circle and recounted our moments of weakness, sharing tales of beer, burgers, slices and vices. Our individual disclosures were like a half ass AA meeting, except that when someone offered their lapses, the rest of us made yummy sounds and salivated like an inebriated late night Beachmont Roast Beef customer. There would be no six month chips awarded today. Did someone say chips?

All of us paid our penalty, and felt great shame.

Men's Large Contingent Part 2 - Weigh in #1

It’s the second Monday of the Men’s Large Contingent Contest which means that we had our first weigh in this morning. Once again I stole Deb’s bathroom scale, hid it under my coat and brought it into work, much like the records I used to borrow from my father to bring to school. I walked into our building looking like I was participating in some weird Show and Tell day.
Unfortunately, only three out of the four participating contestants were available for the 9:30 weigh in. Our fourth, Stephen was unavailable, and immediately the rumors and chop busting ensued. “He’s a bluff!” “He’s at IHOP” “He’s at a fried dough and Ice Cream sundae eating contest.” “He wants a third chin!” He’s fast food binging under some bridge in Charlestown.” Yes indeed, there’s a lot of love in this contest.

The weigh-ins is a somewhat critical component to our competition. In addition to helping keep us on track, for those who are not, means that their financial burden would be increased by $20 each time they weighed in over what they had weighed in previously. Basically, you pay if you lose ground.

This potential punitive action prompted our heroic contestants to employ various strategies which included, voiding the contents of pockets, (Something that hadn’t been done during the initial weigh in) and voiding anything else that potentially adds to our gravitational pull. I’ll let you use your own imagination, but the contestants seemed to appreciate having to get rid of whatever it was in comparison to the initial weigh in where they desperately tried to “hold it in.”
We each took our turn stepping on the scale, and much to our surprise, despite the overindulgence of the Super Bowl (Ralph’s texts were particularly entertaining, especially the one that stated, “I’m eating like I’m going to the electric chair!”) and our respective travel schedules, we each lost about 6 pounds.

It was a great start and we congratulated each other with great enthusiasm. Then we went to an “all you can eat” Chinese Buffet. I wish I could tell you that I’m kidding…but I’m not.

Off to the gym and something called the Sparticus work out. See you in the E.R!

Amtrak

I'm riding the rails, travelling south
Listening to old R.E.M
Already, I'm missing the one I love

Does travelling by train still hold romance
Now that I can plug in, log on, download and Tweet?
Instead, I write long hand
A stream of consciousness recorded with each passing tie

Outside the salt caked cars are halted
Their early Sunday morning drivers impatiently wait while my adventure slowly clangs, clicks and rolls by

The snow blanketed landscape passes by my window,
cold, stark and pale like those early U2 videos when they really seemed to matter
The scene changes with each mile, from this and desolate woods to the small fishing shanty's spread out across a frozen drift

Rusted cars lay in a salvage yard much like the headstones that peek up through the accumulation
Long abandoned box cars and graffiti covered walls

does travelling by train still hold romance?
the bigger question is capturing it.
Every cliche' in the book.

Men's Large Contingent

It's on! This past Monday, my friend's Ralph, Stephen, Tim and I agreed to a weight loss competition. Now that all of us are in our mid 40's we felt the need for additional inspiration and motivation. In what seems like yesterday when Ralph and I were in our 20's, we used to affectionately refer to some of the middle aged woman we worked with as the "Lady's Large Contingent" not realizing that the ongoing years, gravity and the influence of the Italian American (and just a touch of French) diet would unwillingly nominate us to begin a men's chapter. Such is Karma.

Our weigh in took place in my office, and we each took a turn stepping on the scale that I borrowed form our upstairs bathroom (Don't tell Deb). It's one of those electronic scales with the digital read out. I feared that when my turn arrived that it would read, "One person at a time, please." Unfortunately for me the actual read out didn't make me feel much better. Once we all weighed in and established our ground rules, our conversation moved on to the incredible amount of snow that has been hitting our area. There was some discussion of global warming and Stephen mentioned something about the Earth's axis being changed. Thinking about this and our collective poundage made me wonder which side of the Earth we were standing on and were we partially responsible for throwing things off?

Working out and eating right has been a recurring theme in Ralph and my friendship. I remember that when I first met him, he was just finishing up a diet plan that seemed foreign to me. He was avoiding carbohydrates and sticking to healthy proteins like, steak bacon, salami and gabagool. I also seem to recall our intent to begin "lifting." We had great plans to meet at the weight room located in one of the North End schools. We lifted for a few hours, then proceeded to eat the lasagna his mother Anna had made for us, and that's where our program ended.

We're now five days into our competition and things seem to be going well. I've hit the gym a few times this week and I've been using the Paleolithic diet to kick start my weight loss plan. If you're not familiar with the Paleolithic diet, the basic concept is that you eat like our ancestors did for thousands of years. It's also referred to as the Cave Man diet. My friend Dave has had great success with this and he's taken off quite a few pounds. Funny though, that when you think of the Cave Men, they may have been thinner, but wasn't there life span like 34.5 years?

Sports Bar

I ran into an old friend at the airport the other day.
We were both travelling a great distance to attend to our respective business.
It was a brief encounter, but we agreed to meet somewhere in the great city to spend time and narrow the distance between us.
There were no ill feelings, but the passage of time had wedged itself between our friendship.
Long ago there was none, and we were joined side by side on the beach wall with other friends, having great adventures while another and unknown life awaited us.
And in an illuminated corner of a sports bar, it all of it came back, if only for just a moment.

My Brain is Turning into Chumbawamba

Just a quick post to convey a pre-Alzheimer's incident or more likely, just another example of an unfocused wandering mind. I was alone in the house this morning as Deb and the kids had already left for school. I was getting ready to leave and for whatever reason I rattled of my checklist out loud to ensure I wasn't leaving anything behind. It went a little something like this:

I have my wallet
I have my cell phone
I have my building pass
I have a whiskey drink
I have a vodka drink
I have a lager drink
I have a cider drink

Now, I don't know why my checklist evolved or more likely devolved into the 1997 Chumbawamba classic, "Tubthumping", but I don't like it. If you happen to run into me and I'm singing this, please feel free to knock me down, and if I get up again, don't ever stop keeping me down.

P.S. Enjoy the tune that is and will be stuck in your head for the rest of the day!

Snow Day

The house is dark and quiet except for the pulsing gush of the percolator.

The family sleeps soundly, while notices of liberation scroll across the screen.

I peek through the window, barely able to see past the front yard.

but I can see my immediate future.

Feel Free to Rinse

There are a lot of words in the English language that can be mentioned that prompt little to no reaction from people. Two such words are, "root" and "canal." "Root" which refers to the under part of a plant or the encouragement for an individual or team, much like all of New England will be doing as the Jets take their well deserved foot fetished beating this coming Sunday. Then there's the word "canal", which immediately inspires visions of panama hats, big ships and malaria. As stated, speaking these words individually is a harmless endeavor that you yourself can try as a fun little experiment. Walk up to a complete stranger and say, "root!" The reaction you receive will be somewhere between disinterest and "buzz off, whack job!" You may even get a little spare change out of it in the process. Now try stringing the words together. Go ahead, try it with anyone. Walk up to someone and say "root canal" and you'll immediately trigger sighs, grunts and groans like you just kicked them in the crotch. The two words root canal have struck more fear in Americans than uncle Osama, four dollars a gallon and the true ingredients in bologna.

So where does all of this rambling lead? It leads to the fact that I had my first root canal today. I hate to use the word first because it indicates that there may be a second or more on the "You're going to feel a little pressure here," horizon.

I suppose I deserve the procedure. I remember when I was a kid chomping on the hard and gooey candy I was relegated to due to my allergy to chocolate. I earned my fair share of cavities when I was a kid. I had so much silver in my mouth that when the dentist would shine the big space ship looking lamp in my mouth, the reflection off of my silver fillings would bath the room in little points of light like a giant disco ball.

As I grew older I learned to take better care of my teeth. But with time and age come issues, and thankfully, I've had few, but I certainly had one now. My dentist explained that a root canal is necessary when the root becomes irritated by bacteria and causes pain. He also told me that the root really doesn't have much to do with the overall health of the tooth itself. He went on to say that the root was like a tenant that rented the space inside of the tooth. If this is true, I need to speak with the realtor who leased my number 13 tooth, because the pain I was experiencing leads me to believe that I had a bunch of college kids with no references or credit checks living in there, partying, bumping into the walls, and breaking all of the furniture.

To be honest, the procedure wasn't all that bad. Before we got started, I asked if I could listen to my iPod, which I was told was okay. I ran through the waiting room out toward my car with my little bib on. Most of the people in the waiting area probably thought I was trying to escape, and I'm not sure if they felt any better when I returned with my aforementioned coconut half headphones. I got back in the chair and started looking for the right selection. Maybe something soothing, but something that was loud enough to kill the sound of the drill. I thought about watching a video, but the only thing I had on my iPod was a YouTube video I uploaded of some dude getting a root canal.

Just prior to the procedure, they gave me a pair of tinted protective sunglasses. I don't know why they were tinted. Maybe the dentist thought the site of me crying would be distracting. He also placed a medieval metal and rubber thing that looked like something out of a Marylin Manson video. After 45 minutes of Drilling, filing, and filling I was sent on my way, short one root and a fairly hefty co-pay. I headed of to the office for a staff meeting where I would stutter and stumble through a project plan presentation with a mouth full of Novocaine and drool, hoping that the root canal would be the difficult part of my day.