Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Life of a Rock Star - Puke' in the U.K.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Save Ferris
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Olive to Hate the Garden
My day started well enough with a nice simple breakfast of peppers and eggs. It's amazing how food can bring you back. As I fried the peppers and scrambled the eggs I was immediately transported back to my grandmother's little kitchen in Belmont, The origin of some of the most amazing Italian food I've ever had. Lasagna, Canoli, and the best meatballs you've ever tasted. I still remember her teaching me to make the peppers and eggs. I remember her telling me, "You have to add just a little water to the eggs so they're fluffy, and add just a little onion to give it some extra flavor." Food doesn't have to be complicated to be good. My breakfast made me happy because in a way, I got to spend it with "Margaret" even if it was only through fond memories.
Lunch was great as well. After Deb and I hit the gym and we stopped at a local place called Fiddle Head Market which is a little co-op of different food stands including a wine and cheese shop, a butcher and a decent fish monger. I grabbed a bunch of stuff for lunch including some nice smoked salmon, mission figs, french cheese, grapes, duck trufee, and some baguettes. It was a lunch that would make and ADHD chef proud as their was no rhyme or reason to the various textures and flavors. It was all over the place, but it was delicious and fun. We sat in our kitchen listening to music and enjoyed the different tastes and flavors of our little picnic. I enjoyed it so much that I actually took a picture of it, (I take pictures of everything, don't I? )
As our day passed Deb and I went back and forth and it appeared I might actually escape the 50th Birthday party we were invited to attend at the dreaded Olive Garden. Not that I didn't want to celebrate our friend's celebration, but I couldn't bear to even think of the horrible horrors that awaited us, all under a thick layer of gooey Mozzarella cheese. I've heard that given the choice, the incarcerated inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay prefer water boarding over the Olive Garden's Chicken Picatta.
Unfortunately, plans were changed but mine remained. Although Deb told me I wouldn't have to go, I knew from experience that not going would be viewed as a lack of support and would be rewarded or more appropriately not rewarded and truth be told, I felt I should stay true my marriage vows and try to protect and keep her from harm. Unfortunately my best wishes and best efforts were not sufficient to keep Deb's taste buds from being violently assaulted. She may be Irish, but she has good taste (Okay, maybe not in men, but nobody's perfect.)
We drove to the stretch of land that now is represented in every major suburb throughout our once diverse and local offerings. You know what I'm talking about. Go anywhere and you'll see that stretch with the Home Depot, The Best Buy, Kohls,and all of the other places that litter our newspapers, Internet and television. They're all there. The Outback, home of steaks and the Awesome Blossom, (Their steaks taste more like awesome possum.) The Chili's which believe it or not, doesn't have chili on the menu. Fridays? TGI "F" that place. It stinks. "
When we got to the "Garden" I couldn't believe how packed the parking lot was. We circled the lot looking for a space and when we got toward the far back lot we spotted two young guys standing by their vehicle. I rolled down my window and asked, "Are you guys leaving?" They said no, they were just having a smoke while waiting for their table. I inquired why they would eat at such a place? They looked confused and Deb quickly drove away before they could answer.
The place was absolutely packed which supports my theory and response to those people who claim that if Pizzeria Regnia's Santarpios, or anyone of the other "hole-in-the-wall" places that if relocated or expanded to NH, they'd make a killing. The people up here don't know any better. They don't want good pizza. They want the "cheese in the crust" offerings of Dominos. They don't mind an Italian sub being made from Danish ham, Greek Olives, and jalapenos. Look, New Hampshire is a lovely place to live, the people are amazing, and I get the whole "Live Free or Die" thing, but if I didn't still occasionally get a taste of decent bread and pizza, I'd choose the latter.
We waited close to an hour for our table even though we were a larger party with a reservation (at least I think we had one.) Once seated and hydrated, the food started coming. This is where our night took an unpleasant turn. Ask anyone who loves the Olive Garden why they like it so much. They'll respond, "The salad and the bread sticks are awesome!" Okay, I'll concede that the salad is a fine mix of greens and vegetables with a pleasant Italian style dressing, but the bread sticks are a few steps below Pilsbury and lack any real flavor, texture or body. In terms of flavor, they're more stick than bread.
Looking at the menu, I was temporarily encouraged as I read that all of the meals were prepared to order. I think this must be a loose term because the food was horrendous, and if You go to McDonald's and ask for a #2 with no ketchup, I guess technically your food was cooked to order as well.
When I got my risotto, I was horrified. I immediately demanded to see the warden, but I was encouraged that I could utilize any leftovers to Spackle a few rough spots in the house. Deb got seafood Alfredo that looked like the noodles were cooked in the same waters where the Exxon Valdez spilled all that oil. It didn't look creamy. It didn't look rich. It looked, well...wrong, and it tasted much like it looked. Remember that kid in 3rd grade that had a taste for eating paste and play do? He's the head chef and food consultant for Olive Garden.
As I'm writing this post, I'm simmering the Sunday Gravy. I guess it's kind of like when you fall off the horse you get right back up on it. I just want to have some decent Italian food. By the way. When the OG chefs fall off of the horse, they turn it into cutlets, bread them and and make it one of the specials.
Look, if you like the Olive Garden, good for you. But I'm never eating there again. My kids have never seen jarred spaghetti sauce in our house and I intend to keep it that way. I may not be 100% Italian and you may not hear me discussing politics or even fighting for my convictions, but I'm holding on to this one piece of culture. My integrity goes only so far though. Seeing how many people frequent the place; I may not want to eat there, but I'd be happy to own one.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Flu Flu Platter for Two
A friend of mine and I stopped at this usually clean establishment for a sushi lunch. The restaurant was fairly crowded as it's Friday and people are in a more casual frame of mind. A woman whom I often see there and assume is the owner or manager was standing in the middle of the crowded dining room. She saw us as we came in but quickly turned away and sneezed into her upper arm. My friend said in his best Rain Man impersonation, "Oh, oh!" She then motioned to us and said, "two for lunch?" then she motioned to a table in the center of the dining room, turned away and sneezed into her hands. My friend once again mumbled, "Oh, oh." Then without breaking her momentum picked up two menus and placed them on our table table. I giggled, but my buddy looked a bit freaked out. I didn't think it was a big deal as I didn't need a menu anyway. My opinion was quickly changed when she immediately reappeared and handed me my napkin and silverware. We both started laughing and quickly left the restaurant.
I'm not generally queasy about this types of thing, but if the leadership of the place is that careless, what about the underling who is handling my raw fish and seaweed? Is wasabi paste a disinfectant?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Masters of War - Viewer Discretion Advised
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
U2 can call me a goofball.
U2 Squared - Yes, I've maintained my idiotic passion of seeing U2 every time they roll into town. On night one, I went with Vanessa and our neighbors and friend Mark and daughter Noa. We drove down early and waited in the general admission line for what seemed to be hours, which it was. We were rewarded with a close vantage point about 15 feet from the stage. To my wife I stayed true to my word and closely kept an eye on Vanessa in the General Admission Sea of people. Of course, one "Bono Head" did manage to spill an entire beer on my 15 year old daughter. I was wandering around with my camera at the time. Nice Job!
On night 2 I knew better where to go and once we were through security I pointed to my friend Jennifer and said, "run!" Knowing where to go, we ran past the other middle aged concert goers and cleared a path literally ending up in the very front leaning on the barricade next to the stage. It's an interesting and cool thing to have 60,000 people standing behind you. The crappy thing is that when the show is over, there's 60,000 people that will be in the parking lot before you.
All in all the band delivered and the shows proved to be right up there with the other 23 times I've seen these non island owning rockers. It started 26 years ago at the Orpheum Theater where Deb and I first saw them. No, we weren't seeing each other at the time and as a matter of fact we didn't even know each other. She was only thirteen, it was her first concert and she takes great pride in the fact that she had better seats than I did.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sick Man, Child, Baby...
So there I am on the couch in the fetal position making the occasional grunt and groan. Deb in her own maternal way checks on me but rolls her eyes as she leaves my side. I tell her to carry on without me if the end should present itself. It's been a good life and I have few regrets. Deb says, Please!"
I offer to sleep on the couch to mitigate the chance of spreading my infection and I spend the majority of the evening watching bad movie after bad movie while I fall in and out of consciousness. As a result of this I never really get to see what happens to Harold and Kumar.
About 2:30am I throw caution and Deb's health to the wind and head upstairs where it's more comfortable. Thankfully, I've never really had to sleep on the couch. It's a bit like camping isn't it? Once the novelty wears off, you want to be in your own bed. As I head upstairs I chuckle to myself as I find myself walking upstairs like a toddler who's being punished. I lift one foot on the step then the other before I proceed to the next one. It takes me ten minutes to go up 14 steps. When I finally reach the bedroom I promise Deb that I'll breath away from her. I build a wall of pillows between us, partly to keep the germs away and partly to keep her away from me, because I know in my state and attire, she finds me irresistible.
I finally fall asleep, but my rest doesn't last long. Deb's alarm goes of just before 5:00 and then every 8 minutes for the next 40. Doesn't she realize my condition? she offers a number of suggestions that will improve my being. I turn them all down preferring to wallow in my own whiny way.
So here I sit, trying not to work and watching even more bad television. I'm watching the Food Network where all of the dishes being cooked look disgusting. I'm feeling a bit better and it does appear that I may just pull through to return to the manly man that I am.
Monday, August 24, 2009
On the Road Again, Insisting Life Goes Our Way
Before we hit the road we had to load up on provisions. You have to do these things when you're going to be sleeping outside of your own space. We loaded a small cooler with ice and mini cans of soda. We bought some candy and beef jerky for the road and a cribbage board and some Aviator playing cards for the quiet times where we could count cards and count on each other for a little simple entertainment and company. We didn't pack a tent or a hatchet and flint because the Marriott would provide adequate shelter from the harsh weather that presents itself when you're out in the wild.
I also made sure that I offered instruction and took advantage of those moments when a father can teach his son about how to take care of things that men are supposed to take care of on road trips. It's important to check the fluids in the car, make sure there's enough oil and ensure the tires have the appropriate manufacturers recommended PSI in each of the tires. I made sure I tipped the gas station attendant when he finished doing all of these things and I felt the masculinity that comes with doing something Deb told me to do.
We left Dover with excitement in our hearts and conversation on my mind. We cranked Pearl Jam and hooped and hollered like bachelors heading toward a wild weekend in Vegas. Zachary was asleep by the time we hit 495. For the next few hours I admired the scenery listened to talk radio and old blues and imagined what it must have been like to be Kerouac or Waits living on the road. Zach finally awoke and immediately responded to my static, romance filled road tunes. He immediately put on his ear buds and listened to his iPod.
After many miles the conversation started flowing. The upcoming school year and the excitement of high school, the family, girls and the classic father and son talk. I asked if Zach if he knew the mystery of the birds and the bees to which Zach responded, "Yes. Scientists are wondering where the bees are disappearing to."
We stopped in Syracuse and had dinner at the Dinosaur Barbecue. Loud music, loud people and bold flavors. Zach stepped out of his shell and tried things I never thought this somewhat picky eater would try. Fried Green Tomatoes, Barbecued Beans, Cole Slaw and Portabello mushroom soup. He tried everything and really opened up to experience the different flavors that he road has to offer.
I won't bore you with all of the details because there wasn't any conflict, trouble or tragedy. Everything went as planned and we had an amazing time despite me questioning it from time to time. One example of this was during the concert. While I was fist pumping, singing and high-fiving the guys next to me, Zach stood quietly with his arms folded watching the show. He rarely displayed any highs or lows and truly lived up to his football nick name, "Breeze."
throughout the trip I realized that Zach isn't me. He's a laid back but very cool kid who does things in his own way and in his own time. He's really an amazing kid that is well on his way to travelling the road to manhood.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Empty Nesters? Watch Where You Sit!
This past Saturday I woke with intentions of spending the day as a family, but my dream was quickly dashed when Deb informed me that both of our kids already had plans which did not, and would not include their questionably cool parents. Zachary had been invited to spend the the next few nights at a friend's family beach house to surf while Vanessa would be travelling to Six Flags amusement park with a car load of friends.
If you haven't seen them, Six Flags have commercials that feature this creepy old guy who dances and proclaims, "More flags, More fun!" In these commercials they'll show some goofy activity like watching cats play and the guy will say, "One flag!" Then they'll flash to a bunch of young kids on a roller coaster screaming and laughing and he'll shout, "Six flags! More Flags, More Fun!"
With no kids to consider, a long overdue beautiful sunny summer day, and an unspoken agreement to abandon our long list of house projects, I was excited by the prospect of doing something really fun with my best buddy Deb. My excitement quickly evaporated when Deb stated, "We're going to the Hamilton House!" Now, externally I showed interest, but internally I thought, "The Hamilton House? One Flag!"
We drove just a few miles north of us to South Berwick and travelled up a long dirt road that cut through soft rolling fields that were littered with wildflowers, their petals exploding with every bright color you can imagine and some you probably you couldn't.
We walked by the big Georgian estate that is the Hamilton house, but we weren't quite sure how to get inside to look around. We noticed an "open" sign on a small brown building that appeared to be the garden house. The small quaint building was appropriately located by the estate's formal garden. When we entered we found a large open room that was solely illuminated by the natural light pouring through the large multi paned picture window.
The sun cast a small shadow of a woman who was sitting silently and meticulously but contently working on her needle point. Without stopping or looking up she smiled and said, "Hello, are you here to take the tour?" I said, "Why yes, we've admired the house for quite some time and we're eager to explore the house." She said, "That's lovely, Our tours start on the hour?" "On the hour? We're the only people here how about just letting us take a look see for ourselves?" She continued to work her needlepoint, smiled and said," You can wait at the front of the house. The tour will start at 2:00."
We left the garden house in killed a little time by walking through the gardens exchanging different ideas that we may be able to incorporate into our, uh, estate? We strolled to the front of the house and were awed by the incredible view of the Salmon Falls River. It was spectacular. I sat on a large stone stoop and began to envision the two of us owning such a place where we would work or more appropriately, putter in the garden. But alas, the big real estate purchase will have to wait until the increased car insurance and college tuition begins and subsides. I sat and listened to Deb's vision while I took in the warmth of the early afternoon sun, finally enjoying the heat of this summer that never was.
I was startled by the loud and long creaking sound of the massive wooden door behind me which was being opened Dracula style to reveal the small pale woman who only moments ago was working in the garden house. "Good afternoon. Welcome to the Hamilton House. I'll be your guide for the 2:00 tour."
As I got up and stepped out of the sunlight and into the coolness of the house, I immediately noticed that one body part seemed significantly cooler than the rest of me. I reached behind me and felt the dampness caused by the weaved straw foot mat that was on the stoop. This mat, or more appropriately, sponge had been soaking up the rain for weeks only to relinquish a few storms worth to my behind. To say my backside was damp is an understatement. I was soaked. Jack an adult? Uh, I don't think so.
Our tour guide started to tell us about the house and her script was well rehearsed or well repeated from the many years she worked at the house. She told us that John Hamilton was a self made man who earned his fortune in the shipping business as well as owning many docks, warehouses and land. Then her voice trailed off as she added "...and slave trader." Now, I'd like to say that I was offended and demand that we immediately leave such an evil place, but the truth is that I was too busy plotting my strategy to get through the tour without the tour guide or Deb thinking that I had what most kindergarten teachers call, an accident.
Just then a man popped his head through the front doorway and announced that he had another two couples for the wildly popular 2:00 tour. He asked Madame Tour Guide if she was too far into her spiel or could these stragglers join us. She agreed and they stepped in. The first two were an average middle aged couple with the wife bright eyed and interested while the guy had the look we husbands get when we're sent to the store to purchase feminine products on our wive's behalf. The second couple consisted of a man in his early sixties and a woman who I assumed was his mother. She could of been his grandmother, as she couldn't have been younger than one hundred years old. I must say she looked very natural standing next to the 200+ year old antiques. This was great. Now I would have to hide my faux pee pee pants from a whole group of wild and wacky historical thrill seekers.
I stood listening and I began swaying to the gentle rhythm of my boredom when Madame Tour Guide broke character and lunged toward me gently but sternly scolding, "Please don't lean up against anything dear." Deb also lent a hand in moving me away from the door frame. The group, including Deb looked at me like I had intentionally desecrated sacred ground. The cold stare I was getting made me feel like I may have well have been carving the Van Halen logo into the wood work. I didn't touch anything and I felt wrongly accused and embarrassed. To rectify this, for the remainder of the tour every time Madam Tour Guide wasn't looking I lightly touched everything and anything I could like the bratty pee pee pants kid I had become. What does it say about your maturity if your wife is forced to slap your hand away from touching the drapes? Anyway, we hadn't even left the first room and I was already in trouble.
The tour moved on, but now with mother time in our group and Madame Tour Guide making sure I didn't steal anything, my plan of lagging behind to hide my wet spot was significantly more complicated. As much as I tried, I couldn't walk slower than Mother Ice Age. I ended up matching her pace and gait limping along like George Burns did in Oh God part II.
As we walked I heard the low murmur of a rolling creak that I assumed was the old wide pine floor boards beneath our feet, but this was not the case. It appeared that my new walking partner was in the latter stages of digesting her senior citizen lunch special. She was passing something and either did not know or did not care who heard. One bright side to this is that she occasionally moved quicker as her shuffle was now intermittently gas powered.
For the remainder of the tour Miss's "I Came Over on the Mayflower" and I limped along, lagged and were tagged, at least by me as Mr. and Mrs. potty pants. We both walked at a snails pace. Her stride and gait impacted by the affects of aging and mine affected by cold, wet, chaffing stupidity.
When the tour finally finished, my beautiful wife thanked me, knowing that I had taken one for the team. When I revealed my damp secret she laughed and said, "Let's go home. I'll change you into some nice dry jammies and give you some cookies and milk."
Is this a foreshadow of things to come? I certainly hope as we get older that depending upon each other doesn't actually include Depends. But if we're fortunate to grow old and spend time together, even if it's touring some boring old house. I say, "Six Flags!"
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Nobody Walks in L.A. Swimming with the Paparazi
As quickly as I stumbled upon this scene it ended. Once again I was left stranded alone, cold and thirsty on a busy street. Man, I wish I'd had a Gatorade.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
"Surfing Safari, Bruises Tamari"
"Surfing allows you to be as one with the ocean." This is true as I was part of the ocean more than I was on top of it. I also drank enough salt water to fill up a small aquarium. I think I may have swallowed a lobster as well.
"Surfing is spiritual." Also true. I prayed more in the hour I was floundering than I have in many many years. There was a lot of "Oh God help me, and Oh God please don't let me drown."
"Surfing prompts a calm and laid back attitude." This was immediately apparent after my so called lesson. I was definitely outwardly mellow, but laid back? It was closer to complete exhaustion.
Surfing is a low impact sport that can be done from ages 8 to 80. Really? Come on by and let me show you the bruises I have on my arms and legs. By the way, when I was in the water I looked like I was 8 and the next morning I felt like I was 80.
"Surfing has inspired many songs." This is also true, but none of the Beach Boys really surfed except Dennis Wilson, and he drowned.
"Surfing makes you look cool." Probably, but only if you can surf. My wife watched me fall, slip, roll over, scream, slobber and spit up a good part of the Atlantic. Plus the classic surfer look is a lanky bleach headed blond dude. I look more like the guy from Sling Blade. There would be no romance on the shore. Maybe I could get her to make me some biscuits and mustard though.
The truth of the matter is that I really enjoyed it even though I had limited success. Our friends Neil and Rene were really patient and supportive and we all had a great day. Zach went back the next day and enjoyed far more success just as Neil and Nick predicted. I suspect that I'll end up back there as well. It'd be nice to "hang ten" at least once (insert your favorite joke here.)
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Old Man And The Sea (and Me)
Mr. Day and I went fishing this morning along the Maine coast. An appropriate place for this classic New England soul who once seemed to refuse a neighbor who asked to borrow a match. When the neighbor inquired why he couldn't borrow a match, the pipe smoking Mr Day turned and responded with the classic New England accent, "Nope, you can't borrow a match. You can have one, but I don't want it back."
We started out early. Early morning fishing to Mr. Day is very early. This means 4:00am to us or o four hundred to him. I grabbed my gear and headed outside to find he and his gear waiting outside of his house. I wondered if there would be anyplace to grab a coffee and a bagel on the way, to which he responded, "Miss Vicki already gave me my breakfast. Eggs, bacon, muffins, and fresh coffee." I expect If I inquired where my breakfast was at 3:30am all I'd get is Deb's finger. And I wouldn't blame her a bit for it.
As we made the short drive north to the Maine coast Mr. Day offered his direction and provided commentary and history of the different places we passed. He suggested both that I look to the field on my left for deer and also keep my eyes on the road. He told me a few details of the time that he served in Korea, but he he was more conservative with them when I inquired about his experience at Pork Chop Hill. All he offered was, "It was critical and strategic, and things got a little hairy when we ran out of ammunition. The Chinese weren't happy about it either as they feared Americans with bayonets and rifle butts. They preferred the comforts that come with engaging from afar with guns."
We arrived at Nubble Light House and set up our gear. I got a strange look from Mr Day when he saw me also setting up a tripod to hold my "Not Made In America" Camera. We made our first cast and in no time we were pulling in fish. Not keepers mind, you. It was mostly small Pollock, but we were getting bites and having a little fun. Two strapping lads out near the high seas bonding like men should. My masculinity took a bit of a breather when I asked Mr Day to help me get my first fish of the hook. I was delicately trying to unhook the fish from the three pronged (or is it barbed) contraption. He took it from my hands and forcefully ripped the hook out and tossed the fish back into the drink. It was also nice of Mr. Day to refrain from laughing when I slipped and fell on both the rocks and my backside. He simply turned toward me, removed the pipe from his mouth and said, "The rocks are slippery. Try not to hurt yourself."
Mr. Day continued to cast out, reel in and remove fish from his hook, while I continued to cast out and untangle the mess I made of my line. When my rod finally bent forward, I pulled in a good handful of sea kelp. Mr. Day said that I had a good start and that all I needed was something to go along with my sea salad." After an hour of fishing Mr. Day sat down on the rocks and took a quick cat nap as the surf crashed around the jetty. When he awoke, he took a good long look at the sea and sky and proclaimed, "Today's not our day. There won't be any mackerel or stripers." I agreed though I wasn't quite sure why. I had no choice but to concur as Mr. Day has been fishing this spot for sixty or more years. If he had told me that only the Swedish Fish would be biting today I probably would have agreed. We were back in our neighborhood before 7:00 am.
It's a good thing to have a guy like Mr. Day and his so called, "Catch of His Life" lady Miss Vicki in the neighborhood. They're a welcome fixture that represent the values and lifestyle of days gone by, yet they tolerate and even welcome the chaos that is Florence Street. The early morning Rebel Yells, the late night scrabble games, The Margarita porch nights, not to mention the summer ritual that Kick the Can has become. If our kids running through their yard is a problem, they've never said a word. I think that they appreciate the fact that we are neighbors and we're interested in having them around. It will be interesting to see if many years from now that one of us will be the couple that link the new and old. If Deb and I are lucky enough to be in the running, I'll make sure I finally learn to properly bait a hook.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Live Post From The Barley Pub
Friday, June 26, 2009
Farewell Childhood Friends
Yesterday afternoon I was waiting for Zachary to finish a music theory class. I was sitting outside of a local coffee shop reading the newspaper when two young girls walked by. One of them was on her cell phone and said to the other, "Oh my God. Michael Jackson just died!" At first I didn't quite believe it, first because of the source from which I heard it, but also because there was and always will be so much misinformation and controversy surrounding the former King of Pop. Zach finally made an appearance and we went home. Along the way I told him what I heard. We scanned the radio but there didn't seem to be any confirmation. No news reports, no tributes, and no Michael Jackson songs which is not an easy fete.
OF course when we got home and turned the television on, the news of his death was starting to spread. There wasn't the outpouring that I would have expected, but it was still relatively early and I believe the networks and outlets were just not expecting to report on this tragedy.
This one hit harder. Like him or not, hero or villain, Genius or tragic figure, he was and will be an icon. I still recall the day that my mother and father taking me to the Singing Cricket in Winthrop Massachusetts where I picked out the "Ben" album which would be my very first of many hundreds of records I would buy. I actually think that the first 45 I owned was "Rockin Robin" by the Jackson 5. I can still recall holding it with the dark blue and white Mowtown label with the small map of Detroit and the location of Mowtown. I played both of those records a lot, as I would with many of his records, cassettes and CDs.
I was also one of the many millions of people who watched stunned as he "moonwalked" his way on Mowtown's 25th. Do you remember where you were when Reagan was shot, or when the Challenger exploded? This was one of those moments albeit and obviously much less tragic. I was with a bunch of friends in John Farmer's basement playing darts and drinking beer. He had a little television with lousy reception and when Michael did his thing. We were awestruck. "Holy crap, did you see that?" I never got to see the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show. For my generation, this was its equal.
I was back at the gym last night and I heard a lot of the guys in and around the weight area making jokes about how all the kids in the world are now safer now that the plastic, monkey toting, Elephant Man buying, Beatles music stealing freak was gone. True, the man was surrounded by controversy and if he did the things he was alleged to have done, then I'm equally disgusted, but there was a time when he ranked among the heroes of the day. Celebrity passings also make me think that if such larger than life individuals are susceptible to their own mortality, then we'd better make the most of our own time.
Not the greatest or funniest post, but it was a strange and heavy day.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
No Pain No Gain? I'll Take Two Helpings!
A few weeks ago I had my routine 6 month cleaning and heard something I never thought I would hear. After the usual probing and picking my dentist said, "Your teeth look pretty good, but you have a couple of really old fillings that are leaking." Leaking? what the Hell is that supposed to mean? What are they leaking? Is it Mercury? Am I going to get Alzheimer's? Holy Moses! (For those of you who didn't catch that, that was Charlton Heston joke. Poor taste? Yes, but if I ever get sponsors for this blog I doubt it will be the NRA.) He went on to say that one of the old leaking fillings was pretty big and would probably require a crown. A crown is appropriately named as they cost a king's ransom.
It's never a good idea to piss off someone who is going to be working on you. I should have paid heed to this, but the truth is I was late for the appointment. If that wasn't enough, while the hygienist was setting up some of his tools, I asked, Is he any good with those things?" She thought he would be amused if she shared that with him, but the truth is, he wasn't. He immediately called for his precision tools that had medieval looks and medieval names such as, the probe, the scraper, and the explorer. Thank God this wasn't a proctology exam!
As my dentist (who is a really a great guy and a good technician) did his thing with the hygienist and the martians looking on. He would drill, stop, ask me a questions then fire up the drill before I could answer. Occasionally I would have to rinse. The little shot glass of liquid and my immediate drooling brought back fond memories of my clubbing days at the Palace.
After an hour and a half of this I finally got to follow the Dr. who left me stranded at the check out counter where the receptionists scheduled my follow up. As they always do, the gave me my choice of new tooth brushes as if to say, "Maybe you'll use this one." I responded with my Novocained paralytic mouth and sounded like that guy on Fat Albert when I said, "Iba Abpreciate ut, seeba ya laber!"
After leaving the dentist I figured I would kill two birds with one stone and hit the gym for a little strength training. You know, most guys walk around the gym with this strut which is supposed to show the other guys how tough and intimidating they are. I'm not immune to this and today I was particularly effective until I noticed that I was still wearing my blood soaked lobster bib (just kidding.)
The combination of the Novocaine and my lack of food did not make for a good work out. The Novocaine inspired stroke face and drooling kept my usual female admirers at bay. The weights seemed particularly heavy, and I definitely have to work on my endurance and my motivation. The whole time I was lifting I was looking forward to the crunches. Not that I like crutches mind you, I just wanted to lay down.
All in all it was a fun filled afternoon. Maybe tomorrow I'll have a colonoscopy and scrape some wallpaper.
Monday, June 22, 2009
And IRAN, Iran So Far Away
Can you imagine the riots that would ensue if there were a controversial American Idol ending?
Memory Lane Is Just a Click Away
Facebook is one of the all time great electronic time wasters, but I can't argue with the results. I, like many others have reconnected with some great old friends who are now, well...great old friends. Recently I got together with my buddies Sammy, Eddie, and Eddie and it was an amazing experience that has left me nostalgic for the old days but content that we're all where we're at.
We met as we have many times before but unlike the old days we were able to pay for our Guinness' with actual $20 bills instead of the singles and handfuls of change and no one ordered Tequila, Sambuca shots or "Woo woo's. Like the old days none of us approached any of the women in the bar which means not much has changed over the years. I recall the days of having to have a few drinks in order to build up enough courage to talk to girls then wondering why they showed no interest. I clearly recall thinking these women were stuck up or worse as I slurred my pick up line then staggered and swayed away to face the humiliation and heckling that would soon ensue from the peanut gallery.
Our reunion marked the first time that all of us have been in the same place in 16 years, and it was amazing to see that despite the marriages, children, distance and years that not much had changed. A few more pounds here or there and a few less hairs where they should be. Notice I said where they should be. None of us has lost any, it just relocated from the city that used to be our heads and migrated to the remote suburbs of our anatomy, living quietly in the ears, nose, backs and the other nether regions that will not be mentioned here, but I digress.
We picked up right where we left off and we continued. There's nothing that melts the years away like a good get together with old friends. The stories were many and the details and accuracy were definitely softened and mellowed with time. It was a great afternoon.
Will our next meeting be 16 years from now? I hope not and I don't think so. But the fact we did reconnect demonstrates that it doesn't have to be a wedding or funeral to get together. It's amazing how difficult it can be to go and have a beer. Regardless, I'm hopeful we'll continue to make the effort. I look forward to the day years from now when we'll we'll be able to gather in the same or a similar place and take another legendary stroll. The Guinness will flow and we'll be able to chat without interruptions as the Depends will eliminate the bathroom breaks.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Dave Matthews Band Poster Art
It's a well known fact in my neighborhood that I'm a big fan of the Dave Matthews Band. The fact that I like a particular band should prompt no need for words and shouldn't constitute enough interest to warrant a posting, but I have to tell you that it perplexes me to know that almost no one else in the "hood" digs these guys. My good buddy Geoff is convinced that both Dave Matthews music and the night time sleep aid Ambien are created in the same factory. It confuses me because they're absolutely huge and have an enormous following.
This fact was recently demonstrated when the DMB played two sold out shows at Fenway Park. Yes, I attended both nights and was lucky enough to sit in the front row for night two. It wasn't your normal front row seat as somehow I ended up with a "companion ticket" which is intended for those who accompany an impaired individual in the handicapped section. Regardless it was right up front. True, no one around me was up and dancing too much but I don't think it was because of a lack of danceable beats and rhythms.
I'm almost embarrassed to let you all know that aside form the CD's and concerts, I've also shown my support by being an active member of the DMB fan association known as "The Warehouse." Membership has its benefits. I do get to purchase tickets before the general public and there are other amenities that are offered. The Warehouse is an electronic gathering place for the legion of DMB fans who trade tickets, live recordings and stories. To say that people are dedicated is an understatement. they all have DMB influenced vanity license plates, tattoos and children named after their hero.
A recent Message Board thread showed various members Concert Poster collections. The DMB, like many newer bands create interesting and sometimes beautiful silk screened prints that are produced in very limited quantities. They're all hand made (or at least I think they are) and are signed and numbered. All of the pictures of the framed posters appear to be hanging in the basements of these 35 and 40 year old members parent's houses. How cool it must be for them to proudly show them off when they're sneaking a girl in.
For the record, mine are hanging in my office. Men will be men and boys will be boys. What that means, I have no idea, but let's face it. We guys just aren't that bright.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Finally, My Blog is Educational! Yard Sales 101
Now, I am not opposed to "Yard Sailing" and have actually done my fair share. I've found a few treasures in my time and I've also seen a lot of trash. It's like these people are not interested in selling quality products, it's like they're just trying to get rid of the crap they don't want. I don't get it.
There's a real art form and a whole culture associated with the Yard Sales. If you're Yard Sailing in your own town it's always a good idea to dress down. Wearing a business suit or high price outfit will make your bargaining and bartering far more difficult. Get some old beat up stuff. You can pick them up...well...at a yard sale.
Bring plenty of cash but make sure it's divided into two separate piles with one consisting of only one dollar bills. This is your bargaining roll. Telling someone that you only have $4 for that top hat then pulling out a wad of $20's is bad form. Make sure you bring some change as well. People will be happy to sell books for a nickel but they get really pissed if you try to pay for it with a $20.
As stated there is usually a whole culture dedicated to yard sailing who drive very quickly from one yard to another seeking bargains. these little ladies will not hesitate to elbow their way past you or to push you out of the way. You have to pay close attention to what you're doing. If you're pondering a purchase and put it down, the veteran yard sailor will grab it faster than David Carridine grabbing a pea from an old marble eyed Chinese man. There's a bad joke in there somewhere but it's too recent and too easy.
Be prepared to see a lot of junk. It had to have happened somewhere and at sometime, but someone intentionally purchased that microwave cook book, Simpson's margarita glass set or George Foreman grill brand new. Now they're nickel. What a bargain. The box with all the free stuff is not actually free as it will you cost you money to throw it out later.
If you're looking at records, you really need to know what you are looking for. You'll see alot of easy listening albums, and you'll definitely see copies of Michael Jackson's Thriller, Billy Joel's The Stranger, and Fleetwood Mac's Rumors. Be careful when opening any double album from the 60's or 70's as the seeds that will roll out may get you into legal and financial trouble, especially if you're going near any drug sniffing dogs. Open a Frampton Comes Alive album? Those aren't tomato seeds buddy.
It's a matter of debate in the way you approach the people running the yard sale. When walking up you may feel a bit awkward and will say something to break the ice. this makes it harder to leave when you realize that you don't want any of their crap. If you buy something just to leave without feeling awkward, what your doing is basically stating, "I'll throw this out for you."
You should never but clothes at a yard sale especially if you are in your own town. Nothing would be more embarrassing to come into work on Monday with that suit you picked up on Fisher Street and having someone from work ask you, "Hey, where did you get that suit?" "I don't remember" you say. "Well I do. You bought it at my ex wife's yard sale Saturday. That's the suit I wore to my father's funeral." "No, you say I got it at the Men's Warehouse." Uhh, buddy, the $.25 price sticker is still on your lapel. This could and will limit your professional upward mobility.
A good tip to remember is that if you're yard sailing and you run into someone you work with, Tell them that you are looking for old Jazz 78's and ask them if they've seen any Thelonious Monk or Coltrane discs around. They'll think you are cool and eccentric. Just make sure they don't see the Chinese throwing stars you're going to buy.
All in all the phenomenon that is the yard sale will continue especially in these tough economic times. Best of luck to you all. I'd write more but I'm driving to the big Bernie Madoff, AIG, Citi Bank rummage sale. Hope they have that Fondue set I've been looking for.