Flunky Boy

Happy Little Clouds

2012-01-18T14:34:00.006-05:00

Previously on Ow Ow Ow Quit It Ow Ow Ow, I was in a drug-induced stupor and was feeling better. Then the holidays hit and I spiraled right back into the Valley of Ouchies (amazing what a little family get-together can do to bring on tension in me). So what's a boy to do? Go to an acupuncturist of course.

I had never been to one before (read: I'm from Malden) and so I didn't have any idea of what to expect. I wasn't even sure if I bought in to the whole premise. I knew I was coming from a place where my initial thoughts about acupuncture were that it is new-age bullshit bordering on quackery. I know this is wrong since this practice has been around for centuries and it must have some validity. Let's open ourselves up for a new experience ok? Ok. The Wiff said that I should first try a "community session" which I can now see is self-explanatory but at the time I had no idea that it meant "sit in a big room with other people with needles in your face". That was not the best approach as it turns out. I loathe people so why the hell would she think sitting in a room with them would be relaxing? Silly lady.

I scheduled a private session with the therapist dude for the following Tuesday night and reminded myself to have an open mind fer chrissakes. That night I made my way over to the studio (that's a problem right there for me for some reason. I'd feel better about this if they would call it an "office" or a "practice" or something more clinical like that. Damn hippies...No Mark! No! Open YOUR MIND damn you! Feel your chakras!) and my arm had been tweaking all day long, probably in anticipation of this very moment I guessed. I walked in and made my way over to the receptionist area. The guy behind the desk confirmed my appointment and then proceeded to get all chatty with me. Look, I'm sending out very clear DO NOT ENGAGE vibes here (and shouldn't he be more in-tuned with vibes and shit like that anyway?), so I'd appreciate it if you'd shut your face and allow me to sit here in this silly place and wait for my turn. Please? No? Oh ok. He went on and on about how he's just moved back after being away for a while and how everything in the studio (there's that word again) has changed. Oh, and it's weird because this piece of equipment never works when he's around. Is it cold out? (Yes. Yes it is. It's fucking January in New England. It tends to get a bit brisk). He rambled for what felt like 15 minutes (most likely 3-5 minutes) and I gave polite-ish monosyllabic responses at the socially accepted intervals while begging him in my head to please shut the fuck up.

Finally the receptionist guy shut his face and the therapist dude came out to let me know he would be just a few more minutes. Yea, I get it. You're busy. So am I. We have an appointment and I'm here on goddamn time. Step it up, Jimmy. Can you see that I may not have been in the right mindset for this? Yea. A couple minutes later he comes back out and has me follow him to one of the rooms. We chat for a little bit about what exactly I'm expecting from this (he's really soft spoken and reminds me of Bob Ross without the giant fuzzy 'fro). His whisper voice annoyed me and I had to make sure I didn't let it totally mess up my session. He talked about what he was going to be doing and his approach to this therapy and I was starting to dig the more clinical assessment of the procedure. Let's do this Bob. He says, "Ok, take your shirt off and lie face down please." Right away I'm instantly tense again. Look, it's not his fault right? He has to get to the skin and stuff right? But as a fat guy, taking my shirt off is never a comfortable thing. I hate the way I look, ok? Sure, I'm working on it but goddamn. Fine, shirt off it is. Now I'm super tense and sweaty. I hope you're happy with yourself sir.

I lie down on the table with my head in that loop thing on the end, arms down by my sides and right away my arm starts tweaking like mad. I told the guy about it and he was like "Oh, ok. Maybe we can adjust this here and then let me know..." all in his whispery voice. Ugh. Stop it. Stop the whisper talk. Let's just do the thing with the needles or whatever ok? So I'm lying on my stomach with my face in the yolk doodad, staring at the floor with my left eye because my right eye is smooshed in the faceloop (I tried adjusting but it was either left eye can see, right eye smooshed; the reverse of that; or both eyes smooshed with light sparkling on my eyelids. I chose the left eye to have first watch), and he starts poking at my back in and around my left shoulder blade. First thing I notice is that his hands are SUPER WARM. Like unnaturally so. Is this his normal body temperature? Am I just cold? Did he microwave his hands for 10 seconds? Is he Mr. Miyagi?

He starts a little massage thing and then he takes the needles out and starts putting them in the different locations. Then he sat down on this little wheeled chair thing and he rolled over to the left side of my head. He then started putting needles in my ear and neck area. Now this is supposed to be relaxing right? But the whole time he's doing this, the thought that's in my head was: "Wow, his balls sure are close to my face." I know. I KNOW. I'm clearly not taking this seriously. I started to giggle to myself a little. "Yea, they're like right there and he could be tea-bagging me right now and I wouldn't necessarily know the difference." I mentally shook myself out of that thought and told myself to CONCENTRATE on not thinking. Stop it you 15-year-old dummy. I let the mind wander and I was starting to relax again. Then he wanted to chat with me. "So, uh, how was your Christmas? You have a good New Year?" Seriously? Ok, I understand you're in a room with a client with his shirt off and your balls are near his face and maybe it feels awkward for you (it certainly feels awkward for me) but right now? I'm trying to clear my headspace or whatever you call it so that I can actually benefit from this and I really, REALLY don't want to talk. I didn't know how to tell him this though. I didn't know how to say "sshhhhhhh" without sounding like a dickbag. So I answered his questions. Of course I did. And I over shared and gave long rambling answers and holy shit why can't I just stop talking? I either don't talk at all or I over share. I have issues ok?

After a while he said, "Ok, that's all I want to do right now so I'm going to leave you for about 20 minutes is that ok?" Yeah, dude I guess...I mean, I dunno. This is your deal, not mine. Go do whatever. "Can you feel those at all?" Yeah, I can. There's fucking needles in my skin. Yes, I can feel them. And it's not like they hurt or anything but you know they are there. He leaves and closes the door to the room and I'm lying there face down, trying to relax. And my arm was kinda calming down cuz it's used to the position. During the community session that The Wiff conned me into, they had this Enya style music playing that featured this flute that kept hitting these notes that just drilled into my spine, carved out a nest, and proceeded to poke me in the nerve endings. It was the opposite of background music. This time there was no music but a faint sound of what was either a wave machine or a broken fan on the air handler of the heating system. For realz it was preferable.

The room that I was in was up near the front of the building and I don't know if they have a shitty sub-floor or if it's a just a super squeaky area but EVERY time someone walked by the room I was like "oh! Is this 20 minutes? Has it been 20 minutes yet? Is this now 20 minutes? Is he going to open the door now? How about now? Is this him? Who was that? Was that him? What happens next? I don't know what happens next". Basically every time I heard someone walk by (which was A LOT by the way) it snapped me out of my relaxed, peaceful state and slammed me right back into my normal slightly edgy state. He did eventually come back and proceeded to take the needles out. By this time his hands were frickin' freezing. WTF dude? Are you just fucking with me now? He then did a little acupressure for a bit on my left side and then he said "Ok, you can get dressed now and I'll meet you out front." Can do mister.

I got dressed (he had me take my shoes and socks off too but never once touched my feetsies so I'm guessing it's just a thing they do? I dunno) and made my way back up front. He was waiting for me at the reception desk and asked me how I was feeling. I was honest about it and said I wasn't really sure. I said that I don't think I got much out of this particular session but that's all on me not him. I didn't think that just one session was going to be the answer. We agreed to set up another session for the following week and I went back last Tuesday (the 10th) and it went much smoother. Now that I knew what to expect out of the actual session itself I was more able to relax and just let him do his work. Plus, and this is a BIG plus for me; he put me in a room that was further back than the previous one. This all but eliminated the foot traffic outside the door. He also turned the lights off this time (something he did not do before) when he left me alone and I very nearly fell asleep. It was an all-around better experience than the first.

Today at work there was an open session with the on-site massage lady (she comes every month I guess) and I was able to book some time with her. It was lovely and I feel quite sleepy now.

Lazy Blogging = Must Be Christmas Week

2011-12-21T14:11:00.000-05:00

Christmas time is here much like a big truck barreling out of control down the street, its driver passed out at the wheel from meth, right into the side of my face. Of course I only notice it coming at the very last moment and then it is upon me faster than I'd have thought possible. I am helpless to stop its relentless forward momentum as it plows over me, leaving in its wake disappointment and emotional carnage. Yup, it's just like that only with tinsel. Suffice it to say, I'm too goddamn busy to write an entry and so I'm delegating this task to everyone's favorite guest author, Oliver the Cat. He's got a lot to say about the changes the house undergoes during this holiday season and offers many insights into why plastic bags are awesome.

Hey there everybody! Looks like I'm going to get another shot at this! Let's get into it! Exclamation points are fun!

I've been around for a while now. Like easily more than ... ok, I don't know numbers very well. All I know is that I have noticed that this house goes through weird changes. Right now we're in what appears to be the Tease Oliver Season. I'm not normally a complainer (unless I'm super starving or tired) but I don't think the humans understand us cats very well at all. Let me break it down for you all. See, we're creatures of habit. We like things to be just so. I, for one, check the condition of the pile of sneakers in the upstairs bedroom at least twice a day. If even one of them has moved, I will notice it and I then have to reinspect the entire collection. I then have to rub my face on all the remaining pairs of sneakers just to make sure that they smell like me. I don't want to, I HAVE to.

The Christmas Tree: They put up this big plastic tree-looking thingie that has all these flashy lights on it and then they dangled all kinds of toys from it. These toys look fantastic and I want to play with them immediately! But as soon as I even start towards this big distraction, the humans yell at me! Why? I should be yelling at them for not allowing the toys to be free! They seem to want to just have them all on display and not let us play with them. Where's the fun in that? Wouldn't it be more interesting to see how that shiny glass ball looks as it shoots across the room? They can't possibly be vigilant forever. As soon as they let their guard down, I'm jumping up and grabbing some of these toys for my secret stash (that's where I store stray socks, wine corks, and bits of plastic for future use). I will have that ornament. It will be mine.

Presents: As you probably already know, us cats frickin' love boxes. We love to sleep in them, hide in them, jump in and out of them, y'know, the usual stuff. But oh man, when a box has some crinkly wrapping paper on it? It's just this side of heaven. I could spend my entire day walking on those boxes that are sitting under that sorry, plastic excuse for a tree. The sounds of the paper combined with the angular rigidity of the box are intoxicating. I think I'll go rub my face on the corner of the boxes again and again until the wrapping paper either tears or gets all greasy from my scent. Ew, I just skeeved myself out.

Christmas Cards: One of the humans insists on putting these little bits of paper on the doorway from the big room with the fire to the big room with the food in it. She uses these little pieces of plastic that don't taste quite as good as a bag does but in a pinch they'll do for a quick fix. What is annoying about these pieces of paper is that she hangs them quite high up initially and it makes it rather difficult to get at them. It's like she doesn't want me to bat at them at all. I have noticed that sometimes the cards fall off the door frame and that's when I pounce! First, after sniffing the card to make sure it isn't going to murder me, I'll sit on it for a while. Then, when that gets boring, I'll eat the little piece of plastic tape. Fantastic.

Plastic Bags: This time of year the humans seem to bring a lot more plastic bags into the house than usual. Seriously I cannot say enough good things about these things. They are delicious. They make wonderful sounds. They're cool to the touch and oh, the texture. That amazing texture. I really don't think I can do it justice by trying to explain it here on this stupid fat man's blog. Go find a plastic bag and put it on the floor (if you have to jump on a table and knock it onto the floor, that's perfectly acceptable in my opinion. I take this approach when it comes to jumping up on things: "If the humans didn't see it, I didn't do it"). Now walk around on the plastic bag for a while. Sniff it. Sniff it a lot. Like waaaay too much really. Taste it. First start with some small licks that gradually increase in intensity and frequency until you have whipped yourself into a glorious, blissful frenzy. Then, just when you feel like you simply cannot handle it anymore, take some little nibbles out of the bag and let the full plasticky goodness take over your mouth. You should get some faint notes of animal renderings on the back end of the finish. Oh, it's in there somewhere. Then, flop down on your side and take a nap on the bag. If the moment grabs you, maybe cough up a bothersome hairball on the handle part so that the bag cannot be used as intended by the humans. That'll teach those show-offs. "OooOOooh, lookit me! I have thumbs!" Whatever freakshow, go clean my litter box.

Sir Oliver the Stupidhead

Turnips are Gross, That's Why

2011-12-02T14:07:00.001-05:00

I have a compressed nerve in my neck. I didn't call it "pinched" because apparently doctors don't like that term. Whatever doctors...god, they're soooo sensitive. Yea, so um...my neck hurts and it sends waves of owies down my left arm as well that go all the way down the front of my forearm and onto my fingers. It sucks balls. So I ignored it for a couple days (shutup, I'm a stubborn dumbass) until finally last Sunday night, the pain actually kept me from getting any sleep. It got so bad in fact that I punched a wall in frustration. Not recommended by the way for two reasons: 1) it makes a hole that you then have to fix. 2) you could further injure yourself you big dummy. Also, you look like a huge jackass and immediately feel stupid and childish afterwards.

On Monday I went to my doctor and after some prodding, questions, and strength tests (still strong like bull) I was diagnosed with the nerve thingie. Luckily it was a muscle in spasm and not the more serious structural problems that was causing the pain. I was given a sling, a couple prescriptions for some meds (more on that later), told to rest for a few days and sent on my merry way. Well, that really wasn't good enough for me. I was still in pain and they hadn't done much to actually fix the problem. I then made the decision to go back to my old chiropractor to see what, if anything, he could do about this. Dr. Friedman worked on me back in 2002-2003 when I had injured my back. He's great and I can't recommend his practice Right Spine enough. I have gone a few times since Wednesday of this week and I can already feel the improvement in the neck.

So on Monday night after getting the prescriptions filled I took them and passed the frick out. The meds were 600mg of Ibuprofen, some Vicodin and some muscle relaxer thing (the name escapes me). I slept better certainly if by sleep you mean being in a coma. On Tuesday morning when I woke up, it was clear to me that I was not going to be doing any work for the next couple days. I took more pills, popped my arm in the sling, staked out a spot on the couch and tried not to grumble too much. I was fairly successful on that last one. The thing that helped was the Vicodin. Holy shit people, if you have never been on this drug then I feel sorry for you. I'm not one to say "Go do drugs" but if it is mothatruckin' Vicodin, take a dip, I won't tell anyone. Weary of the pass-out scenario of the previous night, I cut the pill in half and just took that. It left me with this lovely little buzz that I can only equate with having 2 glasses of really good wine and you are just about to reach for your third. Super mellow. Super Chill. Wow. I now understand why people abuse and get addicted to this drug.

Here are some things I thought about while under Vicodin:

How come I can't taste my teeth? Or am I always tasting them and I'm not aware of it? How can I tell?
How come I don't like turnips?
I wish I had had my teeth cleaned today. I love that freshly cleaned texture.
That freckle on my right pinkie is weird. Why is it there? Is it sad that it's all alone?
My forearms are hairy. My knuckles are not. Is that a good thing?
I want to paint the stairs. Not the treads though. That would be ugly. Or would it? Yea, it would be.
What if I got addicted to Vicodin? Would I lose the house and have to sell my booty for cash? Ugh. That's a horrific idea. Quick, think of something else.
Blank.

As I sit here now typing this up on day 7 of this thing I can truly say that I'm in the high 80% to low 90% better. And I haven't had any pills today either. I plan to not have anymore if I can handle it. There is still work to do over the next few weeks but Dr. Friedman says that I should make a full recovery by Christmas. Awesomesauce. He also does not like turnips.

Egregious Abuse of B-Boys

2011-11-23T14:07:00.000-05:00

Back when MTV showed videos (no, don't worry, I'm not going to go on and on about that. Because honestly, most of the videos they played sucked anyway), a lot of the videos had awkward dance sequences. Usually this scene was not only unnecessary but sometimes was so contrived and forced that it made the viewer feel uneasy (i.e. Pat Benatar in "Love is a Battlefield". Skip to 3:21 and thank me later).

In the mid-80s someone thought not only would be a great idea to shoehorn a dance number into their video, but it might be superawesomesauce to have hip hop dancers (B-Boys, people...B-Boys) embarrass themselves as well. Mira, if you're going to have people dancing to your shitty song it might as well be a bunch of guys who actually know how to move (rather than the weirdo chorus line of people doing the same hackneyed "dance" all together). I get that. But what I don't get is why oh why are they being forced to dance to these songs? Check it:

I like this song. Actually I like this song a lot (I'm a sucker for Robert Plant), but skip ahead to 3:58 for a hyper-embarrassing moment in 80s video history. WTF? Who ok'd this? Plus, you can't even do the "White Guy Dance" (a.k.a. Whatever the hell Springsteen is doing in the "Dancing in the Dark" video. Stop that Bruce. Stop it this INSTANT! Don't you bring Courtney up on that fake stage with you! FOR SHAME! BAD BRUCE! BAD!) to this tune let alone break-dance.

The abuse continues:

No one likes this song. Not even Billy. Give me anything off of Glass Houses rather than this horror show. But more importantly, why would ANYONE think it would be a good idea to have someone popping and locking to fucking Uptown Girl? El Diablo himself wouldn't even attempt it. Skip to 2:18 to see what I mean. And yes, I recommend having the sound on just so you can get the full effect of this bad decision.

Were the 80s finally done humiliating the hip hop community? Oh no sir, they were not done.

Wow. First off, please spend a couple of minutes bathing in smug entitlement of 16-year-old Tiffany (you should probably turn the sound down though...it's pretty terrible). In nearly every shot she is giving the camera the same "come hither" look. Or what she probably thought was her sexy bedroom eyes look at any rate. It really just looks like she has to take a dump real bad. But for this example I think it's the worst offender because here she clearly just inserts herself in what was probably just some dudes practicing or even doing a street (beach? boardwalk?) performance for some cash. Go to 2:24 and try not to be mesmerized by her shuffling feet dance move. I'll tell ya, that girl is going places.

The abuse of the B-Boys was not limited to these 3 videos of course. But I have another example here that while the dancers are not popping and locking or whatever, they are still totally fucking tossed into the middle of a video for no reason and the song is simply NOT a song anyone would want to dance to. Plus, they can't even seem to get their moves synchronized and that's just sloppy. Go to 2:01 in this vid. For realsies:

What. The. Fuck. God, I so want to punch that guy with the curly mullet in the face over and over again. I would say that the taller dancer dude is better but I think what's actually happening here is the shorter guy realized that no one actually gives a fat fuck about how this looks so he just phoned it in. That's how I chose to view it anyway.

And now, just cuz I loves you all sooooooo much, I present to you Cowboy Hip Hop. You're welcome.

Say it with me now: "That's Jammin'!!"

Fake Elvis Wanted Too Much Money

2011-11-03T13:01:00.000-04:00

Guess what today is? Well, yes, it is Thursday. Yes, it may be your birthday or whatever. Look, I don't care about you and your feelings ok? Today is my wedding anniversary. Yep. The Wiff and I have been married for 14 years as of today. 'Course we've actually been "together" for over 18 years but that date is harder to narrow down. Do you count from the day when we first met? Do you count from the day when we started hanging out? Do you count from the day that we moved in together? Who frickin' knows? So the wedding anniversary is just an easier date to acknowledge.

"Why, dear Mark", you ask quite boldly and slightly rudely. "Why is your anniversary on November 3rd of all dates?" Are you a crazy person or perhaps thick? Our anniversary is on November 3rd because we got engaged on Halloween night, at Logan airport, more specifically in the "Cheers" bar in the airport, with Silence of the Lambs playing on the TV behind Amy's head, while we were on our way to vacation in Vegas. We then got married 3 days later which would make that day what? November 3rd, that's what. I TOLD you I was classy. Side note: I hated Vegas a lot. Like, a WHOLE lot. It was just a shithole. We did go see George Carlin perform at the MGM Grand though. That was pretty cool. And I got my first speeding ticket on this trip. That wasn't as cool.

Getting married in Vegas was our best option because it allowed us to avoid the whole wedding planning nonsense. The whole she-bang from the flights to Vegas, a week in the time-share condo the company I worked for owned, rental car, wedding silliness, day trips to Death Valley, the Grand Canyon and Zion National Park cost us under $4000. Yep. Them's 1997 dollars too. Totally the way to go. We then were able to save up enough cash to put a down payment on our house (which we still live in). No, we didn't get the "Elvis" package. Motherfucker wanted an extra $300 just to walk Amy down the aisle. And he may have been a hero to most, but he never meant shit to me.

So, yea. This whole thing is has other stories that splinter off from the main theme but I'm too lazy to get into those right now. Plus, I wanted to keep this light. After all, this is about me and The Wiff. See, I like love her and stuff and I'm proud to be her hubby. She's kinda awesome. So there.

Not Gonna Mention the 'betes.

2011-10-20T13:30:00.001-04:00

We are in my favorite season right now and it has me in a delightful mood. At the house the wood is stacked next to the fireplace ready at a moments notice to take any chill out of the air. The cats have made it known that we can be used as a heat source and I am again reminded that our windows are shitty. We don't have a vent in the bathroom and so we have to leave the window up there slightly open and I enjoy feeling that chilly air when I'm brushing my teeth. Of course once it gets stupidly cold we close it and the shower steam just billows into the hallway where it peels the paint on the ceiling. It's a tradition.

I'm changing gigs at work too did I mention that? I don't remember. Yea, I've been doing the current job for a little over 2 years and it was time for a change. Luckily for me an opportunity presented itself and I was able to make the switch. Should be interesting as I get up to speed with the new responsibilities. Plus, I'll have to help the new person transition into my old job so that'll take a little time. I know the person they hired though and she's good peeps so I'm not stressing about that.

What else what else what else? Hmm...oh! I'm currently obsessed and I mean OBSESSED with Breaking Bad. I know, I know..the show's been on for a few years and how come I never watched it? I dunno. I plead that I am easily distracted and I didn't know a damn thing about the show. I hadn't even read any reviews. But I happened across an interview with Bryan Cranston and I decided I'd give it a try since I can stream it off Netflix. Holy shit people. If you haven't watched this show, do so now so we can talk about it. If you have watched it, call me immediately so we can talk about it, only don't tell me anything about Season 4 as I'm only in Season 3 right now.

I'm also working on another site with some other contributors. It's called Seriously Awesome Monsters and the idea is to create a monster that does whatever you want it to do. Just tap into your superego and let the ideas flow. There's even a Twitter feed if you want to read what SAMs have to say about god knows what. The site is in its infancy at the moment but we hope to have more and more people draw a monster for us. You want in? You totally can if'n you want. Don't worry if you can't draw, we can't either. So yea, if you want to draw something to put up on Seriously Awesome Monsters, just email me and I'll put it up there. How 'bout it? C'mon...it'll be fun. All the cool kids are doing it.

Why Can't I Have Some Cake?

2011-10-13T12:44:00.001-04:00

My pancreas is broken. I had a broken gall bladder once and when I took it to the shop they said I'd be better off just getting rid of the bloated little fucker. So out he came (that was 1996). But apparently this is not an option with Mr. Pancreas. It's one of those organs that has a "you can't live without me" complex. Technically you can live without it but it's not recommended. I looked to see if I had some sort of warranty on the corn-on-the-cob-lookin' mofo. No such luck. So yea, Type II Diabetes. Well, goddammit.

I guess I can look on the bright side of this in that it was diagnosed long before any real symptoms appeared. I just had a physical (the first in 7 years. Oh shut up. Get off my ass about that. I'm an O'Malley. We ignore shit like our health and feelings) and they took a blood sample. Now, I can't really say I was surprised when the results came back that my sugar levels were too high (9.5 on my A1C which should be below 7 or even below 6). I knew that I had put on a few more pounds and that my activity level was around that of a sedated 3-toed sloth so when my doctor told me that I have the 'betes my reaction was more like, "Of course I do." It seemed obvious. I had been eating like I was still riding my bike for several hours a day and walking everywhere I went like I used to in my 20's. I haven't done that shit in ... well, a frickin' long time. So yea, of course stuff is gonna happen.

What does this all mean? Well, short-term it's meds. Luckily I don't have to do insulin so there's ways that I can control my blood sugar through diet and exercise. I've already changed my diet so that's been interesting (to me anyway). The exercise thing I'm a little slower to ramp up. I know what to do and I am going to do it I just haven't yet as of this writing. I'm also off the sauce. Why? Well my liver numbers also came back a little higher than they should be too. The doc said it is most likely from fat deposits around the liver (mmmm, nice image...wassup ladies?) but why not ease up on the booze to help the poor little dude out? I don't know where I stand on the no drinks thing at this stage but so far it hasn't been an issue. I might just see how long I can go without just as an experiment.

I'm working on getting a handle on these health issues and make a positive change in my life. I'm not going to get all preachy or whatever about this. I'm not going to talk about this much beyond this posting unless it is relevant to the story I'm telling. I've had a bit of a wake-up call is all and I'm trying to undo some bad choices I've made about how I conduct myself. That's it really. No big whoop. How are you?

You're Welcome Hollywood

2011-08-26T11:13:00.000-04:00

On a recent episode of Louie, Louie CK had to pitch a movie idea to a high-powered movie studio executive at an impromptu lunch meeting. He described a film premise where the main character's life starts out crappy and then through a series of poor choices and failed ventures his situation ends up becoming even worse than when the movie started (which apparently is a fairly common theme in independent films ... which also explains why I didn't know that since I'm not exactly a film buff). About half-way through Louie's pitch (it really wasn't a pitch .. more like a "well, I have this idea" thing) I realized that I have a similar movie idea that's been rattling around in my head for a while. I also understand that I will most likely never get an opportunity to actually pitch this idea to anyone who would be in a position to green light it so I figured I'd tell all you fine folks. Not to say that you are not all high-powered executives of your own fucking amazing lives or whatever but, well, you probably don't run a movie studio right? Or do you? Holy shit you've done well for yourself.

Here goes ... now please keep in mind that this is just an outline. I don't have all the details fleshed out yet:

The movie starts with a guy on his lunch hour in the city (maybe Boston? New York?). He's sitting on a stone wall that surrounds a water fountain, eating what appears to be a reuben sandwich. It's clearly difficult for him to keep it from becoming a big mess. He eventually gets some on his shirt and in a spastic move to avoid getting some on his pants he accidentally flings his cell phone into the fountain. He then has to take his shoes and socks off, roll up his pants and wade into the fountain to retrieve his phone. He gets it back and it seems to still be working until he tries to actually use it and it dies. He wades back over to where he left his shoes and socks and they are gone. Someone stole them.

He then has to walk back into the office building barefooted. Maybe he gets some static from the security guard about having no shoes on? I dunno...I'm spitballin' here. Eventually they let him in and he gets back to his sad, grey cube where he has a spare pair of socks and his running shoes. He goes to a big meeting with his boss. There is an opportunity for him to take ownership of a major project that the would have lots of visibility and would probably mean a promotion if he were successful. He balks at the chance and one of his co-workers (whom he trained maybe?) steps up and takes the reins. We see the boss looking disappointed and somewhat irritated that our guy did not take on the project. After the meeting, the boss takes him aside to tell him that he's concerned that our guy is not committed to the job and maybe he should re-evaluate whether or not he wants to work at this firm. As the boss is talking, he notices the sneakers the guy is wearing and just walks away from him in mid-sentence.

Our guy starts to make his way home and as he does, the camera pans up and we see what appears to be the silhouette of an angel sitting on the edge of the office building where our guy works (ok, that's cheesy and a bit of a rip off...needs work). The angel seems to be upset that the situation for our guy is going so poorly. We then get to review the office scene again from his perspective and we see that he influenced our guy to not take the lead role on the big project. The angel is so convincing in his efforts to make sure the guy does not work on the project that when the guy opts out, it is a choice that he feels really strongly about. When the choice turns out to be the wrong one (again), both he and the angel are genuinely stunned by this.

The angel sees the guy leaving for home and decides to let him go alone and meets up with his other guardian angel friends in a shitty dive bar in a bad part of the city. The bar itself if dark and dirty and there are a number of angels milling about and sitting either at tables or the bar. The angel sees a friend of his at the bar and makes his way over to him. He orders up a whiskey and his friend asks him what's going on. He mentions the guy from this morning (whom he calls a "client") and how the path that he lead this client to turned out to be the bad choice. He looks really bothered by this. His friend says "Well, yeah. I mean, that's what you do right?" The friend then goes on to reveal that they are not guardian angels at all but are, in fact, demons who's sole purpose is to ruin people's lives. "As a matter of fact, you're like the best demon in our whole organization!", the other demon tells him. "Your clients are by far the most miserable failures in this sector. You totally dominate the client's actual guardian angels that you've effectively rendered them useless." There could be a discussion on quotas and how his numbers are better than every other demon...again, needs work here.

The former self-described angel, now fully realized demon, is crushed by this news. His friend simply thought he was stating the obvious and didn't understand that this demon believed he was doing good. Our demon excuses himself, assuring his friend that's he's fine and that he just needs to go out for a walk. He walks around the city reflecting on his past clients and how every last one of them over the years has become a complete failure (perhaps some of them even becoming criminals or worse). He gets really depressed and decides to not go into work for a couple of days (side note: maybe we then get to see some of his clients' lives improving as they start to make better decisions?) while he tries to get his head around this new notion of being evil.

This is where I lose my train of thought: What direction to go? Does the angel/demon character then try to redeem himself and truly try to become "good"? He could then struggle to go against his own base instincts (à la George Costanza in that Seinfeld episode where he does the opposite of whatever he normally would do) and in the process of doing that, alienate his fellow demons to the point of getting exiled. But unfortunately, even though he's "reformed" and is now doing "good", the guardian angels reject him based on his past (I mean, he was their sworn enemy for eons). Because he is not part of either the angels or the demons (sounds like 1960's street gang names), he becomes lost and broken. He is stripped of his powers and becomes a mortal man with no knowledge of his history and is then assigned a guardian angel and a demon (perhaps his old friend from the bar? And maybe this is considered a punishment by the other demons because technically he was responsible for them losing their best employee?).

OR...

He then embraces the fact that he is evil and totally ramps up his game. Maybe he becomes such a workaholic (I hate that term by the way...why is "aholic" used as a suffix to describe obsessive behavior?), rising through the demon ranks to become the head demon for all of the northeast territory. I don't know why I have this vision of them breaking up all the client people that they have to watch over into quadrants or whatever. I just see them as salesmen y'know? Like their whole job is to "sell" the choices that people are presented with on a daily basis. The angels are selling the "right" choices and the demons the "bad" choices. And the better they are at this, the more people or "clients" they get assigned to them. Am I blathering again? Sorry.

So, yeah, I don't have an ending and the 2nd act is pretty weak at the moment but like I stated earlier, this is only a draft outline. The gist is there I think. The concept is fairly straightforward but I just don't know all the details yet. Uh...that's my idea in a nutshell. Whattaya think? Vote below! Hooray! Voting with no real outcome!

Guest Blogger: Oliver the Cat

2011-08-18T12:02:00.004-04:00

This post is going to be a little different. Oliver, the boy cat in our house has a wealth of knowledge about living in the modern world as a housecat and he has asked to address the world (or at least the 3 people who read this). I wasn't on board with the idea but he promised a cease fire on the daily hairball bombings for the near future if he could do this. That's a pretty sweet deal if you ask me and you didn't. And so without further ado, I present the hacky premise of a cat blogging about cat stuff:

Oliver's House Cat Survival Tips

Barfing: One should barf only in convenient places. If you happen to be sitting on the couch when the urge to hurl comes on, it will take far too much effort to run downstairs and "deposit the item" shall we say, in one of the lovely piddle palaces that the people have provided. Why not just barf right there? It's a pretty big couch so you do not have to worry about ruining a favorite place to sleep. Only one small area will be affected and the people will certainly clean it up once they get home. Just pretend you have no idea what's going on if they seem upset at you.

Scratching: It really feels wonderful to come out of one of your multiple naps, arch your back while stretching out exaggeratedly and then get a really good scratch going on a lovely, textured surface. The people have insisted that this activity should only be carried out on the S-shaped scratching post thingie in the living room. Now this surface is quite wonderful and I must admit it is a pleasure to use but again, it becomes a question of convenience. As a cat, one cannot be expected to have to commute to the "designated scratching area" just to satisfy the humans when the intoxicating, delicious urge to scratch on something is swimming all through your head and clouding your thoughts. What if you find yourself upstairs? Are you just supposed to ignore all those record albums sitting there on the bottom shelf? I mean why else did they put them there if they didn't want you to use them? What of that bass amp? Wouldn't it be better to use it for something as noble as a scratching post rather than just let it sit there idly for years? It has this fantastic black felty stuff on it that I must say hits the pads on my paws juuuuust right when I tear into it. And I can't say enough about the area rugs. There is one in the kitchen that gets all my bullet points. I highly recommend it.

Fur and its many uses: Fur is amazing stuff. It keeps us warm, it looks sweet, you can shed any extra at will, and it fuels the barfing that we all enjoy so much. The shedding part is one of my favorites. I like to leave deposits on the stairs that lead from the first to the second floor. I especially like to do this after the human has just swept the stairs clean. It's hilarious. Also, rolling around on furniture and rugs will help slough off a whole shit-ton of fur onto said surfaces. Again, I recommend doing this after the fat one has put away the loud sucking machine with the tiny wheels. Fur can be used to mess up the people's clothes too. The most effective strategy for this ploy is to wait until they are ready to leave for the day (I have often wondered where do they go? Why don't they just stay here with us and nap in the sunlight all day? They are silly), and then rub up against their legs. I believe they think I'm just being affectionate or something so it works like a charm every time. Oh! I almost forgot to mention the fact that fur can absorb smells really efficiently. What I like to do is to hang out all day in the musty basement and then later, when the people are asleep, I walk across their faces. Oh man! That NEVER gets old.

Constant vigilance: This is critical. As a cat you are under nearly ceaseless threats of death from all sides. These emergencies can come at any time from any place. I cannot stress this point enough. ANYTHING can kill you instantly no matter how harmless it may seem. Luckily we have been blessed with excellent hearing which is one of the best early-warning systems one can have. Here is a short list of sounds that WILL foreshadow your death. When you hear these sounds you must bolt immediately out of the room and hide either in the basement or under the bed in the large room upstairs. These are the only safe places in the house.

The doorbell
A sneeze
A car door closing
The garbage disposal
Any human's voice other than the two that feed us

This is not by any means a complete list and it may be advisable to become nervous and tense at the slightest sound or perceived threat. When you hear these sounds you must react and not think. You must be ready at any second to launch yourself into the air and skitter away like a lunatic. There can be no hesitation. You must be steadfast in your determination to escape. I recommend practice runs at random intervals during the day to keep your reflexes sharp. Remember, the thing can't get you if you hiss and growl loud enough.

Humans: Look, I don't like to admit it any more than you do but they seem to be necessary to have in one's life. They provide food, water and maintenance of the poopy boxes and bonus! they can be very comfortable to sleep on and/or against. The biggest complaints I hear most often is that they are quite loud (I mean they have no respect for a cat trying to get a nap in after being awake for nearly an hour) and that they always want to touch the fur that you just groomed. What's up with that anyway? I JUST fixed that side of my coat and here comes Chubby with his sausage fingers to mess it all up again. Soooo frustrating (Incidentally, by what names do you call your humans? Ah, I guess it doesn't really matter does it? They never come when you call them anyway). What I have determined is that one can keep the humans quite happy with minimal effort. Here's a few things you can do to entertain your human that won't cause you to lose respect for yourself:

Play fetch for a bit with them using a favorite toy and then abandon the practice completely. This will keep them confused and may even have them buy you other toys in a sad attempt to recreate that "special moment" you both shared. Refuse to play with all of the toys when the human is around and then shove them all under the refrigerator when no one is looking.
"Adopt" a sock (or dish towel) as a representative of either a fresh kill or perhaps an imaginary baby kitten. This one is a classic that never fails to get the humans to either feel sad for you or completely charmed. Simply go to the laundry basket grab an item and walk around with it in your mouth while making loud vocalizations. You might get the human to pet you sympathetically in hopes of soothing your long-suppressed "animal instincts". The humans have weird guilt about "forcing" us to stay in the house for our entire lives. I'm pretty sure that's what's going on. Use this opportunity to shed on them.
Lick them. I know, that sounds gross but stay with me on this one. I'm telling you, cat to cat, humans taste great. I can't speak to actually eating one or even taking a chunk out of their arms but the surface of their skin is just the right amount of salty. Seriously, try it. Tonight when you are using them as a pillow, give their arm a couple of quick licks and see if you don't love it. What I like to do is to wait until they are about to fall asleep and then I crawl up and lick the tender inside of their arms. If they're sleepy enough you can get a few minutes in before they get all fussy and roll over. No problem. Most likely they've exposed a leg or something else that you can lick. Thank me later.

That's some of the helpful survival tips you need to know in order to live a long and nap-filled life with your human pets. These are certainly not all the things you will need to master but I simply do not have the time to list all of my feline knowledge here on this pathetic website. I hope to return as a guest blogger from time to time and maybe answer questions from the readers. If you do have a question for me, Oliver the House Cat, please leave them below in the comments area and I will do my bestest to answer them next time. Right now I gotta jet cuz I just noticed that the sun has moved onto the dining room table and god I love sleeping on so-called forbidden places. Peace out.

Need a Little Tenderness

2011-08-10T16:19:00.005-04:00

I know that I'm a cranky person, hell, I even put it right in the "About Me" thingie on this site. I am the opposite of a people person. I'm not actively looking to complain about my fellow humans, it's just that I happen to notice that most people (I said "most" ok? I wanted to say "all" but I held back) are self-absorbed, selfish jackasses who live in a bubble of their own making. And this is coming from a guy who has a blog where I write about me me me me me. I'm also a hypocrite so I think we can agree that it works out awesomely.

This morning I was witness to some behaviors that technically aren't a large affront but I think they are symptomatic of a much larger problem within our society. People are super rude and forget that there are other people around who may not want to deal with them. I had gone up to the cafeteria (Cafe Fail) and grabbed an orange juice (dunno why but I had a major craving for orange juice with all kinds of pulpy goodness this morning). I paid for m'juice and then went over to the elevators and pressed the button to go back down to the 1st floor. I was waiting for the elevator to come when some guy came up and stood next to me. He then proceeded to hit the down button (we are on the top floor of a 4-story building). Hey dick? Yea, see how that button is all lit up and shit? That means that I've already hit said button to call the elevator. I know I look dumb and all but I'm pretty sure I did it correctly. Your tapping it again isn't going to make it come any quicker. That's Strike One. The elevator finally came and we filed on. I hit the 1st floor button and settled back into the "don't talk to me" stance (for me that's basically any stance). He leans over and hits the 3rd floor button. Hey dick? You're going down ONE floor? Unacceptable. That's Strike Two.

He must have either noticed that I was irritated by his singular floor ride or perhaps he just felt guilty (both options are unlikely) so he said, "I really tweaked my knee playing basketball" to me. Hey dick? I don't care. Don't talk to me. Can you not see my personal barrier? It's pretty obvious I'm not a chatter. Keep your banter to yourself 'kay? 'Kay. I'm-a-gonna let that one slide though and let you go with a warning. And then, not quite content with the now 2.5 offenses that I have silently charged him with he decides to up the ante by opening up his breakfast sandwich and taking a HUGE slobbering bite out of it. It sounded like this: krinkle krinkle krinkle..."mmmfff CHOMP! scmuSNNmmffPHH! smack! smack! smack!" Holy shit dude. You do realize that you are only going to be on this elevator for like 15-20 seconds right? You couldn't fucking hold off on tearing into that egg and sausage shitstorm for less than half a minute? No? Awesome. Thanks for letting me hear you chew. All this before 8 am too. Lucky me.

The doors open and he slowly wanders out onto his floor while taking yet another huge bite from his sandwich. Holy fuck. Did he even get to swallow the first bite yet? Gah! The elevator doors closed and I was left to go down the remainder of the floors with the stink of his breakfast hanging in the air threatening to permeate my clothes. I looked over and there was a glob of melted cheese and a halo of bread crumbs where he was standing. "God, it stinks in here," I thought to myself as the elevator arrived at my floor. The doors opened and of course there was like three people standing RIGHT IN FRONT of the door as if there was absolutely no way that there could possibly be another person on the planet who might just happen to want to get the fuck off the elevator. I mean, c'mon people. Fucking spread out and let me pass. My only consolation was the knowledge that they are now standing in that guy's sandwich funk. I don't even care if they suspect that it was me. Ok, I care a little.

2011-07-13T12:53:00.002-04:00

I got quite a variety of reactions on my last post ranging from indifference to confusion to appreciation. It basically was an idea that I had had while I was in my basement cleaning up gross cat stuff. I tried to write it out as organically as it had flowed in my head. I'm not so sure I was successful on that front but it was fun to do and I will probably do more of that here in the near future. I'm always making up little stories in my head to entertain myself so I might as well share the weirdness.

Full disclosure: I actually had a rather long post all ready to go that talked about relationship progression and all the different paths that something as potentially complex as a relationship can take but I'm not going to post it. Why? Well, it was terrible. It was shitty actually. I may go into it again sometime in the future but right now I don't seem to have anything that I would want to post. I'm trying to spare you, gentle reader, from the 3rd grade level blather that I had produced. That's not to say that I won't publish my 4th grade level bullshit though.

So what to do? Do I talk (write. I'm not actually talking. Although as I write this, I do hear my own voice in my head saying these words. That voice is way more nasal than I would have hoped. I recently heard a recording of my voice and I know it's cliche to say you don't like the sound of your own voice but this was either a really bad recording or fucking spot on. I can't tell. At any rate, it was not something I'd like to hear again. So let me apologize for the way my voice sounds right up front here if I ever talk to you in person) about something else? I'm kind of doing that right now aren't I? Is this less irritating than the thoughts I tried to put into words about relationships? Probably. It really was a terrible post. You should totally thank me. I think what I'll do is a 5-Song Shuffle to pad this entry. Won't that be fun? You all know the rules right? Let's explain them anyway. Play along if you'd like and post your results in the comments area (quick aside about that by the way... please post comments if you have them. I like reading them. For reals). Ok, the rules: Get yer iPod or MP3 player or whatever you have your music on and turn on the shuffle feature. Write down the first five songs that come on and no cheating! If Kenny G comes on, write it down. Embrace your silly musical tastes. Kay? Kay.

That was pretty decent actually. Lucky for me. I do have some stinkers on here somewhere but I did purge a bunch of stuff recently. I actually freed up like 1 GB worth of songs that I kept skipping. Isn't this super interesting? I know. I'm sorry. I'll get something better up on the blog thing soon. Move along.

Cat Grooming and the Clown Problem

2011-06-28T11:45:00.005-04:00

I think my stupid cats should stop throwing up in my basement. It's disgusting and I'm tired of going down there and discovering yet another hairball-infused spew on the floor. I'd gladly give the little fuckers some petromalt except that the main culprit Oliver (a.k.a Ollie, Awww-Lee, Little Bastard, L.B., Mr. ShitFucker, Lil' Bubba, Bubba, Lil' Buddy, Stinky BumBumBoy, Molly's Oliver, Captain Shithole, Freakshow, Hey You Get Offa There NOW!) doesn't like the malty goop and refuses to eat it. Molly loves it but she's not the one horking up every goddamn day is she? No, she is not. So because he's such a stubborn bugger and licks not only himself but Molly's fur as well, I end up with a veritable mine field in the basement that I have to navigate. Yes, I clean it but cat vomit has amazing bonding capabilities with bare concrete. If you aren't standing right behind Colonel Asslicker when he lets his vile, hairy payload go, well then it's gonna have time to absorb into the floor and make it nigh impossible to extract completely. I have barf halos everywhere down there. It's a problem.

What does he think, I'm running a circus down there? I mean, not anymore. Not since the permits were revoked and all the elephants escaped. Also maybe the sheer number of clown deaths may have been a catalyst for the eventual failure of The Amazing O'Malley Super Fantastic 3-Ring Traveling Circus Extravaganza That Never Actually Traveled or Even Existed circus. I still to this day say that the city was far too judgmental on that point. I mean, what is an "inordinate amount" anyway? It should be clearly defined. Is one clown death ok? How about a half dozen? Surely that can't be a problem. I need solid numbers if I am to understand this "law". I personally think we were providing a service for the community. These clowns have no self control and they breed like ... not rabbits exactly but maybe marsupials? Marsupials without the pouch thing. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure that they don't have pouches. Their outfits are large enough to conceal one. Man, wouldn't that be just like a frickin' clown to be hiding a marsupial-like pouch for their hideous offspring to climb into in order to latch onto a nasty, clowny teat. Goddamn, clowns are gross.

I'd feel better about the circus failing if the city had claimed zoning problems or something mundane like that as the issue. But the city was fully behind us getting the big tent up and filling it with thousands of cheering spectators and the pungent smell of elephant poop from the beginning, pushing the permitting process through quicker than anyone had ever seen before. At one time there had been a recommendation from the local government to make it mandatory for all school children to attend TAOMSF3RTCETNATOEE (as the circus was known to our fans) at least twice during the school year. We had become the go-to destination for school field trips for communities up and down the Massachusetts coast (and at least one Canadian elementary school too, but we didn't let them in on account of their funny-looking money). But the specter of the "Clown Apocalypse", as the local paper branded it, proved too difficult to overcome for us and so our dream died (along with a lot of clowns as it turns out).

Even if the grand jury votes to indict us (The Wiff was more involved in the talent management and book keeping where I was in charge of the day-to-day affairs and clown disposal), I don't think they have much of a case. Nor do I think they'll want to provoke us into "stirring things up". If we go down, we're gonna take others down too. I can give multiple examples of not only the police benefiting from our "practice" but also the local gardeners and landscapers (we offered the highest quality clown mulch at below-market prices). There's no way they didn't have an idea of what was going on (think about it....all that grease paint concentrated in one area there's bound to be some run-off and/or staining). We were just trying to keep the neighborhood safe from all the creepy, creepy clowns we kept hiring for our circus. We also needed to keep the show fresh and new. If someone came to the show more than once, I didn't want them seeing the same batch of twitchy, paranoid clowns running around in a tight circle that they saw last time. Everyone looked the other way for years and now that the numbers of missing clowns has grown to this supposed shockingly large number, they've all sprouted morals. I call bullshit.

My lawyer (Mr. Twinkles) tells me that I shouldn't comment since this is an active and on-going case but I suspect he may be part clown. I'm not worried though as I have every confidence that we will be cleared of all charges. Even if this does end up going to trial, there's no jury in the world that would consider convicting us. Clown population control is a public service. Would you really prefer that they be left to their own devices and allowed to roam free? What happens when they start infringing on our neighborhoods? Do you really want to throw out your garbage only to be confronted with a cackle of clowns (that's the technical term for a group of 3 or more clowns) rifling through your barrels in search of food and things to juggle? Or worse, what if they walk up to your house and peer in a window while you are sitting on the couch watching Wipeout (oh get down off your high horse. That show is fucking hilarious)? At first you'll just feel the hair on the back of your neck stand up a little but you're not sure why. You'll look around the room and suddenly out of the corner of your eye you'll see a tuft of bright red, fuzzy hair. Then you'll lock eyes with it and scream like you just got worst titty-twister ever. No one needs that. Let me handle them for you ok? Otherwise they'll end up infesting not only the woods and sewers systems but maybe even the walls of your house (they love fiberglass insulation. They use it for nesting material and replacement hair).

That's all I'm going to say about this. I will of course update all of you on the progress of the case periodically but for now I would like to get on with my life. Besides, I have plenty of hairball nastiness to deal with.

I Like What I Like

2011-06-14T11:40:00.002-04:00

I'm not exactly what you'd call an adventurous eater. I grew up in a household where....well, I've told this part of the story before. Anywho, it's very hard to get me to try different things. I tend to go back to the foods that I am positive that I will enjoy. It is a near-constant source of frustration for The Wiff who is much more apt to try a new dish and/or food combination. Basically, I'm a culinary chicken-shit. With that in mind here is a short list of things that you should avoid putting into a meal that you want me to try.

Water Chestnuts - God I hate these things. My aversion to them is three-fold: 1) Texture. That wimpy crunch they have is bad enough but I cannot abide that slightly squeaky sound they make in my head when one makes it past my filter and gets into my gob. 2) Taste. People say that the water chestnut has a subtle taste and absorbs the flavoring of sauces easily and readily like a little crunchy diplomat. I say they taste like someone dropped a chunk of drywall into whatever it is they were cooking and said, "Meh, no one will notice". 3) They are sneaky. As I alluded to earlier, I can spend a good 5 minutes clearing what I expect to be a chestnut-free path in whatever I am eating and invariably one of these tiny, edible terrorists will infiltrate my defenses and blow up my mouth with it's shitty, fake foodness. They mostly appear in Asian food but I have run across them in surprising places before (a salad for instance and once in a chicken wrap). They are banned from my plate. Take them away.

Cilantro - As garnishes go I don't mind large leafy bits of cilantro because I can usually pick 'em off quite easily (same goes for parsley with which some chefs go completely overboard). I'm not a complete dunderhead. I can appreciate presentation when it comes to food. It's when cilantro is incorporated into the actual recipe where I object. I'll be enjoying a lovely burrito and suddenly I'll hit a patch of what tastes like Ivory soap. Except it isn't soap, it's motherfucking cilantro ruining everything for everyone. I used to complain about a certain local restaurant's tomatoes tasting like they had freezer burn on them. This was not the case after all. Turns out their salsa was infested with cilantro and that was making the tomatoes taste evil. Stop using it. For the record, I'm not a huge fan of coriander either. This whole plant can just go fuck itself.

Caraway Seeds - What is the best way to ruin a perfectly lovely sausage? Stuff it full of caraway seeds, that's how. Rye bread is sometimes infested with these evil fuckers. Recently I bought a helping of potato gnocchi here at work (at the lovely Cafe Fail) and much to my chagrin some twisted bastard had dumped caraway seeds into the sauce. Why? So unnecessary. I spent the bulk of my lunch time liberating my little dumpling friends from the unpleasant influence of those pungent bastards. Some of them had of course overwhelmed the lovely blandness of the potato and ruined the poor buggers. I probably still ate all them though.

Peas - Nasty, nasty peas. By far these have the worst texture of all vegetables (I don't care if they are technically a fruit according to my Wikipedia research). That mushiness is what appeals to some people (the Brits love 'em) but I cannot stand that texture. I'm very texture-sensitive it would seem. The Wiff has tried several times to get me to try different variations of peas, "OMG, these are SOOooOOooO fresh! You'll LOVE them!!" No. No I won't. I have never, ever, ever liked them. As a kid I used to put them under my plate thinking that would trick my mom into thinking I had eaten them (that didn't work by the by. All it did was create a plate-sized pea pancake that, if left to cure for 15 minutes, would adhere the plate to the kitchen table with the tensile strength of a low-grade wood glue. Nasty). Quit trying to slip them into other foods that I enjoy. Get them the hell out of my shepard's pie. I don't care if the recipe calls for them. Don't use them please please please. A thousand times please. She doesn't listen to me though. So I must separate the diminutive green fuckers from the stuff I want to eat. Damn you, Wiff.

Corn (off the cob) - Ok, this is a weird one, I'll admit. If you are serving some wonderful corn on the cob count me in as interested. I'm not saying I'm a super enthusiast but I'll gladly get slightly messy munching on a nicely buttered corn on the cob (cob of corn? That sounds wrong somehow...slightly sexual perhaps). But if you were to take that very same cob and slice off the corn kernels, well then count me the fuck out. I want nothing to do with free-agent corn. I like my corn in cob form only. I have no further explanation and I don't believe that one is needed. Keep 'em on the cob or I'm gonna pick 'em out. Simple as that.

Why yes! Of course I'd love some!

Holy shit get that away from me! What's wrong with you?

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go see if there is anything I can complain about that doesn't really matter to anyone else.

Pay Attention to MEEEEEEE!!

2011-06-09T11:34:00.002-04:00

That's this blog yelling at me in the title there. I've not been a good blogger (jeezus christ I hate that word. The word just plops out of your mouth like a turd. Awful). So yeah, I am a slacker huh? I say that I want to have at least one update a week for this website/blog thing but of course I keep neglecting it. Why is this? Mainly it's cuz I don't have much going that is all that interesting. I'm trying to be courteous to you, gentle reader, by not posting a lot of sleep-inducing blather about my day-to-day existence. I HAVE to know about all this stuff that's in my head but I can at the very least shield you all from it. Basically I'm a hero and you need to praise me.

Alright, so...um..what's up? Not much with me. Yes, ok, there's stuff going on but it's all work stuff. I have some things I have to take care of at work and they seem to be taking quite a bit of not only my time but also my brain capacity (short order there huh? zing!). I think once I get past this project I'll be better able to focus on side projects like this (not that I have a ton of hobbies or whatever). I have a long-standing policy of not talking about jobs that appear on the resume so I'm certainly not going to go into much detail here. But I will say that I got cranky at my job recently. I was given a project that I wasn't thrilled about and after trying to wiggle my way out of it with no luck, I just sucked it up and did the work. That's really what I've found works for me anyway. Stop yer whining and just do the thing. Maybe you'll learn something in the process. So yea, it was not fun but it's wrapping up soon and as it turns out, I did learn some things. Meh. I tend to forget that if I'm uncomfortable and grumpy at work it usually means I'm learning something new. Yes, I can be a baby but hopefully I can be less of a baby in the future.

What about home stuff? Well, we recently had our deck and fence replaced at the house. The old deck was not-so-slowly sinking into the ground (this past winter and all that snow really took a toll on the poorly built bugger) and the fence that forms a giant 75-foot L shape between our property and two of our neighbor's houses (we have the corner lot) was threatening to fall over soon. I think the new stuff looks wicked pissah. Wanna see? 'Course you do. Let's do this in "Before and After" style!

See? Look how far away from the house that railing is...it was sinking!

Ahhhh..that's better

This was the culprit corner. This corner was down about 8 inches from where it was supposed to be.

Blammo! Fixed.

The shittiest stairs ever. Not one riser was the same height as the next one. The top one was almost 9 inches. The standard is somewhere between 6" and 7" (yes, I looked that up).

Mucho better.

Bleah. Look at that shit.

Ooh. So fresh and so clean clean.

Not bad right? Pretty slick. We used the same contractor who did our kitchen renovation. He rules. We also had him build us a little shed on the driveway side of the house. I don't have a picture of it but in his words: It's cute! It totally is too. I'm gonna get me a snow blower and keep it in there. Did I mention I know absolutely nothing about snow blowers? I've been shoveling snow since I was a tiny cherub. I believe I deserve some gas powered awesomeness to move that white bullshit for me. It will rule and it will never not work and nobody will ever break into my new shed and steal it. Right? Right.

Is It Really Work If There Are Cat Beds Nearby?

2011-05-18T16:21:00.006-04:00

I'm pretty fortunate to have a job where I can occasionally work from home. Not everyone can do this and certainly I have had many a job where I did not have this option. I guess you could call it a perk. However, when I work from home it's not all pickles and sunshine (what? You've never eaten a delicious dill pickle outside in the lovely summer-time air? It is just this side of heaven gosh darn it). I may be sitting in a much more comfortable and, even with the traffic noise from my busy street penetrating my shitty single-pane windows (can I borrow several thousand dollars to replace all 30+ windows in my house? Pretty please? No? Ok...fine), quieter environment; I do still have to actually get some work done. Let's do a Pros and Cons approach to working from home shall we? Why the hell not.

Pros:

Super short commute. I mean...wow. Can't beat that. The worst that could happen is maybe there is a cat jack-knifed on the stairs but one can usually nudge said cat along and get down to the first floor with little hassle.
The aforementioned quiet. I sit in a cube farm at work (high roller...that's me) and while I understand that there are other people on the planet, I don't like to hear them when I'm working. Ok, I don't really like to hear them at all. Am I a misanthrope? Maybe.
The coffee. Holy hell is the coffee at home waaaaaaaaaay better than the stuff I can get at the office. As a matter of fact, I have not had a cup of coffee at work in nearly 2 years. And this shit is FREE. I just cannot deal with bad coffee because I am a snob. I have my usual cup of home brew on the way into the office and then maybe I'll grab a diet Coke at around 10am. I still get my caffeine fix which I require in order to function but I'll tells ya: I'd much prefer it in hot coffee form. I can get this at ye olde homestead. Lovely.
Dress code. It's not like I have to wear a suit and a tie at work but I do have to look somewhat presentable. However, at home...all bets are off. Now I will still get dressed because I am a professional goddammit. Plus, I can't take myself seriously when I'm in my PJs so how can I expect anyone else to? But my attire will be decidedly down from what I can wear at work. Old ratty t-shirt with what appears to be a grease stain across the chest? Sure. How about some shorts to show off those fabulous-good-lord-I-didn't-know-something-could-be-that-pale legs of mine? You betcha. Don't feel like fixing my hair? Not a problem. Go with the "just got out of the shower" look instead.
Temperature. The office tends to be about 5 to 6 degrees warmer than I would like it to be. This does a few things to me. One, it makes me a little sleepy and I can get distracted more easily. Two, I'm already rather well insulated so I tend to become uncomfortable. This does not occur at the homestead. Even in the dog days of summer I can retreat to an air conditioned room and cool myself off.

Cons:

Cats. One might think that the furry little buggers would be a "pro" in this debate. That would be incorrect. Case in point: I was working from home and had staked out a nice comfy spot on the couch to sit. I had the laptop on the coffee table, my notes and stuff piled neatly next to the computer, and I was ready to go. A half hour later when Morticia decided that it was way more important for me to be a pillow for her rather than a productive member of my team was when I realized that this was probably not the best place to sit. When Molly came over and started licking my arm I knew I had to move. I moved all my stuff into the dining room and spent the rest of the day on a very hard and not so comfortable chair. These chairs are ok for enjoying a nice meal but not so much for sitting all day and trying to work. Then Oliver threw up right in front of me. I wish I was making that up. Nasty.
Discipline. Because I am at home and NOT in the office, it is ultimately up to me to make sure that I get stuff done. Usually I'd say that this is a problem because I am quite lazy and can be distracted by pretty much anything. But for whatever reason, when I work from home I get very focused and I tend to get a lot accomplished. I actually think my company gets more work out of me when I'm not in the office than when I am. The reason this doesn't show up in the "Pros" category is that I don't want to work at all. But stupid reality says that I must. So, "Cons" it is.
Lunch choices. At work I have a number of options for lunch. I can choose the sammich The Wiff lovingly prepared for me (I will 9 times out of 10...honestly), I can go upstairs to the cafeteria (or what I call "Cafe Fail"), or there are a number of restaurants, sub joints, pizza places and crap like that within a short walk of the office. When I'm at home it's just what we have in the kitchen. And that usually means a whole bunch of ingredients. See, The Wiff likes to cook so she has on hand many items with which she can conjure up lovely meals. I, on the other hand, cannot cook and so I'd rather just have some quick stuff available that I can slap together. Ok, this may be a weak example...are you still reading this?
Communication. When I'm at work and I have a quick question for someone I can usually just walk over to where they sit and ask them in person. When I'm sitting in my house, my choices are calling them which I'd rather not do, emailing them which my be delayed since I'm on the VPN, or using our internal IM service. All of these choices are ok but they fall short of just being able to talk to someone face to face. Then again, I do prefer to not talk to anyone so maybe this is also a bad example?

As I suspected, the Pros clearly outweigh the Cons when it comes to working from home. Not a surprise at all. I need to figure out how to become independently wealthy so I don't have to go to work. That's the goal. How I get there is a mystery I'm afraid.

Junk From My Brain

2011-05-16T10:17:00.000-04:00

NOTE: Blogger had a meltdown last week and my post "Junk From My Brain" was lost in the shuffle. I'm re-posting it since it doesn't look like they will be recovering it themselves.

The Pony Tail. I think that the Pony Tail might be one of the happiest hair-do's ever. Whenever I see a woman jogging or even just walking quickly with her hair in a pony tail, I always imagine that the pony tail is singing a little song in a high-pitched-happy-happy-sing-song voice as it swishes back and forth. "Pony-tail! Pony-tail! Pony-tail! Pony-tail!" I had thought about making a video with me doing the voice of the pony tail but the creep factor of me filming several women jogging or walking seemed too high. "No officer, I'm not some pervert. I'm just making a video of pony-tails for my blog. See, I'm going sing the voice of the pony-tail! ...Because it's funny? No! This is NOT a fetish. No wait!...please don't arrest me...I'll leave. I'm sorry." I just realized that the Pig Tail as a hair style is as happy if not happier than the Pony Tail. Hmmm...I betcha that filming someone with pig tails does involve a fetish of some sort though.

The Shirt Taco. You know when you're wearing a button-down shirt and you're a fat guy? No? Ok, so what about if you are wearing a button-down shirt and when you sit down a space opens up between two of the buttons? That's a Shirt Taco. Shirt tacos can happen from a shirt not fitting well causing it to bunch up when you sit or, in my case, you have exceeded the shirt's documented capacity limits. This is sometimes preceded by consuming a meal. Such as: "Ah crap...I shouldn't have had that big lunch. Now I have shirt tacos." The worst type of shirt tacos are usually seen on men where there is no undershirt behind the taco. This allows hairy flesh to poke out. That's nasty and no one wants to bear witness to such an exhibition. On the other side of the shirt taco spectrum is when a woman's ill-fitting shirt gives one a brief glimpse at the booby area. These particular shirt tacos can be fun. Yes, I know I'm ma dirty old man but don't even act like you haven't glanced inside a shirt taco, seen some lady's bra and giggled to yourself. You have and you know it. These are more dangerous though because one does run the risk of getting caught looking. What I have observed is that no matter where the shirt taco appears (man or woman), it is unwise to acknowledge its existence. Just give it a quick glance when you think the coast is clear and then chuckle to yourself later.

Apostrophes and Computer Forms. As an Apostrophized American (apostrophied? apostrophed?), I am flabbergasted that in 2011 there are still computer forms out there that refuse to recognize the apostrophe as a legitimate character. What the frick computers? My name is "O'Malley" and your dumb form has forced me to revoke my own apostrophe in order to satisfy your out-dated and, dare I say, discriminatory computer code. I will now and forever be labeled as "Omalley" in your stupid database. Every time I have to deal with your company I will have to say "No, the name is O'Malley not Omalley. Yes, I know that's what you have in front of you but I'm telling you that's not how it is spelled. There's an apostrophe in the last name but your site wouldn't let me put it in. It just kept rejecting my application/order/whatever. Yes, I'm positive. I've had this name for as long as I can remember. Yes, I'll hold." It does help me sort the junk mail that comes to the house. If the last name is misspelled, chances are that particular piece of mail came from a company that I don't want to work with anymore. Here's the kicker: My own email address here at work does not include the apostrophe. Mother fuck.

Relax, Man

2011-04-29T09:56:00.000-04:00

I have to get out of the office more often. I spend my day going from one meeting to another or at my desk doing work. Sometimes the meetings are in different buildings so I do get to briefly go outside, but mostly I'm indoors from when I get in until I leave in the evening. It's not exactly what I'd call a big problem or anything like that. It just is what it is, y'know? I get busy and before I know it, I've been sitting in my cube all day (minor confession here: I came really close to saying "my office" just then to give the impression that I'm not just sitting in a drab beige-grey box with no top. As if I might actually have a door or *gasp!* a window...but alas, I do not. My cube does have one "wall" that has glass in it but that's not really the same as a window is it? No, it's mainly a source of annoyance when people stare at me as they walk by. Keep it moving people. Do not make eye contact).

I sometimes go for a short walk during my lunch hour (maybe down to the Charles River or over to Central Square to people watch. Central Sq. may be a lot less sketchy than it used to be but hoo-boy there are still quite a few characters to be seen) but as the weather gets warmer, I have to limit my range. Why? The "sweat factor". I know....I'm gross. But seriously, if I walk too far and/or too fast (not really an issue...let's be honest), I run the risk of becoming a sweaty mess. As I may have mentioned before, I generate enough heat to power a small city. If you add to that a high ambient temperature, or god forbid, humidity, well, that's a recipe for disaster. It is out of courtesy for my fellow workers that I will keep things under control.

As the weather improves, I must bid adieu to a rarely used but wonderful way to recharge myself. I call it "urban camping". Urban camping for me means going to my car in the garage here at work and sitting inside quietly while trying to clear my head (again, not really an issue for the most part). Sometimes I'd just take a quicky nap (like 15 min) but the main idea is to just take a break from what's going on and relax. I've never read anything about how to meditate but I think I have the basics. It works really well for me. I don't think I'll be able to do it as much during the summer because I like to have the windows rolled up so that it is as quiet as possible. That's kinda hard to do when it's 90°F out.

Speaking of 90°F days, they're coming and I am not looking forward to them. Since I can't do the camping thing nor can I go for a walk when it's that damn hot out I'm going to have to find some alternative. I thought about trying to book a conference room for a half hour or so as a solution but the walls here as so super thin that I think it'll be too distracting for me. Plus, I'm not sure what the perception of someone meditating in a conference room is here at the office. My guess is that it may not be positive. I have to find some place to do this though because I like the way it helps me focus. I'm not an afternoon coffee person (used to be during the Hate Bus days) and I'm suspicious of the 5-Hour Energy stuff and their ilk, so I've come to depend on these sessions to help keep me going. I hope I'm not turning into a hippie, I'm allergic to hacky-sacks.

Everyone Will Want to Buy This Product!

2011-04-25T15:59:00.006-04:00

Right around the same time that I was "taking a break" from college and trying to find a career path that best suited my lack of experience/terrible attitude, I wandered into the clutches of a multi-level marketing job (which is a polite way of saying "pyramid scheme"). This particular episode of Vocational Errors by Your Host Mark took place sometime during 1991 since I was living in Jamaica Plain at the time. As a matter of fact, I just realized that this Vocational Error is a two-fer since I was also working at Copy Cop (making the lofty wage of $7.50/hr). So I was doubling down on the stupidity. Let's dive shall we?

A friend of mine had heard about another friend of ours who had had recently come to be involved in this really lucrative and exciting business. He said that we should meet up with him and see what this business opportunity was. He was super excited to do this and I was pretty naive (read: dumb) so I agreed to meet up. Our friend suggested that rather than the 3 of us meeting that we should instead come to this office building to meet his contact (Business Dude). Whatever, just tell me where to be and what time to be there. (Note: that's 4 uses of the word "meet" in one tiny paragraph. What an excellent vocabulary, Mark. Actually the whole paragraph is poorly written and confusing. Meh, I'm too lazy to fix it now.)

We met with the Business Dude and he was impressive to the 1991 me. He looked completely legit with a dark suit, nice hairdo, and rented office space. He even had a big wooden desk and framed pictures on his walls. Clearly, this guy had made it so I should listen up and pay attention here. He went on to explain what the product was and how the business ran. We were to give people the opportunity to experience the superior quality of NSA Water Filters and at the same time let them in on the rewarding and financially liberating world of sales! He showed us how our friend had sold X amount of filters and was now moving on to amass his own team of sales guys (a.k.a. the two of us. Oh man, what a poor choice he was making). The Business Dude said things like "You can make your own hours! Work as much or as little as you want! These things sell themselves!", which to a guy like me who was lazy and unmotivated that's the equivalent of saying "It's like college where no one really cares if you do the assigned work or not. It's totally up to you and your well-defined work ethic. Go get 'em tiger!". Business Dude assured us that this model was working for him, would soon work for our other friend and could, in fact, work for us.

What I should have said was "No, I'm not interested in being a marketing/sales dude. I'm more of an introverted cube-jockey kind of guy. Got any jobs like that around here in this one-room office?" But what I did was sign up on the spot. I also purchased the sales starter kit which included a couple of the sink filters, some pamphlets, a video tape of a woman who was entirely way too excited about the virtues of filtered water, and some freebie give-away things (pens, stickers and shit like that). Did I mention that I had to borrow money off my friend in order to buy this kit? I went to a sales meeting/cult-like motivational speech thing at a local hotel and listened to person after person get up and tell their remarkable stories of success selling these ~~overpriced and shitty~~ wonderful water filters. Each person's story was more fantastic than the next. "I used to be a real estate broker," one woman said. "But I got tired of getting broker and broker! <she paused for a waayyy-too-forced laugh break here> So I started selling NSA filters and supplies to all my dumb friends! Now look at me! I'm so successful that I'm standing in a Holiday Inn conference room on a Tuesday night talking to all you assholes!" (I'm paraphrasing of course). It was thrilling. I was convinced that I'd be one of those successful douchebags within the year.

I went home that night all psyched up about my new found fast-track to wealth. All I had to do was sell hundreds of water filters and filter-related products to all the people I knew while I recruited them to be in my sales crew. What could possibly go wrong? Oh, except the fact that 2 of my friends were already doing the exact same thing and hitting up the very same, now rapidly dwindling supply of peeps. Ah shit. Plus, I have a full-time job and no car. Pfffffffth. Whatever. What I decided to do was to install one of the filters on the kitchen faucet in my apartment and then take the only other one in the kit and install it in my parents' apartment. What a brilliant marketing plan: Put the product where the least amount of people will see it. I think this is the same way Dyson sold all those vacuums. I could be wrong about that.

About 2 weeks later I was contacted by Business Guy. He was just checking in to see how amazingly successful I was by now. I explained that I had not exactly had the rapid rise to success that everyone had expected of me but to rest assured, I was certainly massively qualified to run my own off-shoot of this business. It would only be a couple more weeks before I found my groove. Business Guy also wanted to know if I needed any more filters or other things that he could sell to me (no, I didn't pick up on this red flag). I bought a couple more filters from him (along with a couple of the portable models which, he told me a little too quickly, could be used to filter your own urine into potable drinking water. Um, ok...I'll take your word for it mister). I failed to ask him if there was any kind of training or management support for a dumb-dumb like me out there in the field. Basically, I just said "yes" a lot on the phone and went blindly forward. I was 4 weeks and a few hundred dollars into this deal and had nothing to show for it.

The next several weeks resulted in zero water filter sales for Team Mark. Actually, I'm not sure I can legally call it a team since I was the only member. My friend who had joined up with me had also not had much success. One of the biggest hurdles that we both faced was that these things were fairly pricey (I believe they were in the $200 range) and everyone we knew were Po' Folk who didn't mind drinking water straight from the tap. This was 1991 remember so the whole filtered\bottled water thing hadn't really taken off (that's it! we were AHEAD of our time!!). I floundered around with this "business" eating at my tiny budget for another week or so and then I made the call to the friend who got me into this whole mess in the first place. "Look man," I explained. "I'm not going to do this anymore. I haven't sold one filter thing and I can't afford to buy samples and supplies." He made a last-ditch effort to front me some filters and other supplies to keep my sinking business afloat until the sales started pouring in but I turned him down. "I quit man. I'm done." He hung up on me and I don't think I've spoken to him since. Ah well. At least I had good drinking water for another 5 months until the filter clogged up and it stopped working.

I'm Going to Miss You Harry

2011-04-18T18:59:00.002-04:00

Unfortunately I again find myself in the terrible position of reporting sad news. Another member of my family has died and way too soon. We lost Harry Climenson on April 6th. Harry was married to Amy's mom Cheryl and so I've known him almost as long as I've known Amy. Since Amy was 27 when they were married, she never called Harry her "step-dad" she just called him her "Harry" (as in when introducing them to people: "This is my mom and this is my Harry". It just made more sense). Harry was such a constant presence in our lives that hard to accept that he's not going to be there anymore. Yeah, I know I can "keep him in my thoughts" and "keep his memory alive" and all those things that people say when someone dies. I'm sorry, but that's not good enough. I just want to have dinner with the guy again and I can't (Harry was a phenomenal cook and Amy and I enjoyed many a meal that he prepared. Seriously, the guy could tear it up in the kitchen).

I don't know where I currently am in the Kübler-Ross model but I think I'm jumping all up and down the scale. When I heard that things had taken a desperate turn for the worst I simply couldn't understand it. We had just visited him in the hospital and while he certainly didn't look like he was going to run a marathon anytime soon, it did seem like he'd at least be able to go home soon-ish. I figured we'd all help him adjust to whatever the scenario would be (I had envisioned him having to retire from his job, tote around an oxygen tank, and give up his beloved game of golf) but we didn't get that chance. On Sunday the infection he had contracted got worse and the doctors decided to put him into a medically induced coma to help his system fight it. They moved him into the critical care unit and tried everything they could to knock down the infection and the reverse the damage it was doing to his lungs. They simply weren't successful. All of this forced Cheryl to make the hardest decision she will ever (hopefully) have to make. Let me be clear here: It was the absolute right decision to make. But that doesn't make it any less heart wrenching and awful. I've buried both of my parents and a mere 5 months ago we lost Amy's father but I can't imagine what losing a spouse must be like. Let's not think about that right now ok? Ok.

I have to confess that this hit me a lot harder than I had expected. I think I can attribute this to making myself more present in the moment this time around. I didn't allow myself to retreat into my favorite defense mechanism. That's where I disassociate from what's going on and everything feels like I'm watching it all on a TV. It has its uses but I do tend to rely on it too heavily. So much so that I'm not really sure I've ever honestly confronted my own feelings about losing my parents all those years ago. And every time since when I've had to go to another funeral for an aunt or uncle I have watched myself wander through the proceedings and say all the things people say from a tiny monitor somewhere far away. Not this time. This time I forced myself to be present. At the funeral when Cheryl sobbed, I felt that pain like a rabbit punch to the kidney. When I looked over at Harry's long-time friends Tommy and Vic and saw the hurt and sadness in their faces I let that sink in. I tried to not shrink away from any of it. I think I was successful but goddamn that shit hurts.

So now what? I don't know. We have to figure out what to do next as a family. I have no idea what this will mean or how it will all pan out but it has to somehow. It always does right? I'm guessing it does because we're all still here but I can't remember how any of this works. Maybe it just does? No, that's bullshit. As a matter of fact, that's borderline defeatist. I'm not saying we have to work every waking moment but I'm certainly not putting any "faith" or whatever you call it into some higher being to make everything all better. People make things work or not work. I'm determined to make things work. I'm not saying I can "make it all better" but I can make sure that it is less shitty. That may not seem like much but that's all we have. This is our new "normal".

Shit. I don't know what I'm even talking about. All I know is that I'm really sad that he's gone. I'm going to miss you, Harry. Rest in peace.

The Saddest Mid-Life Crisis Ever

2011-03-09T14:48:00.002-05:00

I first saw her on the internet on one of those sites. You know the ones. She wasn't my usual type but damn, she looked good and her information seemed promising. I arranged to meet up with her and that was the start of things. I was so excited. I had never done anything like this before. When we finally met it didn't take long for me to fall for her. Her online profile did her justice and the pics did not lie. We only went out once but after that it was obvious to me that I'd be with her for a while. I'm a commitment kind of guy after all. It was an exciting time.

The first month or so of the relationship was rocky at best, making me jumpy and irritable. But we worked on how to communicate better and soon there was a mutual give and take. I learned to recognize her signals and sometimes not-so-subtle suggestions. She saw how I operated and adjusted. It had become comfortable and nice, even familiar. Everything seemed to be going well but then I started to...question things. That nagging sensation I had been ignoring for the last several months was getting stronger. What is this feeling? Is it a wanderlust? What is it that I'm looking for? Am I afraid of settling down? Or is it just that goddamn clutch and the fact that the radio doesn't work?

And so, after 2-plus years of being together, the Jetta and I have broken up. It was a hard decision that I'd like to say was a mutual thing but honestly, I can't. I left her. She seemed bitter at the end and I can't say I blame her. I'm not sure she saw it coming at all. Although I did complain daily about driving a manual transmission to and from Cambridge that's hardly her fault. She was pretty up-front about the fact that she was a stick. That's all on me. Maybe I was experimenting or trying to prove to myself that yes, I can drive 5-speed car every day and not blow out the clutch or stall every 15 feet. She was supportive of me during that learning period (in her own Prussian way) and that's why I still have feelings for her. But it's over between us. I hope her new situation works out.

I'm already seeing another car. Actually, I made it official the other day. I am now with an asian. That's right. When most guys go through their mid-life crisis it involves destroying their marriage and/or going nuts and buying a new Porsche or something along those lines. Not me. I just hem and haw for months on end trying to rationalize replacing a perfectly decent car that will easily last several more years with one that gets worse gas mileage and is quite frankly, a larger car than I need. But see, this one is an automatic and therefore it doesn't make my left leg hurt in traffic. And it's New. And Shiny. And Everything Works. Hee! So without further ado, I present to you the result of the saddest mid-life crisis ever: The 2011 Hyundai Sante Fe.

Sorry Jetta, but you never stood a chance. No hard feelings ok?

Maybe I Should Stand Still

2011-02-23T15:50:00.003-05:00

I may have mentioned that I am not a very coordinated fellow. I have a rich history of bumping into things, knocking shit over, and/or just wiping out for no discernible reason. I typically take what I call "my annual fall" in the winter months. I'll be shoveling the driveway or simply standing still when suddenly my feet will fly out from underneath me and I'll come crashing down on my butt (actually I've been pretty lucky this winter season. I haven't had a spill yet. "Yet" being the operative word here). The tumbles usually aren't of the breaking bones variety but more along the lines of "Oh shit, I hope no one saw that" genus. I'm probably going to wind up on YouTube against my will one of these days with the some unfortunate tag like: "Fat Dude Toppling into an Icy Puddle LOL!".

Recently I've been going through some old pics from when I was a kid and I found one that represents my gracelessness quite well. It's a picture of me holding a damp facecloth to my bicep while my sister Mary stands guard over me. Why was I holding the damp facecloth on my arm? Well, I'll tells ya.

It was Mary's birthday (and if I'm correct at guessing the ages here, it was her 4th birthday which would make me 7) and after the cake had been devoured and the presents had been opened, I went out bike riding with my friend Joey. Now Joey had a super fancy and lightweight BMX-style bike. I had an old Columbia with ape hanger handlebars and a banana seat. It weighed nearly as much as I did. Joey was a kid who was much smaller than I and he had seemingly boundless energy. It was always really hard to keep up with him. He'd be doing all these little jumps and hops up and over curbs and stuff while still maintaining a significant lead over me. He was fast, light, and he never ever tired. In other words, the opposite of me.

On this particular day Joey rode over to my house and we did what we usually did. We'd ride up and down my street and in and out of my driveway. The driveway was halfway down the street so we'd go as fast as we could down the hill and then turn into the driveway at the very last second. The goal was to hit the entrance at an angle where we could get some air. It all sounds harmless enough but there was the added danger of the giant tree. The giant tree sat on our neighbor's property but its trunk stuck out juuuuuust enough onto our side that if you miscalculated your angle of approach, you could end up with a face full of bark. I saw that tree up close and personal more than once. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The two of us were riding around at the top of my street which kinda made me nervous because there were a couple of brothers who lived in a house right there who were notorious bullies. They had chased me and another kid away from their house when we were walking home from school. They had warned us not to let them catch us in their yard (But we weren't in their yard. We were on the sidewalk. Why would we go in their yard in the first place? Silly bullies, you make no sense). Now here I was riding around in front of their house in bold defiance of their territorial borders. It made my palms all sweaty. Joey was riding around like a lunatic hopping up onto the sidewalk and then using the sloped driveway entrances like mini ramps. He could not be stopped. I was trundling along behind him showcasing my limited catalog of tricks: The Poppa Wheelie (that's what I thought it was called. I realize now that I must have misheard someone say "pop a wheelie" and never thought to question the name), The Curb Jump (a.k.a. The Spoke Breaker), and of course the ever-popular Sliding Skid (my personal favorite...although it did tend to limit the life span of my tires by quite a lot).

Joey was doing these amazing jumps using the lip of the curb and the slope of the driveway as his ramp. I was impressed. I watched him over and over again until I knew just how he did it. On his next approach, I followed on my two-wheeled tank of a bike. He hit that curb and he FLEW across the sidewalk landing neatly and dare-I-say gingerly about 5 feet away. I hit the SAME curb at the SAME speed and my bike nearly came to a complete stop when the front tire hit. I managed somehow to stay upright and followed Joey around for another attempt. This time I watched as he lifted the front tire at the very last second before it hit the curb. OH! That's how he does it. I was so excited to try it out for myself.

I wheeled around and made a bee-line for that curb. A split second before hitting the curb I lifted that giant front wheel up and when the back tire hit, my bike and I were suddenly airborne. Holy shit! I had done it! Hey! Lookit me! I'm totally DOING A TRICK! I was so excited that I hadn't actually failed at the jump that I completely forgot one of the most important parts of this particular trick: Stopping. I looked up and right in front of me loomed a chain link fence that clearly wasn't going to swerve at the last second. I scrunched up my face and slammed full speed into the fence. My bike added insult to injury by clonking me on the head with its handlebars. Thanks for that, bike. I was leaning up against the fence doing an injury inventory when I noticed that my arm really hurt. Hmmm, I'm gonna have to go have Mom check on that for me when I get home. Let me just bend down and pick up my bike here. Huh, that's weird...I can't bend down. My arm seems to be caught on something. Lemme look and see...what...is that...why is the fence going INTO my arm like that? That's when I realized that I was impaled on the top of the chain link fence. The prongs were sticking right into my left bicep. Ow. Ow. Ow. [Note: I tried to find a picture of a chain link fence with those prongs but apparently now-a-days they make them all roundy and no longer have the super sharpened spikey bits anymore.]

I don't remember exactly how but somehow I managed to extricate my arm from the grasp of the fence. I looked around to see where Joey was and he was no where to be found. He had bailed. He did the typical kid thing of panicking about "Oh shit, we're gonna get in trouble for breaking that fence" and took off. Thanks Joey. No, don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I looked at the deep wound on my arm and I remember thinking, "Huh, that doesn't look so bad". And then it started bleeding. A lot.

I was still remarkably calm as I got back on my bike and started down the hill to my house with my left arm out of commission. I zipped down the hill, made the right-hand turn into our driveway too quickly, lost control of the bike and went full-on Superman-style into the not-so-welcoming arms of that goddamn giant tree. It made a huge racket and all the kids in our yard came running over to see what had happened. And that's when I started crying. I had crashed so hard that my handlebars where all crooked and the chain had fallen off (I remember that because it had scratched the hell out of my ankle and gave me a grease tattoo on my calf). I hobbled into the kitchen and there my Mom had to figure out what had happened from my open sobs and snot bubbles. I was a mess. Somehow she determined that I wasn't dying and got me cleaned up and calm enough to take this photo. But don't worry, I survived. Check it:

No need to go to the hospital for stitches or perhaps a tetanus shot...just put some Mercurochrome on that fucker and walk it off kid.

To Hell with Kix, I Want Quisp

2011-02-11T10:10:00.003-05:00

I have three sisters; two older and one younger. Sometimes when I tell people that they say things like, "Oh, that must have been hard for you growing up. Y'know, being the only boy, huh?" Nope. Not at all. Think about it: My oldest sister Theresa (we call her "Tree" by the way) was saddled with the burden of having to break-in our parents. She had to test all their rules and limits to see where the weak points were (and she found them too...woo-boy did she ever). Patty, the second-oldest, kinda got the shaft. I mean, Tree is the oldest, I'm the only boy, and Mary is the youngest (I can't call her "the baby"...cuz she'll punch me in the arm). So Patty is Jan. No one wants to be Jan (not even Eve Plumb). Patty showed us all up though by being the only one of us (so far) to produce an offspring. She single-handedly made sure that our giant-head genes were passed on to the next generation. And Mary had to deal with me as an older brother. Shit, I had it easy.

Growing up in a small apartment with 4 kids, 2 parents and a grandmother made for an interesting childhood. The place where we lived until 1986 didn't have much in the way of real doors either. Most of the rooms, including the bedrooms, had those shitty vinyl accordion folding doors (I tried to find an example of those doors but none of the pics did them justice. Suffice it to say that they were cheap and would come out of their tracks nearly every time you tried to open or close them). Yeah, that doesn't really cut it if you're looking for some privacy or if you don't want monsters to come in your room. Only the bathroom had a real door but it was the only bathroom for 7 people (did mention that I have 3 sisters? I did? oh, ok). This is one of the reasons I wanted a single-family house. I wanted some goddamn privacy and some real doors.

Mom used to like to rearrange the rooms in the apartment. And I don't mean just moving where the couch is. No, she would swap out entire rooms. This meant that my bedroom, at one point or another, had been relocated to every room in that apartment with the exception of the kitchen. The kitchen was the only room that remained constant. She liked to keep us on our toes I guess. I did eventually get my own room (once Tree went off to college) but it suffered from the lack of a door as well. And since it was right off the noisiest room in the house; the kitchen, it was occasionally hard to go to sleep (especially with the kitchen light beaming through the slats in my "door").

For most of that time we were a single-income household and I can't for the life of me figure out how the hell my parents managed that (Mom went back to work when Mary turned 6 or 7). I mean, we were nice kids and all but holy shit we'd eat you out of house and home. I mean look at these faces. These are the faces of kids who meant business.

No, I don't know what I'm looking at. All I know is that I'm the only one who was classy enough to get dressed for this photo. Vesty/stripey shirt thing? Check. Wide-as-fuck shiny, white belt? Check. Just a hint of belly showing? Check and mate bitches.

How did I get that cut on my chin? A simple story there. Patty and I would take my Tonka trucks to the top of the street where we lived and then we'd sit on them while they hurtled down the hilly sidewalk. It was fun AND dangerous! Double score! You'd think that I got that cut from a spectacular yellow dump truck wipe-out involving a neighbor's car suddenly pulling out a driveway (although that happened too) but no, I got that when I fell off the curb walking back up the hill to do it all over again. I am quite clumsy you see.

My dad's job driving a delivery truck in Boston required him to get up at an ungodly hour to start his shift. He then would come home about 12 hours later (sometimes later, depending on how shitty his day was) where we would attack him at the front door. Can you imagine four bobble-headed kids barreling down a long hallway towards you after a long day? Holy shit. After flinging ourselves at him we'd demand his attention for the next hour or so while he tried desperately to wind down from work. Dinner would be served by 6PM or so and we'd all sit in the kitchen watching TV and fighting over the last sawdust-dry pork chop or stuck-together spaghetti. After dinner everyone would go about their business (homework, washing dishes, getting ready for bed, punching each other) while Dad would remain in the kitchen doing his crossword puzzle with the TV on. He'd usually start to nod off at the kitchen table with Mom saying "John, why don't you just go to bed?". Because he's stubborn dammit. He'll go to bed when HE wants to! Or at least not until he nods off for the 10th time and his cigarette burns yet another hole in the cable rug around the kitchen table.

Dad also did the weekly grocery shopping for the family on Saturday mornings. Since he was so hard to get him to ourselves during the week, it was considered a special treat to be the one who got to go with him. Not only did it mean that you got Dad all to yourself for a good couple hours but more importantly it meant that you got to choose the cereals for the week. That was a highly coveted position to be in and we'd get pretty competitive about who got to go. Being the one to pick out the cereals for the week was basically the kid equivalent of winning the lottery (now with marshmallow bits!). Another bonus was – depending on how long it took to do the shopping – Dad would sometimes take the one who was with him to Brigham's for an ice-cream. Holy shit. That was huge. An ice-cream that you didn't have to scarf down in fear that the others were waiting for you to let your guard down to swoop in and take the rest (at least that's what it felt like). You could sit there at the counter and listen to the grown-ups talk about whatever the hell they were talking about and just ENJOY your ice-cream.

As we got older of course it became less special to spend your Saturday morning in a Ceratani's grocery store pushing a shopping cart up and down aisles that had saw dust all over the floor (what was with the saw dust anyway? Was it meant to sop up spills? Cuz all it really did was make most of the floor really slippery and it would clog up the front wheels on the cart. Most of the carts at Ceratani's had wheels that were completely jacked-up). I would still go with him every now and then through high school but it was not the same. We didn't have the connection that I think we both wanted at that time in our lives. I think I was there mainly so that he'd have someone to carry all the stuff up to the 3rd floor of the apartment building. And eventually – after some pretty intense arguments that we had about the choices I was making – I stopped going with him on Saturdays completely. We just didn't get along if I'm honest. We barely spoke for months during my last year of high school. Basically he had called me out on my bullshit and at the time I hadn't been mature enough to agree with him and change. Now I get it and I'm glad he did that. I'm glad that I grew a pair and told him that he was correct before he died. It's been 14 years since he passed away and this June it'll be 16 years since Mom died. I can't believe that. Those numbers seem impossible. I'm glad I had them as my parents.

Mmmm...pie and cigarettes

Disjointed Ramblings With No Discernible Thread (a.k.a. "Normal")

2011-01-31T19:24:00.003-05:00

I just can't seem to get around to updating this site on a regular basis. I start out with good intentions and positive thoughts about how I'm going to post at least once a week or maybe even twice a week! Holy shit! And then I get all mixed up in my dumb life and I neglect the site. It's not like I forget or anything. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I become keenly aware that it has been X number of days since I last updated and I'm disappointing literally 10's of people (ok, maybe just 10). Before I know it, I've created this mad pressure in my own head about what the next post should be and how it should be a hugely funny/interesting story about how I did whatever with whomever (awww, yeah. Homey whips out the "whom". boo-ya).

But the days pile up and I still can't think of anything even remotely interesting to write about so I....don't. I simply don't write anything about anything. I even went so far during one of my "whooo-hoo-look-at-me-I'm-gonna-be-all-super-creative-and-I-have-all-these-ideas-and-they-come-out-of-my-head-so-fast-that-I-can't-write-them-down-quickly-enough-and-I-need-to-have-some-sort-of-way-to-get-these-great-ideas-onto-the-internet-so-that-people-can-ignore-them" that I went and bought myself a micro-recorder thing. No, seriously. The idea was that I could simply just record the thoughts that are too precious, fragile and fleeting to try to get onto paper or even a computer text file (or, gasp! a fucking blog post) because of course I'd ALWAYS have this recorder thing with me at all times right? I mean, look how small it is! It's totally not inconvenient or unrealistic at all! So I bought it. I've used it as I had intended exactly zero times. I'm a moron. I did record my cat snoring once though. So that's a win right?

Speaking of cats, Molly has a problem. A pretty big problem actually. She has a tumor in her little head. In her right eye specifically. I may have mentioned (I can't remember and god knows I don't actually read this) that her eye changed color last year and although the doctor said, "Meh, that happens, no worries", we were worried all the same thank you very much. Her behavior was different (more aggressive than usual) and The Wiff took her back to the vet to get some scans and shit done. Turns out the eye is cancerous. Lovely. So tomorrow (Feb 1st) she goes in to surgery to have it removed. I'm going to have a pirate kitty. Poor little girl. I'm actually really worried about it but since I'm also completely shut down emotionally and don't know how to express how I truly feel, I shall minimize it and move on. Hold on a sec while I turn this stress and angst into a little hard ball that will eventually eat its way out of my chest....there we go.

So, winter. Can we talk about winter for a paragraph or two? The snow has been such a fucking asshole this year. I know that in '94-'95 and '96 here in Boston there was more snow than blah blah blah I don't fucking care. Back then I didn't have a car and I lived in an apartment where it was someone else's job to shovel this shit. Now it is my responsibility (unless I'm in Miami, right Amy? Wheeeeee!). I am old and decrepit and quite honestly I have run out of places to put the stuff. The snow piles on my sad little postage stamp of a lawn are taller than I am. The snow bank at the end of my driveway is the size of one of those huge SUV's. And this week we're supposed to get even more snow. Great. I give up. Just keep snowing on me. Make my roof collapse. I don't care anymore. I can't fight you Mother Nature, you win automatically. I can't even flip the board (which is a great tactic usually when losing a game).

Last week it snowed too but I didn't care because I was in Miami (ok, technically I was in Coral Gables but fuck you, that's close enough). I never "got" Florida but I moved a little closer to being able to understand it. It was lovely I must admit. The weather was in the mid-70's with moderate humidity. Not oppressive but just enough to let you know that yea, the air might be a little "thick" fat boy. I won't bore you with details about the conference because quite frankly you will not care. I'm in this industry and I had a hard time caring about all of the lectures and presentations. There was one presenter who we were told who's journey to Miami from South Africa had taken 40 hours. Well I can tell you right now that that motherfucker should have stayed home. Holy shit. I've never experienced something that mind-numbingly dull in my life. And this from a guy who read The Simarillian on purpose.

First of all the guy was super nervous, so right off the bat he got my sympathy vote. I feel you mister. This is gonna suck for you. Don't worry about it. Head down and press on through ok? I'm here for ya. Then he started speaking in that weird sort-of-German-but-wait-isn't-that-more-of-an-Australian-vibe accent of his. His stutter was so profound that it was painful. I get it mister. Stutters suck. No worries though, we're not going anywhere. Move through it. Keep yer chin up! He then proceeded to go through each of his slides bullet point by fucking bullet point in such soul-crushing detail that I slowly moved from sympathy, to boredom, to indifference, to finally bare knuckled hatred in the span of 50+ minutes. At the end I didn't want to be glad he was done because I thought I might have been hallucinating and he'd be going back up to go through the thing all over again. I might have died if that happened. I certainly lost all interest in the next speaker I can tell you that much.

The take home messages are that I should be more open to going somewhere warm during the winter months (something I've literally never done before) and that air travel still sucks ass. American Airlines is equivalent to taking a city bus for 3 hours (except a city bus doesn't have the potential to fall out of the sky). I spent the bulk of the flight home wishing foul, awful things on the family seated behind me and their 4 screaming children. If any of the wishes have come true then I'm sure I would have seen something on the news by now. I also wanted to stab the guy seated next to me several times. Why? Well I had the window seat and he was jammed in the middle seat between me and one of my co-workers. He clearly wanted to have a window seat because he kept leaning forward and into my space to look out the window. Dude, look, we're on the right side of a plane that's going up the east coast of the United States. Guess what's out that window? If you said "a shit-ton of water and not much else" then you are correct. Sit the fuck back and I'll let you know when we pass over some land that you couldn't identify if you absolutely had to, ok? He was also one of these guys who when the plane finally came to a stop he bolted out of his seat so he can get into the aisle as quickly as possible. Yea, um...you know that we're basically in the back of the plane here right? It's gonna take a while skippy. Ah people, how I loathe them.

Sure Would Like to Hear Some Music

2011-01-06T09:57:00.005-05:00

The radio in my car suddenly stopped working last week and I have yet to figure out why that is. I did the usual checking of the fuses but they all seem to be in order. I disconnected the battery and then reconnected it (on the advice of a car guy on the internets) in the hopes that it would do something. I guess it is the car equivalent of turning your computer on and off to see if that helps. It didn't. Right now the radio sits in the middle of my dash like a dark rectangle of shame. I'm sorry I failed you radio. I do not know how to fix you because I lack the skills to diagnose the problem and repair you. I'm afraid that I will most likely just replace you. Please don't look at me like that. No, I don't know if it's just a loose wire or some other "simple" thing that made you up and die. I don't...look, I ...it's just that ... can I get a word in here? Thanks. I am sorry radio, but you have not been working since December 30th and I have to tell you; if I have to go through another week of commuting without music to distract me from the realization that I will have to do this for many, many more years...let's just say I'd rather not think about that right now.

There are other problems in my house that keep reminding me that I am not an electrician or a plumber. The house is fairly old (1920's) and the wiring is, for the most part, suspect at best. We have replaced a bunch of things (including everything in the kitchen and the actual electric panel in the basement) but there still is a large amount of sketchy plugs and shitty ceiling fixtures as well as switches that may or may not do anything. As of this writing there are exposed wires poking out of what used to be a switch for the overhead light in the spare bedroom (I have at least capped them so that no one can zap themselves accidentally. You'd really have to work at it to get electrocuted at this stage up there). We have substituted a floor lamp as a "temporary" solution. However, it has been there for months now. It's pathetic.

The plumbing issues stem from a lot of DIY work that previous owners have attempted in years long gone. There is a veritable spider web of pipes in the basement that I find daunting. Near as I can tell, most of it can be eliminated and replaced with a couple of relatively straight runs but again, I should point out that I have no actual experience with plumbing. Maybe all those crazy dips and bends and runs that go nowhere are essential to keeping everything working properly. Probably not but I don't feel like I'm qualified to say for sure. A couple years ago I bought a plumbing starter kit in anticipation of venturing down there and making everything shiny and new. But once I realized that open flame and heavy metals are involved I retreated back upstairs to my computer and have not made any attempt at "fixing" things down there.

Why so skittish? Well two main reasons: 1) Electrical work if done improperly can burn your goddamn house down. 2) Plumbing work if done improperly can flood your goddamn house. If I had someone with the skills who was willing to walk me through doing some of this work I'm fairly certain I could do a lot of it. But as of this moment, such a person does not exist. I know people who do know how to do some of this (actually, I have a cousin who is a fantastic electrician and has done work in the house before but he's super crazy busy and it's hard for him to find the time. Plus, he has a family and lives in New Hampshire so I don't like to impose), but it's not like they live next door to me. For any of them to help it'd basically be a giant pain in their ass. And so, I have not asked. Will I ask? Dunno. Maybe. But for now I'm just ignoring the problems in hope that they will resolve themselves. That'll work right?

And now for some conversation whiplash: I feel like doing an 5-Song Shuffle. You know the rules right? Of course you do. Get your iPod or whatever you use to listen to your tunes and put it on shuffle. Write down the first 5 songs that come up without skipping any. No cheating now. If something hideous comes up, that's on you. Please leave your list in the comments section. I know that there's those damn squiggly letters that you have to enter but that's to prevent crazy spam messages from appearing in the comments section. Ok, here goes:

The Gap Band – Early in the Morning (oooh, a STRONG opening! I want a shiny silver suit with fringe too! flaming drumsticks! wheeeeee!)
The Walkmen – Another One Goes By (ow. MP3 whiplash)
The Clash – Tommy Gun
Jay Z - Never Change
Semi Precious Weapons – Magnetic Baby (such a fun, poppy, goofball band)

Hmm, not too shabby. Ok, bye!

Could You Pass Me the Remote?

2011-01-04T08:56:00.000-05:00

My vacation is over. I was on holiday from December 22nd through yesterday, January 3rd. Today I am back to my old routine and I gotta say; I'm not thrilled about it. During my vacation there were days where I was certainly quite busy. Either I was visiting with others or doing work around the house (not to mention the nearly 4 hours of shoveling I did on the 27th. I so wish I had a snow blower), but what I will remember most fondly from this time off was how I brought laziness to a whole new level. I'm talking sloth of epic proportions. I slept in most days and there were several days where I just stayed in and played video games while wearing my pajamas, pausing only to get more coffee and perhaps to bathe (I'm not an animal for crying out loud). It was glorious. If I had had a couple more days off, I think I could have reached a point where I could have become inanimate. The Wiff for the most part accepted my inertia and did not try to get me to actually do things. I appreciated that immensely. I needed this past couple of weeks of dormancy and now I'm ready to rejoin the living. I have a business trip to Miami coming up this month so here's hoping it's not 35°F and raining when I get there.

Dom Cobb Would Shoot Me in the Face

2010-12-07T14:51:00.002-05:00

My brain wouldn't shut up last night. It kept me awake for a large portion of the evening with inane worries about money/financial instability and then it would switch to scenarios that it would get all excited. One minute it was all "OMG, what if The Wiff can't find a job (the Wiff went and got herself laid off last month [hee! I like phrasing it that way, as if she had any control at all over the situation. Thanks, Corporate America])?! OMG, what if I get laid off too? Oh Em Gee!" Then all lickety-split it'd veer over to "Hey! I know! We should totally get that race team idea off the ground! I think we can make a run for the 24 Hours of Lemons next year if we work on getting a team together". WTF brain? Shutup so's we can all get some sleep. I like to think of my body parts (yes, even those parts...mmrrRRoOOooowwwrrr!) yelling at the brain to clam up.

No matter what I tried as a diversion to get myself to stop trying to solve all the world's problems from my side of the bed it was no use.

"Why is our economy based on whether or not I take advantage of the sales at Best Buy? That seems insane. You know what we should do?" No brain, I don't, and therefore by default, neither do you. Go to sleep. "Yea, but..." Yea but nothing. Go to sleep. "It's just that I was thinking about the taillight on the Jetta. We need to get that replacement bulb. Oh, and the mailbox needs to be mounted on the front of the house. Plus, we should totally paint the trim around the back door. Heh. 'trim'...heh, 'backdoor'" Oh god, really? Look, we're not doing ANY of that stuff now cuz it's 2 in the goddamn morning. Go. To. Sleep. "Why does Obama compromise on everything? Even things that seem to be his base principles?" There is no way I'm discussing politics with you now. Seriously. Look, I'm sorry I made you take that nap earlier today but we're old and naps are lovely. "No, I'm just sayin'. I still like the guy and all it's just that ... I dunno" Again, I know you don't know. I'm you remember? Shut the fuck up. "Is that Molly the cat on our feet? Can you get her to move or something cuz that's going to be super distracting for me." Fine. Cat has been moved and is now angrily patrolling the foot of the bed. Satisfied? Sheesh. "Oh man, that's SO much better. Thanks! Oh hey! Remember that theme song from The Streets of San Francisco? Do you mind if I hum that for the next 3 hours? Awesome!"

My brain is trying to kill me.

Open Letters

2010-11-29T16:27:00.007-05:00

Dear Security Guard,
Good morning. Hello. Yes, hi ... yes, good morning. We have established that the morning is good and in doing so, this has ceased to be an acceptable form of greeting. Can you stop that now? Ok. Here's the deal: I'm not what you'd call an overly friendly guy. I'm not technically a misanthrope but if I were you I wouldn't hold my breath waiting for me to strike up a conversation on say, an elevator for instance. You probably will be disappointed if this is what you are expecting. Now when I come into the office building in the morning and you are seated there at the security desk, I understand that there is probably a security reason for the you to acknowledge that I exist. It may even be part of your job. But see, I'm usually in a post-commute funk and just starting to coming down off of my coffee high so I say pish posh to this social construct. Let's just allow this morning's awkward exchange be our coup de grâce. You don't want to be sitting there greeting every douche who walks through the door with some variation on "Good morning!" anymore than I want to come up with a Pavlovian response and/or a comment on whatever the weather conditions may be on that particular morn. Please understand that it is not a reflection on you as a person nor is it a sign of arrogance on my part (at least I hope it isn't). I just don't want to talk to anyone at 7:55 a.m.
kisses,
-Mark

Dear Guy Who Creates a Toilet Paper Privacy Screen,
Hi, no, I'm not entirely sure who you are yet (although I have a couple of suspects), but I'd like to address your behavior if I may. You know how you create that privacy screen of toilet paper where you configure it to bridge the gap between the wall and the metal toilet stall wall? Yea, to close up that 1 inch gap there? Um, I don't know how to break this to you but I think you might be insane. You're certainly profoundly paranoid. First of all, really? I don't think we have many voyeurs here at the office but if we do, I'd be willing to bet that they don't want to watch you taking a dump. Ok, let's say that perhaps there is a remote chance, albeit small, that there could be a pervert lurking somewhere in the company who's particular fetish is watching people pinch a loaf but that bathroom is particularly busy and even if they were able to situate themselves so that a) you were not aware they were watching, and b) that they were on some bizarro angle so that they could actually see the toilet area, someone else would walk in on them. Oh, that's part of the thrill they get you say. I see. It heightens the experience for them. Gotcha. Don't you think that you might be a bit conceited to think that you were the one they want to view? At any rate, here's a step ladder that you can use to get over yourself. Please stop wasting TP like that. It's silly.
Boo! I see you!
-Mark

Dear Bon Scott (of AC/DC fame),
I think I may know why you were "Shot Down In Flames" as you put it. I listened to the words as you sang this song and I have to say, it sounds like it was your own fault. Now, we don't know each other and there may also have been some extenuating circumstances at play here but, well, let me just quote this to you and see if you can figure out where the conversation may have gone off the tracks. Now keep in mind, these are your own words here so it's not like I'm getting this through a third-party source. Ok, here goes:

She was standin' alone over by the jukebox,
Like she's got something to sell
I said, Baby what's the goin' price –
She told me to go to hell

Ok, I think the first problem was that you made a pretty bold assumption right off the bat that this woman was a prostitute of some sort. I think that's going to stand out as mistake #1. Just... well, just don't do that. It's in poor taste (to say the least) and if I may, I'm quite surprised you thought this tactic would work in the first place. Then, we go right into mistake #2 where you acted on that assumption and said, in no uncertain terms, that you do indeed think she is a prostitute. And like, right to her face too. This is mistake #3 and the most glaring mistake of them all. There's really no way this scenario was going to end well for you. Personally I can't believe that all she did was tell you to go to hell. You could have easily endangered one if not both of your testicles by this action. I hope that this exercise in breaking down why you were shot down in flames was helpful to you. I'd like to think that I'm helping people use communication to further their relationships and build on the skills needed to be a better person. What's that? You died in 1980? Oh, then fuck it. Carry on sir.
-Mark

I Think I Can, Maybe

2010-11-22T13:49:00.001-05:00

As the whirlwind of the holiday season descends upon us like a glittery dragon that smells vaguely of pine needles and sadness, I have accepted a challenge. I will participate in the 5-Boro Bike Tour next year. Last year I attempted the ride without even once taking it seriously and proceeded to fail miserably. Hey, did you know you can't not exercise for years and then just jump on a bike and go 42 miles in the rain? Technically I can say that I knew that as well but I didn't remember. I was reminded when I realized I couldn't continue somewhere in Queens. I have learned my lesson.

I have a little over 5 months (the ride is on the first Sunday in May) to train and get into some semblance of physical fitness. I have been...let's say "dormant" for some time now. The attempt at the bike tour the last time actually made my lack of enthusiasm for exertion even worse. I regressed and the dreaded belly took over. My job is also not helping as most of it can be done while seated. It's not like I'm crawling around in people's attics anymore so I have to actually make an effort to get some activity going. I have no plans on turning this blog (still hate hate hate that word. Can we please come up with a better name?) into a log of my progress but I thought it was worth mentioning. Your humble author will be endeavoring to become less of a lazy shit. Further updates as events warrant.

Meanwhile at work I have been moved into the "Thunderdome" (a.k.a. the cube farm). I think I've mentioned that I used to share an office space and while it wasn't ideal (meaning, I'd rather have my own space and not have to share at all), it was pretty sweet compared to cube dwelling. In the office scenario, we had what is commonly know as a "door". This "door" allowed us to block most of the sounds coming from the rest of the people in the office. There was also a "thermostat". This device allowed us to actually control the temperature of our space in order to make it more comfortable. The main office space is, in my opinion, always too damn hot. Like now for instance. It's gotta be 76°F out here. What the fuck people? Are you all lizards? How about a nice comfortable 68°? Heck, I'll even bend and agree to 70°. No? You all like it super dry and roasting? Great.

I have nothing against sitting in a cube per se, it's just that when you are a cube resident, invariably they place other people around you. It's with these other people I tend to have issues. For one, they all talk. They really shouldn't be allowed to do this. Talking is noisy and goddammit they should be quiet. They also type on their keyboards too loudly and shuffle around in their 7 x 7 foot spaces. Of course there's always the coughing, sneezing, and other noises that people make on a daily basis. Hey there person who sits a couple rows over from me. You know how you keep sniffing every 3 seconds? Yea, if you actually blow your nose, it might get rid of some of that snot all in one semi-efficient action. What's that? You'd rather just sniffle constantly? Oh, ok. Carry on.

There is another person who sits nearby who is not only loud and makes every sentence sound like a question (this is a fairly common phenomenon by the by. It totally drives me crazy? When people do it? I find it frustrating? to listen to?), but she also sounds almost exactly like Rosie Perez in Do the Right Thing (minus all the swearing). Now while Rosie is super cute and charming I challenge you to sit within earshot of her all day every day. It's not easy. Use your inside voice lady who sounds like Tina, you're making me stabby.

Real Stuff Happens Too

2010-11-16T13:47:00.000-05:00

Where to begin? Do I even want to discuss this? I dunno. If I'm to take this blog thing seriously (and by that meaning I want to use it as a place to talk about not only the silly and hopefully funny things that happen in my life but also the issues that have more weight and significance. That's not to say that having a fireplace mantle fall on my foot on stage in front of the entire elementary school wasn't a significant time in my life but you get the idea), then I have to talk about this too.

Last week my father-in-law, Amy's dad Bob Davis, died after a short battle with lung cancer. He was 69 years old. Amy and her dad had a much different relationship than what I had with my dad. Her parents divorced when she was 13 and it wasn't what you'd call a good break-up. Not that any of them are really. He had a drinking problem and their contact was sporadic at times before he got himself cleaned up. He became a "friend of Bill's" and had been sober for over 20 years. By the time I came into the picture, he was living with Carol (one of the best people I've ever met by the way. She literally saved his life by befriending him and letting him move into her house. They remained close friends and companions right up until the end), a family court judge and no-nonsense woman of the highest order. It was the stable environment of her house that allowed Amy and her dad to mend their fractured relationship. Carol played a huge role in helping them get things back on track.

What I found hard was that it didn't seem like Amy and her dad ever really talked things out. It was like those years were swept under the rug. They may be mentioned in passing but only briefly and with the understanding that they were not going to discuss them further. I found it infinitely frustrating during our visits since I knew that no one was actually going to say anything that would start a real conversation. I understand it, since that wasn't really the purpose of visiting her father: the investigatory breakdown of her childhood memories and his role in her development, but I still wanted them to have a better relationship and I felt strongly that difficult conversations might help facilitate that.

I'm also colossally full of shit too. I have to admit to looking back on my own relationship with my parents with rose-colored glasses. After my mom died I would go to the apartment in Malden to visit with my dad. We'd sit in the kitchen (my dad always sat in the kitchen watching a little 13 inch TV) and play cribbage. I'd ask him questions about his life growing up in South Boston or how he met mom or whatever. I got some information that I didn't know about him and mom but for the most part, it was just an exercise in trying to get to know him at a different level. When he died I felt better about how I had made an effort to know who he was since I didn't really have the maturity to do that same thing with my mom at the time. I don't know why but I just never talked to her about stuff that really mattered to me. Maybe because I wasn't sure what actually mattered yet.

In the years since their deaths I've been asking my aunts and uncles about their relationships with my parents since they saw knew them as friends, or as a sister or a brother. It's been great fun and enlightening but unfortunately they are a dwindling resource. My Aunt Mary was an amazing person and I used to love to visit with her in her kitchen (much like my dad ... hmmm, they were brother and sister ... maybe that's an O'Malley trait? Sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and shootin' the shit?). When she died, she took a lot of good stories with her. My Aunt Sissy passed away this summer and that's a loss with which I still have yet to come to terms. She was an amazing story teller and loved to talk about her little sister Eileen (my mom). My Uncle Don is another one that I'm worried about. He's been in failing health lately and I'm doing the typical "not-thinking-about-it-so-it-can't-be-happening" defense mechanism. He is another one who can tell a good story and he's told me stuff about my dad that allowed me to view my dad in another light.

This is what I mean about being full of shit though. I never really got into deep philosophical discussions about life and our family with my parents, I got most of that from other people and their perspectives. My sisters were a good source for that matter. We all grew up in the same house but have our own memories and angles on how things were. Sometimes I'm shocked to find that my view is different from the way one of them remembers the same event. It's been helpful but again, it's not something that we do that often or with any real goal in mind. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for with regard to my need for information about my parents. I guess it's just to know them better as people since I didn't know how to do that when they were actually around.

Amy is an only child. She doesn't have siblings to help her validate what she experienced. She just has herself and she admits to not knowing what that experience was. She says there are major gaps in her memory of her childhood and subsequently it affected how her and her dad got along. Watching her and her mother work on their communication over time has been interesting. Again, like my own parents, I'm not sure they have been able to talk to one another as adults until fairly recently. I often wonder what it would be like if my parents were still around. I wonder if we'd have the close relationship that I didn't even realize I wanted and needed until it was too late. They were just my parents y'know? I was in my mid-twenties when they died and now that I'm (gulp) 40 I find myself missing them more and more. I want to talk to them. Bob's death brought all of these thoughts to the forefront again. I'm really good at ignoring shit that is bothering me. Sorry if this post is kind of rambling but I'm just writing this as I'm thinking about it. This is all first-draft stuff that I don't want to edit and re-edit until it's all cohesive. It needs to be messy and raw because that's what it feels like right now.

Random Shit That I Have to Get Out of My Head Before it Fills Up

2010-11-08T13:13:00.002-05:00

When I find something that I like (like a fun website, blog, TV show, etc) I become voracious. I consume all the content. I'll go to a site I like and spend all my time reading everything that is posted there. You have a kick ass webcomic thing? I'm-a-gonna read all them motherfuckers in one sitting. Your blog is super awesome and funny? Hey, look at me reading every goddamn post you have. You have a way-cool TV show? I'll Netflix the shit out of it. This is all well and good but ultimately what happens is I catch up to whatever the latest post/episode is and then there's no more. I have to wait in REAL TIME for stuff to happen. It's bullshit. I need more of your funny/interesting/thoughtful/whatever content and I need that shit now. Don't make me navigate away from your page. I'll do it. I may totally forget that I love your page too. I'm flighty and I have short-term memory issues. Of course I will then obsessively check and re-check to see if there are any updates. It's not healthy. Hurry up with my entertainment stuff already.

Misty rainy bullshit rain today. I was driving in to work and the rain was like "Weee! I'm annoyingly hard to wipe away cuz I'm not quite rainy enough to warrant a full swipe of the windshield wipers. And I'll make the wipers stutter across the window. What setting will you choose for the intermittent wipers? No setting will suffice! Ha! Ha! And you forgot to replace the crappy blades again cuz you only remember when you're in the car!"

Fuck you rain. Why don't you stop being so misty and commit to real rain drops? What kind of a storm constists only of tiny, tiny rain spittle? If I was a storm I'd be totally like "Awwww, yeah! Here comes them BIG drops bitches! I'm gonna be all up in your face with the rain. Holla!" That'd be awesome.

And then my windshield wipers were all "Weee, I've got a notch in me that makes a big ol' streak right in your line of sight forever ok?" Goddamn it. Note to self: buy wiper blades TONIGHT. Or forget again, whichever's easier.

I'm getting a new laptop at work. My old one is ok but kinda slow so it has been decided that I should get a newer, faster model. This is fine by me. The problem is that the IT guy who is backing up my data stinks. This isn't me being mean because this is a fact. He smells of bad breath, poopy and other terrible things. Also, there is a thing on his neck and I think it's trying to talk to me. I think it started out as a mole but it has become evil I don't want to talk to it. I feel it staring at me when he's talking his death breath all over me. When he was using my computer to do whatever, he kept touching his face and hair and then my keyboard and mouse. Duuuuuude, now I have to dump some industrial strength purell over everything in my space. I think I have to throw them all away. Again, this cannot be mean because it has the power of the truth to back it up.

That is all. Carry on.

Timid Woodland Creature

2010-10-28T21:10:00.006-04:00

Halloween is this Sunday and I am totally unprepared. We get a shit-ton of kids coming to the house (well over 100) and good lord if they don't all want something for free. The cats hate this night almost as much as they hate the 4th of July. No, the cats don't hate America and your freedoms, they hate fireworks and our doorbell. Luckily, the Trick or Treaters ringing the doorbell doesn't happen every night for an entire month like the fireworks do. Fuck you ineffective Chapter 148, Sec 9, General Laws Board of Fire Prevention Regulations, Massachusetts Fire Safety Code, 527 CMR 2.00. You are a joke law with zero teeth.

What was I talking about? Oh yea, Halloween and all the crazy spooky shit that goes along with it. I may have mentioned a few times that I don't do scary movies. I do not care for them. They can scare me and I find this unpleasant. I do not enjoy seeing gore or zombies or what have you. I am not good at keeping my girly shrieks at bay and I have found that using my hands to shield my eyes does not prevent the horrible sounds from getting to my brain. And this is where the sounds will put images that may very well be worse than anything the movie is presenting.

I remember scaring myself into thinking that I saw a ghost in my bedroom (after my grandmother on my mom's side died. She was the first dead person I had ever seen). I had pulled the covers up and jammed myself up against the wall next to my bed so that if the ghost bumped into the bed (?), it wouldn't brush up against me. So there I was all wrapped up and protected when the thought occurred to me that, "Wait, I can still hear things." Ghosts make that spooky sound right? I would still be able to hear that and I'd have a heart attack and die at 10 years old. That thought messed me up and I proceeded to jam a pillow onto my head to block out sound. Luckily I did not pass out from lack of oxygen or overheat and explode (I normally require lots of ventilation).

With Halloween so close, everywhere I look and every news or entertainment outfit has something that could potentially freak me out. "Top 10 Horror Movie Scenes!" shouts one article with a large picture of that fucking Exorcist kid front and center. "No fucking thanks," I say and click over to another site. "50 Scariest Movies!" proclaims the caption under yet another shot of Linda Fucking Blair snarling at me. Jesus fuck. I just want to read about the economy or something totally not scary like that (wink! it's sarcasm folks! zoinks!).

I can trace my aversion to the horror and/or scary movie genre back to 1975 when at the far too fucking young age of 5, my parents took me to see a little film called Jaws. Are you kidding me? That's messed up. When that severed head in the sunken boat clonked into frame, I'm pretty sure I had a stroke. From that day on their movie viewing choices were suspect. I remember my mom announcing one Saturday morning that "We're all going to the Granada Theater to see a movie today." Lovely, and what movie would that be, dear mother of mine? "We're going to go see Young Frankenstein." I balked because although she promised me that it was a comedy and I'd like it, this was the same woman who said I should watch Psycho with her one night when I couldn't sleep. Wow. And yes, I would watch the Creature Double Feature on Channel 56 nearly every Saturday. But that was mainly movies with dudes in cheap rubber suits. However there was one that stuck with me. The Brain That Wouldn't Die scared the bejeezus outta me.

If you'd like a quick gauge of my level of jumpiness I can provide it. As a kid I was frightened by an episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show. Yep. And not just by little Richie's horrible acting either (I can remember even as a little kid thinking "Wow, that kid is a really shitty actor. Why does he yell all his lines? Couldn't they just fire the little fuck and get someone who's good at this?"). I was freaked out by how freaked out Dick Van Dyke was. When he came home at the end of the show and they started coming after him from the other rooms? I lost my little mind. Morey Amsterdam's bugged out eyes coming out of the bedroom was terrifying. Seriously. Even when Laura comes cascading out of the closet on a wave of walnuts I was scared (at the 19:20 mark on this video).

So this past weekend I went on to Netflix and searched for that episode to see if it would elicit the same reaction now that I'm all grown up and (presumably) less skittish. I found it and streamed it off my PS3 (so cool being able to do that. I love technology). It is basically a spoof of a Twilight Zone episode and I was totally enjoying watching it. Then, that scene came up...yep, still spooked me. Maybe I'm just afraid of Morey Amsterdam? Lesson learned. No scary movies or even pseudo scary 49-year-old family television shows. Yea, I'm a real man alright.

Existence Precedes Essence

2010-10-26T20:36:00.005-04:00

Similar to what she did last year, The Wiff has been in Florida for the last several days hanging out with her friends by the pool at Universal Something or Other. You can see by my inability to recall the actual name of the theme park/resort that I am not a fan. Good thing too since I wasn't invited. Which is fine. I didn't wanna go to your stinky movie-themed getaway with a cool pool and hang out all day anyway. I wanted to stay in Boston where it was cold and kinda rainy. I prefer it. So there. No, actually I do. For realsies.

Day 1: The Wiff had to leave at stupid o'clock because her flight to Orlando was leaving out of T.F. Green in Providence. Have I mentioned that we live about 10 miles from Logan Airport? No? Well, we do. She wasn't thrilled about the choice of airport but this is what happens when you let other people book your trip for you. All I knew was I was going to have the house to myself for a few days and I had planned on using this time to do some serious slacking. I'm talking about bringing laziness to a whole new level. By the time I got up for work that morning she had already been gone for an hour. She had made coffee for us (awesome) which I gladly drank and then headed off to work. That night was pretty uneventful so let's just ignore Day 1 and move on shall we? We shall.

Day 2: Friday morning came and since I'm like wicked smahhhht I had made arrangements to work from home. It was a touch chilly in the house when I woke up so after my morning routine I decided to make a nice fire. Oh man, I love having that fireplace insert. It may be a pain in the balls stacking the wood and then bringing it into the house only to restack it in the corner in shape of a small pyramid, but when you get a nice hot fire rolling along and that fan kicks on and heats the house, you forget all about the bullshit. The cats took turns passing out in front of the fireplace glass and I set about my day. I have a rule when I work from home: I have to be dressed as if I am actually going into the office. Luckily where I work that does not mean a suit and tie but it also doesn't mean that I can get away with sitting in my PJs either. But at least I can sit in a super comfy chair with my feet up.

While I was sitting there I noticed a rather large and evil-looking spider making its way across the rug and headed in my general direction. "Stupid firewood's all full of creepy crawlies I bet," I thought to myself and looked around for something to squash said spider if it came within striking distance (I may not like spiders and their ilk but I'm also quite lazy). Luckily for me, Oliver also spotted the spider and swooped in like a gallant furry knight and gobbled the little bastard up. Huzzah, Sir Oliver! Well played! He sat there on the rug looking pleased with himself while scanning for other little moving snacks. Cut to a half hour later and Good Sir Oliver is barfing up a hairball in the dining room that had a not-so-subtle spider theme. Nasty. Is there a worse sound than a cat horking up a hairball? I'm sure there is but I can't think of one right now. I revoke your knighthood Oliver. You are just a gross cat now.

Day 3: Saturday. Glorious, glorious Saturday. This was a day where I had nothing to do. The calendar was completely open and the possibilities seemingly endless (within reason of course). What to do then? How about sleeping in until 9:30 or so and then pad downstairs to play some video games while drinking really strong coffee? Awesome. Let's go do that right now. I even made myself some breakfast. I made some hash and a couple eggs (sunny-side up thank you very much). Plus, the chill was still in the air so I got to make another satisfying fire. Perfecto. Then, at around 2pm, I got bored. Like, super bored. I didn't want to watch anymore TV or play any games. The interwebs was boring me too. So I took a nap in my chair. With a cat in my lap. I am officially an old woman.

Day 4: Ok, this is getting ridiculous. I have to make the coffee AGAIN? Fuck me. And I have to feed the cats and the fish as well as make sure the snake (yes, the snake. We have a ball python named Charlie. It's ridiculous) has enough water or whatever (cuz I sure as hell am not feeding him his favorite food. I'm far too squeamish for that shit). I bet this means I'm going to have to make breakfast for myself too. Sheesh. I know that sounds like I'm a sexist pig but honestly it's just that I'm a terrible cook. My hash and sunny-side up eggs that I had the day before weren't very good and took a lot more talent than I had anticipated. There is a skill set here that I simply do not possess. I am the cleaner. I clean things. I cannot cook things. Well, not very well anyway. Look out dry cereal in a bowl, here I come (I don't really like milk y'see). The rest of this day was spent avoiding doing laundry. I did use the dishwasher though. That was an event. This is literally the first time in my life that I have ever used one. Sure, I've helped load and unload them in the past but I've never put in the soap and turned the fucker on before. I broke my dishwasher cherry. And at the tender age of 40 too. Hope no one calls me a Cascade whore.

Day 5: Monday. Back to work. The Wiff texted me that her flight was going to be delayed and that she figured she'd be home by 9:45 or so. I had planned on going to bed early and finish my book but I realized that I'd probably just pass out and I'd miss her grand arrival. And most likely she'd just wake my sorry ass up anyway so I just watched Top Gear and waited up for her. Aren't I swell? Of course I am. We've established this already.

And so that was the end of my alone time at ye olde homestead. I have never lived alone so getting a couple days to putter around and think my own thoughts while staring at nothing in particular was nice. I even had a bit of an existential crisis which I may or may not explain in a later post. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. Not to make that a teaser or anything, I just tend to over share sometimes and I have to remind myself that there can be certain boundaries. Fuck, I dunno. I'm just really glad Amy is back home. I missed my lady. I don't even mind that she hogs the covers.

This Is Not Real

2010-10-19T12:49:00.001-04:00

When I'm watching a movie or a TV show I get annoyed when an actor will take me out of the little universe I'm supposed to be buying into for the duration of the show by doing something I find distracting. "Well Mark, what do you mean by that long, border-line run-on sentence", you ask? Lemme 'splain cuz there are several examples (quick aside: when I say "several" I feel like I should have at least 4 examples to warrant the use of the word. If I had 7 examples, then that to me is the perfect use of the word "several". If I had 3, then I would say "a few" obviously. And everyone knows 2 examples is "a couple". This be the rules, people. I feel the terms "many" and "a bunch" are more loosey-goosey and therefore do not warrant further examination).

1. Darting Eyes
This drives me batty. When an actor is talking to another person and the camera is on their face as they deliver their lines, the actor will make his/her eyes dart back and forth from the other actor's eyes: left, right, left, right, all super fast. The frequency of the eye movement increases with the dramatic weight of the scene. The more intense the actor thinks this performance is, the more those goddamn eyes are gonna be whizzing like a metronome on steroids in their sockets. Cut it out actor-types. We can see you doing that. It makes me think to myself, no matter how engrossed I might be in the story, that "oh yea, this is just a dumb movie and that's the chick from that episode of The Wire." This is where a better blog would have a bunch of examples from YouTube or whatever but I don't. And I don't know how to put one together either.

2. Not Looking at the Road While Driving
Oh man, this is guaranteed to take me out of the plot and put me right back in my reality (which I'm trying to escape for the love of Pete and you actors are fucking that up for me). Two actors will be sitting in the front of a vehicle and they'll be having a conversation. The one who is driving will deliver their lines while looking directly at the person in the passenger seat. Sometimes they'll even stare at the person while waiting for the dramatic reaction to the lines just spoken. This makes me in the audience say, "Look at the fucking road you asshole!" It basically points out that this whole thing is fake and they are actually on one of those elaborate vehicle rigs where they are just towed around and they actually have zero control over the car. I've noticed that if the scene calls for more than 2 people in the car or someone to be in the backseat, then someone will eventually say "Hey! Watch the road!". Yes, please do. It's distracting. I think I must commute on the same roads as a lot of aspiring actors or something.

3. Not Locking a Vehicle
Another one that is rampant but seems to be more so in TV shows than movies. Not sure why. This is when a character will drive up to wherever, get out of the car and walk away without locking it up. Sometimes they'll go so far as to leave the frickin' windows open too. I've even seen where they'll leave a convertible top down. Who does this? No one in the real world (unless you live in some fairy tale land where no one ever does anything illegal to anyone else's property. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that's rare). I live and work in a city and I lock my shit up. I wouldn't even leave my car unlocked in my own driveway or the garage here at work. The times I notice it in TV shows is invariably when the character parks the car, pays no mind to the fact that their in a shitty neighborhood and just leaves the thing wide open. Which brings me to my final example.

4. Finding a Parking Space No Matter What
I understand that it isn't interesting to have a character circle a block for 20 minutes trying to find a parking space but I get distracted when they're in a big, busy city and not only is there a spot right in front of the building they need to go to but there are usually SEVERAL spaces available. C'mon, that is just super fake. The only time I can remember a character having trouble finding a space to park is when there's valet parking and the character is the "put-upon-loser-type". It's funnier if they can't park their jalopy in front of the hip club with all the kids and their hairdos. Otherwise it appears that it is super easy to find a place to park in downtown New York.

Ok, so that last one doesn't really bother me as much as the others do but I needed to satisfy my definition of "several". I can't seem to think of 3 more examples to get me to the purest form of "several". Any thoughts internet peeps?

Here's my current favorite pop song. I'm sure I'll be totally sick of it by the end of November, but right now I can't stop singing it. And for that, I apologize.

What's for Dessert?

2010-10-08T16:19:00.000-04:00

I just made a really bad decision. Lately I've been a bad boy and have not been bringing my lunch in to work. I've just been super lazy about it. The guilt that I feel over the truly unnecessary expenditure of $7+ a day when I should be bringing in food from home is palpable. I have to suppress it and blend it up with the ball of regret and shame that I keep just in the center of my chest. That's the one skill set that I can trace back to my Catholic upbringing: the ability to see exactly what the problem is and yet ignore the issue and hope that it will somehow solve itself. It's how I self-diagnosed myself as being lactose intolerant for awhile as my gall bladder not-so-silently got closer and closer to killing me. I didn't say it was a good skillset.

Yea, so anyway. There is a cafeteria on the top floor of the building where I work. And although it is cheap, it is not a good cafeteria by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it's pretty shitty. The food is marginal to bad and the people who work there are surly and/or disinterested. Also, they continually fuck up the french fries. This is unforgivable. The goddamn french fries are always slightly under done and too greasy. How do you fuck up fries? When I pick up a fry, it shouldn't sag over sadly onto one side and then start to sweat oil. That's nasty. The good news on this front is that the company that currently runs this cafe has been told to hit the bricks by the company I work for. See ya Sodexo. Go eat a bowl of dicks.

Here's why I can't go upstairs to the cafeteria: Sodexo knows that they have lost this contract and are slated to be out of there by Oct. 15 so they have seriously slacked on stocking things to eat and drink. Plus, I can't help thinking that if they were so apathetic and shoddy when they thought they were in like Flynn then what level of quality can one expect from them now that they know the jig is up? I don't want to find out. So I decided to go grab a couple of slices of pizza with the guy I share this office with (pardon me while I dangle that preposition). On the walk over I announce that "I'm gonna get 3 slices!" to which Seth warned "Don't do it man. I did that yesterday and holy shit did I pay the price. I was useless the rest of the day." I chose to ignore this advice. "Feh, what does he know anyway?," I thought to myself. "Nothin', that's what. Plus, lookit the guy, he's all slight and shit. I'm strong like bull and almost as big. This'll be fine." Can you see where this is headed? Of course you can. We all can. All except "in-the-past" Mark. He's forgotten that he is a 40-year-old man who has no exercise regimen to speak of (unless you count getting in and out of a Jetta). Let's see what happens!

I sat down at the tiny table with my 3 glorious slices of pizza and started in. This place makes really good pizza so the first 2 pieces went down easy. By the time I had finished my second piece, Seth was done with his sub. He said "Are you sure you want to eat that one too?", which I of course took as a challenge to my manhood. "Hell yea, I'm gonna eat that one." I said confidently. "No problem." But by this time I was already full and in need of a nap when I took the first bite of that last slice. I have watched quite a few episodes of that show Man Vs. Food and I always put myself in his place when he takes on those crazy-ass food challenges. The conclusion is always the same: No fucking way would I eat all that shit he has in front of him. Not even if I could be sitting directly on a toilet at the time. It just won't happen. I charged through 3/4 of it and then I hit the wall.

I put down the rest of the slice and sat there regretting being dumb. Seth looked at my plate and said, "What, you're not going to eat the crust?" I said that no, I can't. He replied that if I don't eat the entire piece, then I lose. Lose what you ask? If you have to ask then you are not a competitive douche like me. I knew that I cannot lose no matter what. I must win the non-existent prize. This challenge will not go unmet. I stared at the crust of the pizza slice and lemme tell you it looked huge. I sighed, gathered myself and jammed that mofo into my mouth in two bites (my parents would be so proud. Oh wait, I think I have the wrong word there...whatsitcalled? Mortified? Too harsh. Disappointed? Yes! That's the one).

We then immediately walked back to the office and I'll tell ya, that was the worst thing I could have done. I should have just sat there at the table for another 10 minutes or so and let what I just did to myself settle down. By the time we got back to the office I was a wreck. The pizza was just sitting in my gut like a bowling ball. Thank Christ I didn't have any meetings or anything like that to go to because for the next hour I was barely able to function (my boss doesn't read this does he?). I just had to do stuff with folks on the phone so they couldn't see how I was all greasy with pizza sweats. Sorry ladies, I'm spoken for. Ah the Wiff is a lucky lady.

It's been over 4 hours since I ingested that meal and I am just now starting to feel relatively normal again. Lunch shouldn't do that to a person. I hope this new contractor/catering company is better. I will be making more of an effort to bring in lunch but I also know that I'm inherently lazy and will slip from time to time. As long as the new people know how to make a decent batch of french fries I will be happy.

Spamalot

2010-09-30T13:50:00.004-04:00

Lately I have been spending way too much time telling the Yahoo Mail spam filter that yes, these 25 emails that have landed in my inbox are in fact spam. I know that there are people out there who's sole purpose in this life is to make my online experience as miserable as possible but I have lead a mostly spam-free life these last few years. Until recently. Since Gmail came out I have used that as my main point of contact for all things official; from the main blog contact to incidental work-related correspondence. My Yahoo account, which I have had since I think 1997 or so has been relegated to the "Oh, this place needs an email address to complete my order" email. Vendors from Zappos to Amazon to Northern Tool know to contact me at the Yahoo address. And I do still use it for those rare occasions when I think to open my ancient Yahoo IM app. (although now that they have copied Google and integrated IM into the mailbox area of Yahoo, I seriously doubt I'll ever download and open the actual IM application ever again).

Somewhere along the line some nefarious online merchant has sold my address to some rather seedy organizations. At first the spam filter was on top of its game. It scooped up the bulk of the over-the-top and the blatantly obvious ones and ushered them into the spam folder with very little fanfare. I never saw them. Of course some slipped by but I didn't mind checking the little box and then marking them as spam. I would get a little note from SpamGuard saying thanks for helping it perform better. What was implied was that SpamGuard was so sorry and, frankly embarrassed that it had let me down by allowing this terrible blight stink up my email inbox with its potentially offensive content. I would smile graciously and say to no one in particular, "Hey SpamGuard, don't sweat it. I'm a laid-back kinda guy and I'm just happy knowing that you are trying your hardest to not let this happen again. It won't happen again correct? Do we understand each other here? I think we do. I expect more from my free services." But it did happen again. And again. Lately, it's been happening several times a day in fact.

Let's take a quick peek at what the filter has been letting through lately shall we? Here are a few gems in no particular order (these are quoted directly from the subject line in my Yahoo email account):

Plump Breasty Best Lucky Mad Belly Mama So (I kinda like that one...it's sorta sing-songy and fun)
Nailed Stuffing Small Hunks Haily Foot Bent Puffy Skinny Covered ("small hunks"? ewww)
Finger Sits Stuffed Alluring Orgy Amazing Rod Stunning Twinks Wants Dark-Haired (yea, I didn't know what "twinks" meant. I don't suggest googling it...trust me. I have seen things that I cannot un-see)

And now for my favorite:

Mark Omalley thighs enjoying four jem jeweled swallowing juice stuffed taste banana tanned plugged look seduced classic showing

Wait....what? You know what annoyed me the most from that last one? The fact that they misspelled my last name. I hate it when computers don't allow apostrophes as a recognized character because what happens is the M in my last name doesn't get capitalized and the whole pronunciation becomes garbled. It's actually a quick way to scan the junk mail I get at home. If my name is spelled "Omalley" then I know I don't have to open it (usually The Wiff filters the junk mail before I even see it by the way. I'm totally spoiled).

I have no idea why this sudden influx of spam messages has been able to route its way around whatever algorithm Yahoo uses but goddammit those mother-truckin' Russian and/or Chinese spam robots are relentless. I'm getting on average 6-8 messages per day that make it to my inbox past the filter (even more on the weekends for some reason). This is in addition to the (holy shit) 463 messages that the filter caught and prevented. Who sold me out to the crazies? Was it you Timbuk2? How about you Best Buy? Somebody did it and I want revenge. I also want to know what a "stuffed taste banana" is.

Je Fais des Choses Muettes

2010-08-31T15:44:00.011-04:00

This past weekend The Wiff and I went on a little adventure in Canada. I had to go up to my company's office just outside of Montreal do run a training and she tagged along for the heck of it. Neither one of us had been to Montreal and so we figured this would be a nice little trip. Montreal is a beautiful city from what I understand and lord knows I could use some time away from Massachusetts. I had decided to drive up since taking a flight with the customs, flight delays, and airport traffic would have taken approximately as much time, give or take an hour. Plus, if I drove, I'd have my own car to bop around in once I got out of work. How sweet would that be? If I flew, I doubt the company would let me have a rental car (the office was quite close to the hotel).

The drive up on Thursday was, for the most part, uneventful. We zipped up through Vermont and made decent time. At the border crossing I showed why I have not chosen a life of crime. We pulled up to the checkpoint and stopped at the little sign that declared "ARRET!". Fine, I'll just wait here then shall I? The border guard waved us forward and I eased up to the little booth that is his center of power. I should mention now that I get super nervous around authority figures. I can't help but to imagine that this guy, if he so chose, could easily detain me and make my life a misery for the next several hours. I know intellectually that this will not happen (or shouldn't happen) but I see all the cameras and uniforms and automatic weapons on display and I freak out a bit. Suddenly in my head I am an international (Canada counts as international right?) master criminal and I have to do is slink past this one guard to gain my freedom and claim my rightful place in the annals famous thieves or whatever. Meanwhile in reality, I'm a fat guy in an old diesel Jetta.

The guard asked us a question in french and when I stared blankly at him, he switched effortlessly to english. I handed over our passports and he asked us some questions in slightly accented english. This was the exchange:

Border guard: "Where are do you live?"
Me: "Mark O'Malley."
Border guard: "..... What? Where's that?"
Me: "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you asked me my name."
Border guard: "No, I asked 'where are do you live?'"
Me: "We're going to Laval!"
Border guard: (moving on..) "Do you have any produce?"
Me: "I don't think so."
The Wiff: (desperately) "No! We don't have any produce!"
Border guard: "Are you bringing any gifts to anyone in Canada?"
Me: "Not that I know of."
The Wiff: "No! No gifts!"
Border guard: "Ok, thank you."

Yep. I am a smooth operator. Thank christ that the Wiff was with me because I could not for the life of me understand this guy. I cannot explain why since his english was better than mine. I just got all nervous and turned around by his, as you can plainly see, cryptic and misleading questions. God, I am a dope. So he just let us through and I still can't understand why exactly. I must cut such a non-threatening profile that he sized me up and thought, well even if he is a criminal or terrorist, there's no way he can successfully pull off a crime.

We got to the hotel in just under 6 hours (which includes me driving slowly, pee breaks, and the aforementioned border crossing). I was pretty damn tired, thank you very much. The next day I went and did the training (it went ok I guess. I can never really tell. When I'm in the moment during a training I always feel like it's going poorly and I'm losing the audience. After the trainings people seem to be happy and satisfied so maybe this is just me projecting my own bullshit). I came back to the hotel and we went to the hotel bar to have some food and drinks. We wanted to talk about our trip to Montreal and decide what we wanted to see and do. That was the idea anyway. I don't think we actually talked about it at all. And that, ladies and gentlepeoples is the problem. We are failures at "winging it". We can't do it.

The fact that the Wiff and I cannot just "wing it" on a vacation or even a short trip like this one became very clear to us back in January with our trip to Ireland. Sure, the weather fucked a lot of stuff up for us but for the most part what really messed that trip up was our own inability to actually decide on what the fuck we wanted to do. There was a lot of "we could do this and that" and "I dunno, what do you wanna do?" going on and what ultimately happens in that scenario is NOTHING. Nothing happens. We end up frustrated and bored while we sit in the hotel room. The problem this time was that we did not learn from the Ireland trip and did pretty much the same thing this time around. We don't need a vacation that is so rigorously planned that every minute of every day is accounted for but the willy-nilly-let's-just-see-what-comes-up approach doesn't work either. We need some structure with the option to change plans if the need or desire should arise.

On Saturday we slept in a little late and took our time getting ready. The TV news told us that Montreal would be in the mid-90's by noon and oh by the way, NASCAR as well as tens of thousands of fans are in town for a race that is taking place right in the heart of the city. Oh dear. Crowds + heat + unfamiliar area = super cranky Mark. After figuring out where the Metro station was and what stop we'd need to get off at we were all set to head out on our day trip. Then the Wiff called our own bluff. She said, "Would you rather just leave tonight and save the money? We could take a really scenic and round-about route and make that our adventure." Oh fuck yes, please. It was exactly what I wanted to do but I was too afraid that she'd get all mad at me if I suggested it. We promised each other that we'd come back to Montreal and have a plan of action. And we would stay in Montreal and not on the outskirts (the hotel and office are in Laval which is about 7 miles or so outside of the city. The hotel was situated on a major highway next to several strip malls which didn't exactly make for a lovely stroll).

And so we bailed on Montreal. I know, we're lame. We have admitted to this and are working towards a solution. Do not judge us. We drove away and made our long and meandering way home (including a 40+ mile misjudging of the highway system in Canada that eventually lead to a quick ferry ride across the St. Lawrence river). When we got to the U.S./Canada border (this time at New Hampshire) I was primed. I knew that the guard would be American and I'd be able to understand everything he asked me. I pulled up to the booth and sure enough I answered every question with flying colors. I was awesome. He dismissed us and sent us on our merry way. We had decided that we'd take Rt. 5 for a bit rather than jumping on Rt. 91 since Rt. 5 is a nice calm road with stuff to see and Rt. 91 is just a boring old interstate. I drove towards the Rt. 5 signs and there was a bit of confusion at this point. After stopping at a stop sign (which I have to admit I was glad did not yell "ARRET!" at me) near where we had just checked in, the GPS stopped working. That is to say, it stopped giving us directions and just showed us where we were, not where we'd like to go. I drove forward noting another U.S. Customs check-in point to my right but not thinking anything of it since we had just gone through all that. We drove by this and then suddenly the GPS woke up. It was indicating that we had missed our turn and that we should make a U-turn when possible. Ok, little electronic woman's voice. I shall do as you bid.

I turned the car around and passed the check-in point again. Soon I found myself with a choice. I could either go back up the hill from which we had just come or I could go down another little hill. Going down the little hill seemed to be the better choice as we both knew that going back up the other way would just take us to the border right? So down we went. At the bottom of the hill we were confronted with what was clearly a Canadian check-in point. "Oh dear," I said and turned the car around before getting to the border (or so I thought). As I made my way back up that hill I saw that written in large letters on the pavement were the words "Must Report To U.S. Customs". Oh fuck. As we approached the check-in I noticed a post office building and thought that it would be a good idea to pull in there and see if I can't figure out what the hell just happened. As I pulled in, a dude dressed in a black uniform came running out of the U.S. Customs building pointing at me and yelling "YOU! YOU! YOU! Stop!" Ah, fuck. This isn't going to be good.

He came running up to the car and yelled at me that I had to go through the check point. "B.b..but we just came–" I stammered. "YOU MUST GO THROUGH THIS CHECKPOINT!" he yelled again. Ok. You're the one who's armed here...you win. I pulled around to the booth and the another guy who was sitting in there said "What was that all about? Are you the guy who pulled into the post office?" I said that yes it was me. I tried in vain to explain what had happened when he said "But you came up the hill. Did you check in with the Canadians?" I explained that I had not as I had turned around when I realized my error and came back up the hill. "Then you just entered Canada illegally. They probably have your photo and information and are looking for you right now. You may have a big problem if you try to enter Canada in the future." I'm sorry, what? Dudley Do-right is after me? "What should I do?" I asked. He suggested that I go back down the hill and explain what happened and "if they let you go" we should then come back up to him to check in. All I heard was "IF THEY LET YOU GO". It was rattling around in my head and blocking all other input as I took the passports back and drove the car back down that hill to the Canadian customs building and what surely would be a life sentence spent working in the maple syrup mines. There are huge veins of maple syrup running through this part of Canada and they're always looking for prisoners and slave labor to harvest it.

When we got there, the Canadian dude at the station could not have been nicer. We explained that we had been following the GPS and it got us all turned around. All we really wanted to do was to go home. That's it. He said that this area seemed to be a "Bermuda triangle of GPS". He said that we weren't the first people to do this and that yes, they had noticed our car turning around before the checkpoint but understood what we were doing and no, they were not looking for us. He told us to just go ahead and turn around but to "make sure we checked back in with the U.S. Customs people". So I turned around and headed back up the hill (again) and drove over to the U.S. checkpoint. This time the guy was a lot nicer to us. It was then that it occurred to me that if the Canadian dude has seen this kind of directional confusion before then this prick has also witnessed people innocently making this same error. So why were the U.S. guys such jack-offs? Why did they try to make me pee myself (only a little came out I think)? Why didn't they just let me explain what happened and figure out that it wasn't a real issue? Because they can, that's why. Something I did made them not want to make this easy on me and I suspect it was my pulling into the post office parking lot. That really made them mad. These guys need to smoke some weed and chill the frick out.

At this point all I wanted to do is go home. We made our way to the highway and got the fuck outta town. On the way home we stopped off at the New Hampshire state liquor store and got me some scotch. It was only through immense self control that I didn't just slam a shot right then and there in the parking lot. As soon as we got home I got into comfy clothes and poured myself a nice healthy glass. Mmmmmm, scotch.

You Mean Not Everyone Does This?

2010-08-19T13:42:00.004-04:00

My commute to my job in Cambridge puts me in my car for approximately 30 miles or roughly an hour and a half round trip every day. The distance traveled doesn't vary all that much (depending on which route I take), but the time can be anywhere from 40 minutes on a good day to well over an hour. That's a one-way distance of 15 miles in what averages out to about an hour. Simple math tells you that I'm going very slowly for most of that time. Add in the craptacular roads around here and the abundance of complete assholes hell bent on getting that one precious car length ahead of you and this does not make for pleasant driving conditions.

When I had that wonderfully wacky job at CSG (the second iteration, circa 1995-1996), I would drive around the Boston area for most of my day. I logged a lot of miles and far too much time behind the wheel on the shitty, shitty roads that we have here. It wore on me and I had a couple of notable episodes of road rage (including one where I punched a guy's truck. I don't recommend doing that by the way. Trucks are made from metal). I wish I could say that I came to my senses and calmed the fuck down when driving soon after this incident but that's, uh, not the case. It took me a while to get to my current N.O.T.S.M. (none of this shit matters) philosophy. One major factor that made me reevaluate my own attitude and behavior was when my friend discovered the "notebook".

At the risk of sounding crazy I'm going to explain what the notebook was. I would commute on the same route every day and I would see people doing what I determined to be bad behavior while driving (cutting in at the last minute, aggressive lane changes, blowing through red lights, etc). These incidents sometimes involved me, meaning I was the one who was cut off or whatever but that wasn't always the case. Occasionally I was just a witness to some douchey display. What I would then do is log the time, location, license plate, description of vehicle and a short summary of the infraction into a small spiral ring notebook that I kept in my glove box. I would give a brief outline of what lead up to the episode as well as what the driver looked like. You should probably read that again while keeping in mind that I am not in any way, shape, or form a police officer. Why was I doing this? I told myself it was a way for me to have a record that I could reference as to which drivers I should avoid. I honestly looked at it in this way. I was keeping tabs on the crazy ones so that I could minimize my interaction with them. Some of the pages had multiple entries for the same vehicle. Almost sounds reasonable (well, to me anyway).

And I did this for years. Literally years. All told I filled up 3 notebooks in that time. The pages would usually have only one entry scribbled at an odd angle because I had written it while driving with the notebook either on my lap or on the seat next to me. I'm not making this any better am I? Cut to a few years down the road and I am working at an office in Cambridge and car-pooling with a friend. One day he has to go into the glove box for something and he discovers the notebook. Before I can even attempt to explain what it is, he opened it and started reading. "Dude, what the hell is this?" he asked with a look on his face that told me that perhaps I had entered an area he usually reserved for crazy people. "Um, y'know. It's how I keep track of these jackasses on the road," I explained. "I, uh, have two others in the trunk." He stared at me for a little bit and then said, "You have to get rid of this. Like, now."

And he was right of course. The nightmare scenario he painted for me was this: I get into a road rage incident with some guy and it escalates into a physical confrontation. After losing the fight (presumably), the police show up and arrest me and while they have me detained, they discover the notebook. Nothing good can come from my attempts to not only justify the fight that got me arrested, but how do you explain away 3 notebooks worth of crazily scrawled evidence? The answer is I couldn't. I had to make some changes before his prediction came true. I tossed the notebooks away that evening. I thought about "saving them for a laugh" but that just felt risky.

I have changed the way that I drive in that I'm a lot calmer than I used to be. I'm more apt to let things go rather than seethe with anger at any slight provocation. That's not to say I don't notice shitty behavior out on the roads, it's just that I know that it doesn't really matter. I'd like to say that I've completely quelled this but I have slipped a few times. I no longer keep a notebook or anything but I do still have "rules" that I follow. Most of these pertain to allowing people into line in traffic.

Rule #1 is never let the following vehicles pull out in front of you:

taxis
tow trucks
buses (school or commuter)
delivery vans
contractor vans (usually the dreaded "white van")

The reason for this exception to my newish "just go with the flow" driving style is that generally the drivers of these vehicles are the worst offenders. They are dicks. They would not let you go if you were trying to merge, so fuck them.

Rule #2 is never let someone who is poking the nose of the car too far into the flow of traffic and being "rude about it". They aren't sitting patiently and respectfully waiting their turn to go. It's just bad etiquette. God, I sound like a fucking lunatic. I clearly have some issues still. The bottom line is that although I have made changes, I still struggle with keeping my new perspective (as the aforementioned "Rules" illustrate). I'm working on it. Just don't beep at me ok?

Gonna Need a Lot of Ice

2010-08-10T13:43:00.003-04:00

We need to bring back the ice floe. The sheer amount of stupid people who have been allowed to poison our gene pool and clog up our roads with their dumbness has made our society very unstable. I propose rounding up a large group of dumb-dumbs and placing them on a nice, semi-stable sheet of ice way the fuck up north somewheres and then gently nudge it out into the Gulf stream. And then what happens, happens. But Mark, who do you propose we relegate to this fate? Do you have some sort of list perhaps? Why yes, yes I do.

People who whistle. You are not enhancing any song that may be on at the moment nor are you uplifting anyone's spirits with your monotonous rendition of "Rocky Mountain High". Off to the floe with you.
The blond, frizzy-haired woman who works in my office. We seem to be on the same schedule for everything lately and I'm tired of seeing her. Walking into work, there she is across the street. On my way to grab some lunch, she's at the salad bar. Time for a wee? She's in the damn hallway. Go away lady. Get on that floe. (postscript: Hey lady, it's called conditioner...look that shit up. Oh no he di'int!)
The cashier lady in the cafeteria at my work. I get the same thing and price changes every time. I know you hate your job and me for whatever reason but see, I don't care. I will solve both our problems by dooming you to stand on a rapidly melting chunk of ice somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Enjoy.
People who say "How's it goin'?" How is what going exactly? Be more specific. Y'know what? Nevermind that. Just get on the floe.
People who say "It's goin'!" in response to people who ask them "How's it goin'"?
The guy who nodded off during the training I was giving the other day. I understand that trainings are dull but it's not like there was a hundred people in the room. As you may or may not recall, there was only 3 of us in there. So yea, I noticed when your head kept bobbing onto your chest. Hope you can tread water for several days.
The woman who sits in the cube outside my office. Her laugh is super nasal and I can no longer abide it. She must go.

Wow, that last one seemed kinda harsh. Ah well. I have a bit of a problem. I tend to let things bother me. I notice patterns of behavior and idiosyncrasies in my fellow humans and once I notice something, I cannot UN-notice it, y'know? Frankly, I'm amazed when others do NOT notice the quirks of those around them. "See, he does that thing with his lips every 15 minutes. You mean you've NEVER noticed that? God, it's maddening. I HATE that guy!" I'm even more shocked when these things don't bother people even after I've pointed out how obvious they are. I once broke up with a girl cuz she tapped her leg whenever she was sitting. We'd be at a movie and I'd miss the entire thing because I was just obsessing on the fact that her leg was bouncing up and down the entire time. What the fuck? Stop fucking doing that before I stab you. And when say I "broke up with her" I mean that she dumped me after cheating on me. Whatever, she's on the floe now.

The Wiff and I were watching a film about the White Stripes tour through Canada back in 2007. They wanted to play all the Providences and out-of-the-way places where bands don't usually perform. It's a nice story and if you like the White Stripes, a must-watch. While we were watching the movie, the Wiff mentioned how she liked how they not only toured the remote areas but went out of their way to get to know the area and show respect to the local customs. I barely heard this comment as I was harping on the weird thing that Meg White does with her left arm when she drums. I may need medication.

Oh, Come ON!

2010-07-26T16:09:00.008-04:00

I watched a terrible movie this past weekend. I did not watch the entire thing but I watched enough of it to know that it was a shitty one. The film in question was 2012 which came out last year and I distinctly remember saying to myself "Well, there's another movie I'll never ever watch." I spoke too soon apparently. The Wiff had recorded it off of HBO and it had been sitting on the DVR like a turd for a couple of weeks. Yesterday after she got back from running errands and doing some work she announced that she was "going to watch a movie". I understood that as "I want to be alone now. Go upstairs and let me watch this dumb movie in peace." See, it's not that I mean to ruin her viewing of horribly stupid candy-movies/TV shows, it's just that I can't help myself. I have to make comments and poke fun at the plot, characters, special effects, what-have-you in said movie/TV show. I don't WANT to, I HAVE to. I am compelled. It's a sickness.

So I went upstairs and let her be. But I got bored upstairs. When you don't have anything you really want to do, the internets can get dull super fast. I poked around on Hulu looking for a show I wanted to watch but got distracted by a game of Snood instead. After a couple of games I went on to YouTube to watch people falling off of things. That got old faster than anticipated. I made my way back downstairs and ignored the look that the Wiff gave me. I noticed it, I just ignored it. She was camped out on the couch and 2012 was stinking up the TV. I sat down and tried to keep my comments to myself. I didn't last very long. "Oh, come on man...they're on a huge, cavernous cargo plane and it's quiet enough to have a whispered conversation? So they're saying our car is louder than that plane?" Eye rolls from the Wiff. There was one scene later on with John Cusak doing his best Shelley Winters impersonation except he must have the lung capacity of an orca because he is under water for waaaaaay longer than humanly possible and when he finally comes up, he's not even tired. This is the same guy who needed a tiny French chick to help him rebuild a Camaro. Amazing.

The movie also suffers from the problem of computers not behaving like computers. Computers in movies make all kinds of extraneous bleeps, bloops, and whizzing noises. The graphics are always too flashy (especially for government computers) and although the operators have access to amazing amounts of information, they can never accurately predict anything. They can't even do a countdown properly. I know I'm supposed to suspend reality for the sake of entertainment but shouldn't the concept of time passing be the same? The movie did blow shit up nicely I must admit. The shiny-shiny-ness was palatable but the scale of some of the disasters seemed awkward, like a cut scene from a crappy video game. Plus, the whole planet is blowing the fuck up right? How come John Cusak gets to keep his entire family together throughout this shit storm? He even gets to hook up with his ex-wife after her boyfriend bites it in a rather nasty fashion. Can I just say that I don't like Amanda Peet? She always looks angry. Lighten up lady, you're in a movie.

There is so much dumb shit going on in this movie that it stopped being worth wasting my witty remarks on it, much to the Wiff's chagrin I'm sure. After John Cusak gives the Mayan's the middle finger and survives what I estimate to be a hundred different attempts to kill him and his family (did you know you could out-run an explosion? or drive through a building that's collapsing, popping out the other side unscathed? or you can sit in the bed of a pick-up truck as it drives through the goddamn Himalayas in WINTER and be perfectly cozy in just a suit jacket?), they are on the deck of one of the arks that were built in China (sure, they all survive the floods but they end up with lead poisoning) months after the disaster when his semi-retarded daughter says "Daddy? When can we go home?" Hey kid, did you not pay attention to when everything ON THE PLANET got fucked over? Hmmm? Did you miss all that? D'ya think that your McMansion on the fucking cul-de-sac survived? *Smack!* At least that's what he should have done. The need to put a pretty little bow on the end of this movie really just didn't make any sense. If the writers had made the ending dark and brooding (a la Battlestar Galactica for instance) I'd have a smidgen of respect for them.

I have a benchmark for shitty movies like this one. That standard is the movie "Volcano" starring Tommy Lee Jones at his robotic best and Anne Heche (before she went crazy). Volcano did what any movie that is this poorly written, acted, directed and filmed should do. It ramped up the crazy and unbelievable scenarios and became, in my opinion, a comedy. If you have never seen Volcano, rent it and enjoy (geologists straddling a super-hot fissure? Sure, why not. A guy melting in lava? Of course. A lava floe stopped by cramming a bunch of jersey barriers into a horseshoe shape? You betcha). I suggest that you watch it while drinking. As a matter of fact, you can do the Volcano Drinking Game. Every time someone dies while just standing still and screaming, take a shot. Every time someone does NOT die even though lava is pretty goddamn hot, take a shot. You could take a shot every time the laws of physics are ignored but you'd be shitfaced by the end of the first 30 minutes.

Since Volcano is so bad that it's good I have devised a rating system based on it. If you have a movie that is rated as 1 Volcano, it's a bad movie but you could watch it all the way through without saying "Oh, come ON!" more than twice. A movie that is rated 5 Volcanos is, well, Volcano. It's a pretty high standard of awful. This movie, 2012, I will give 3.5 Volcanos. I was going to just go with a rating of 3 Volcanos but since 2012 runs 2 and a half hours long, that makes it extra tough to take. A while back the Wiff and I tried having a "Bad Movie Night" and have some friends over to watch dumb movies and make fun of them. It kind of fizzled out after a couple attempts but I think we have to bring this back. Ooooh, maybe the first movie for BMN can be Taken. That stinker rates a solid 3 Volcanos easily.

I am Boring. Hear Me Roar.

2010-07-16T10:48:00.002-04:00

A giant wave of dull has swamped the boat where I keep my interests and has washed away my creative urges. Currently my schedule includes waking up, getting ready for work, driving to work, working, driving home, watching some TV, and then going to bed. I could point the finger at the seemingly ever-present heat and humidity which has really become entrenched here in Boston. The weather is an easy scapegoat for me because as a fat dude, on a normal weather day I generate enough heat to power a small city. Now if you ramp up the temperature and humidity outside, then you could strap some kind of containment bell to the top of my head to extract the huge volume of heat blasting out of the top of my noggin. I'm pretty sure I could solve our nation's energy crisis if you just make me walk outside in July.

I can't with any legitimacy blame the weather for this current slump in activity. I just don't know what my problem is. I have a sense that maybe I'm just not as interesting as I had hoped I would be at this age. I'm not even sure how I thought that just by living the lifestyle that I have it would generate all kinds of wacky adventures and interesting encounters. I guess I just assumed that I'd have more to talk about than I do. But honestly my life is pretty stable and calm. "Stable and calm" does not make for hilarious hi-jinks. My work is going well and even if it wasn't, I have a policy of not talking about jobs that still appear on my resume. "Ooooh, so crazy things could be happening at work and you just won't tell us! Is that it?" you ask. Wait, what? Well, no. I mean, yea, stuff happens at work that might make for a good story but that's not the problem. If the story has nothing at all to do with where I work, then I can take it out of that context and tell it without violating my rule. Does that make sense? There are dramatic and interesting things happening to people in my life as well but these are not my stories to tell. I would never go into someone else's problems here. It just isn't the place y'know? Plus, I ain't no snitch.

What I need to do is get over or through or around this slump in which I find myself. I'll figure it out. I have a road trip to Montreal coming up at the end of August so that could certainly generate some weirdness. I have to go up for work but The Wiff is tagging along so that we can eke out a mini-vacation. I've never been to Montreal so I'm looking forward to it (not the work part though, that's not going to be much fun for me). All I know is that having this blog thing has been interesting. I'm so psyched when people tell me that they like it but then on the other hand I'm embarrassed when someone brings it up too. Why is that? I want to have people read this right? I mean, that's the whole point of putting these rambling diatribes up on the interwebs in the first place isn't it? I have to say that leaving Facebook greatly reduced the number of people who visit the site. Hmmm, should I put a Facebook page up for Flunky Boy so that people could be a "fan"? Would that be totally cheesy? Probably. I don't even know how to do that.

I'm going to do a 5-Song Shuffle here at the end to give this post some flashy shiny-ness. The caveat here is that the songs that come up have to also have a YouTube video associated with them.

Bonus round:

Reggie Watts – Fuck Shit Stack

A Kitchen Reborn

2010-07-12T11:49:00.008-04:00

Huzzah! After many months (ok, two months) and lots of stress and cash we now have a new kitchen/pantry in ye olde homestead! The final inspection is today and there are just a couple of very minor things to wrap up but I'm going ahead and calling the project complete! There, I just did it. Eggs all in one basket. Chickens all counted way before they have hatched. Cart squarely before the horse. Let's plow ahead shall we?

Behold a whole slew of before, during, and after pictures of the project. Click on the pics for larger versions:

The pantry window with the old sink and dark cabinets.

The new pantry window with new sink, countertops and cabinets.

View of the right-hand cabinets and the old sink unit thing.

Same area during the renovation.

Same view after with new countertop, cabinets and lighting. Mmmmm...coffee.

The nasty old metal sink and cabinet unit.
Heh..."unit".

Zoinks! The whole she-bang is gone!

Same area with the new cabinet base installed and the space for the dishwasher on the left.

Blammo! New counters, sink and dishwasher. Check out the tile work yo.

A pic of the pantry entryway with the old pine bookcase that housed all (or most) of the Wiff's cookbooks.

Same shot as it looks now.

An overview shot of the pantry and the mudroom (on the right). This is after we removed everything from the kitchen and put it all in the dining room the day before the project started.

Same shot after the job is done.

The stove area before the project started. You can see that I'd already started pulling down the shitty wallpaper by this stage.

In progress...

Looking better...

And done! Whew! That sure was expensive.

I'm so glad this is done and that it looks as good as it does. I wish we had had the entire kitchen floor refinished during the project but alas we did not. Ah well, another thing to add to the list. We'll get to it eventually.

Summer Heat Ruins My Summer

2010-07-07T10:11:00.001-04:00

It is stupidly hot outside. It's the type of hot that smacks you in the face and then drapes itself over you like a very unwelcome parka, clinging to the sheen of sweat on your forehead and generally making you feel less than human. When it is this hot I cannot function. Luckily (?) I work in an air conditioned office building but ye olde homestead is not so well equipped. We do have a few window A/C units to cool off 3 key rooms in the house (our bedroom, The Wiff's office, and the weird little bedroom where I keep my computer) but the rest of the house is all hot and bothered. From the weather reports that I have heard (quick tangent if you don't mind: I have a problem retaining weather information. I can sit and listen to a forecast and 2 seconds after the report ends I have no idea what the weather will be like for the next couple days. Dunno why that is but I thought it worth mentioning), we are unlikely to be getting much in the way of relief from this heat any time soon. Fantastic.

Being as it is so bloody hot, one could assume that the heating system in the house would be off right? The thermostat is turned off, all the windows are open and it's 89 degrees inside. Sounds like a reasonable assumption to me. Well, as it turns out we're both wrong. On Tuesday of last week we had the oil guy come in and service our boiler. One of the tests that the technician ran is called the combustion safety test. It's a somewhat involved procedure that requires that the appliance in question is turned on and allowed to run long enough to get to operating temperature. Why do I know about this test? Two reasons: 1) I'm a nerd. 2) I used to do this test as part of my job at CSG. After he ran the test and gave the system a clean bill of health, he packed up and left. Since I was on vacation last week I was glad to have the rest of the day to myself and so I continued puttering around the place.

A few days later on Monday (the 5th), the Wiff and I were cleaning in the kitchen (yes, the kitchen project is very nearly complete. We have a couple very small things for the contractor to fix and then there's the final inspection by the city. We expect that to go smoothly and I will post pics and stuff soon...I promise) when she noticed that the baseboard heaters were hot. "These are really hot." she said. "Pfffffffff." I replied. "Of course they're hot. It's like 95ºF in here." "No, seriously stupid, these are hot." she said. I'm not sure why she was so mean to me. I'm like a really swell guy and everything. "Is the heat on?" she asked. I leaned down and checked and sure enough the heaters were on. What the frick? I went over to the thermostat and made sure it was off. It was. I went downstairs and stared at the boiler. It sat there and gave me zero information. "Hmph." I was out of ideas at that point.

The Wiff then called the oil company and the guy said that he knew what the problem was and that they'd come out and fix it. Apparently the technician must have left a jumper cable on something in the control box so the guy on the phone suggested shutting off the boiler completely. Nice. Luckily it is hot as Satan's buttcrack after a game of "Fling the Sinner into the Pit" (a very popular game in Hell I'm lead to believe) so needing hot water for a shower is not a priority for the moment. Even though they said they'd be at the house yesterday, they called and rescheduled for tonight. I just hope that they didn't break anything or waste a lot of oil.

UPDATE: Turns out it wasn't the phantom jumper cable (or whatever) that was causing the problem. It looks like we have a faulty pump/check valve thing. When our hot water tank calls for hot water, this broken piece allows water to flow into the first floor zone and heat up the baseboards. Great. Now we have to have that damn thing fixed or replaced too. Luckily the technician showed us a temporary "fix" where all we have to do is shut off the zones in question and that will keep the hot water flowing only to the tank and not the rest of the house. Then in the winter, we'll just open those valves back up. Stupid house.

Are You Sure You Want to Leave?

2010-06-30T15:24:00.002-04:00

Recently I deactivated my account on Facebook. I had joined about 3 years ago (I think...maybe it was 2 years ago?) on the suggestion of a work friend. I liked connecting with people I hadn't talked to in forever (like from high school and such) and it was helpful in keeping in touch with my large extended family members. But then something happened where I found myself just spending way too much time on the site. I'd browse through photos of smiling people I did not know at events I did not attend simply because one friend had been "tagged" in a blurry cell phone shot. I felt like a creep. Like a voyeur. I didn't like that feeling, so I left.

I have to admit it was hard. Would I miss playing Scrabble (or Lexulous, whatever. I hated that name) with friends? Would the fear of "missing out" be too much to bear? Can I survive without knowing daily thoughts of some person I haven't actually seen in over 20 years? I kept the bookmark in my browser for the first week "just in case". I'd hover my mouse over that bookmark trying to decide if I wanted to click on it or not. On the computers that I normally use, Facebook was typically one of the first 5 bookmarks. As of this writing, it still appears in the favorites in the browser on my work computer. I'm on vacation this week so I haven't had an opportunity to delete it yet (other than the 3 days last week when I certainly could have deleted it quite easily, I just wasn't mentally strong enough yet).

Quitting cold turkey for me was the only option. I'm a bit obsessive by nature so I knew that if I did nothing or attempted a scale-back model to try to wean myself off of the site I'd never truly give it up. Now I'm not down on Facebook nor will I judge others who still use the site (the Wiff is still on there for instance). If you use the site and have fun with it, that's great. I just know that for me, it was eating into my productivity and keeping me from actually getting things done. That includes doing things like writing on this blog. This is currently my only creative outlet and I hadn't given much time to it lately. Even though I get embarrassed when I talk about this site (I'm blushing right now...seriously), a few people have actually come up to me and told me they like reading my rambling, barely coherent drivel. That's incredibly flattering and I never know how to react. I don't take compliments very well.

What does this mean for ye olde blog moving forward? Well it will eliminate those sometime visitors who found the link on my profile and clicked to visit the site. There wasn't a lot of those people anyway. What I hope it means is that I will be able to dedicate more time to writing here. When I started this a couple years ago my intent was to post once a week. I've kept to that loose schedule for the most part. Maybe without the FB distraction siphoning my time and energy I'll be able to post more dumb stories about my life. Wouldn't that be wicked awesome? Of course it would be. So if we were Facebook friends just know that you have one less virtual friend online. I'm still available in person for realsies though. Heck, you could even stop by the house and see the new kitchen! Yes, pictures will be forthcoming of the kitchen renovation.

This Just In..

2010-06-11T10:05:00.003-04:00

I believe that people who are on TV and in movies should be older than me. But as I get older (and older) this practice has become unsustainable (no one would want to see the kids of Glee portrayed by 40-somethings). Being immature and an old codger is very confusing. I still feel, maturity-wise anyway, like I'm 17 or so but then what happens is I am reminded of the harsh reality that I am so NOT 17 (like if I walk by a mirror for instance). Watching the NHL playoffs put my age in perspective every time the announcers talked about how OLD Chris Pronger is. He's 35. I've got 5 fuckin' years on the dude. There are guys in the NHL who are older than me (Mark Recchi and...well, just him really) but the bulk of them are under 30. It's enough to bum a guy out.

Music can be a different beastie when it comes to age. Again, I feel like people who's music I enjoy should always be older than me but for whatever reason it doesn't seem to bother me as much when I find out that they are (much) younger. Maybe it's because I generally don't watch videos or go to shows that much anymore. I remember the Wiff and I went to see The Futureheads a few years back and I was almost surprised at how young they were. It's like when we go out to see a band play at a club I think to myself that I'm close to being "that old dude" at the bar. This feeling of time slipping rapidly by also holds true for some books. The book I just finished was written by a dude 7 years my junior. As I was reading and enjoying his work there was a nagging thought at the back of my mind saying, "What the hell have I been doing with my life? What will be my legacy? A bunch of snarky remarks on a website that gets maybe 4 people a day reading it? Oh and a sizable dent on my side of the bed?"

There is one place where I know I can be certain that my Utopian ideal that the people on the idiot box must be older than me will be upheld: It's the local news here in Boston. If I stick to Channel 5 and (for the most part) Channel 4, I'm fairly safe. I cannot abide Channel 7 for a couple of reasons:

They have embraced the green screen, let's-all-be-standing-around-randomly, swooping robo-cameras, flash-cut shiny-shiny-shiny style of news broadcasting that FOX "News" pioneered. But Channel 7 has ramped it up to a degree that makes it unwatchable (to me anyway). Both Channel 7 and the FOX affiliate seem to assume that everyone watching has A.D.D. and cannot concentrate on an image for more than 3 tenths of a second.
Everyone on their broadcast seems to be fresh out of school, all tan and just as shiny as the chromed-out set they are on. I can't take a story seriously if the dude announcing it clearly just had his teeth whitened or if the woman sitting next to him looks like she came from a Barbie factory.

This is why the old crows on Channel 5 are my favorite. And it's not like any of these stations actually report on more than just the surface of a story either. Oh no, all local news is simply headlines with very little in-depth investigation or journalism. They all do a similar job in that respect. If I actually want to learn more about a story I'll watch BBC News or PBS. God, I sounded like such a pompous twat there didn't I? But it's true dammit (although Jim Lehrer's beady little eyes do creep me out)! No, the reason I like Channel 5 is that they still have people working there that I fucking recognize from years ago. Even Channel 4 still lets that old lush Jack Williams stink up their airwaves. Ok, maybe that one is a mistake.

There are of course drawbacks to having older people on TV in this age of high definition. I've already mentioned Mary Richardson before but what about Susan Wornick? Holy hell. Someone box that thing up quickly before the children see it. If you are fair skinned, do not go tanning. Let Susan be a warning to you all. Is that being a hypocrite? Probably. It's certainly me being a dick. For the most part the reason that I like having these folks around is not that I think they're necessarily giving me a better product, it's all the same stuff generally, it's that watching them let's me briefly feel like I'm not on the downhill portion of life. I mean, hell, they're still on TV so it must mean that I'm still in my 20's right? Sigh...

And no, the kitchen is not done yet. Don't ask.

A Knight Out

2010-06-04T15:52:00.005-04:00

Last night the Wiff and I went to go see Keith Knight, gentleman cartoonist, speak at the Malden Public Library and sign some of his books. He wasn't scheduled to begin his presentation until after 7pm so we decided to go grab some food early-bird style. The first place we went to was over in Malden and after standing by the sign that said "Please Wait to be Seated" for what I determined to be far too fucking long with no one coming over to us, we decided to leave. Just as we turned to leave a hostess/waitress finally came over and asked "Two for dinner?" Yea, not anymore lady. We're outsies.

We decided to head on over to Melrose so we could check out Beacon Hill Wine & Gourmet's new-ish store right there on Main St. The store is run by Rebecca and Gene Bernaldi and I went to high school with Rebecca. She is what I would describe as super smart and a genuinely nice person. I couldn't be happier for her success. Unfortunately, Rebecca wasn't working when we were there but since the store is really well done and the layout is intuitive, it was fine. They made great use of the space and the choices offered are impressive. Plus, the woman who helped us look for a bottle of wine was friendly and knowledgeable. I sound like a commercial or something. Whatever, I liked it. Go there if you can.

After buying the wine we went across the street to this little restaurant that the Wiff had wanted to check out for some time. Stearns & Hill's Bistro certainly looks the part of a good, neighborhood restaurant with the brick and dark wood facade and with the name of the place done in tile above the doors. The bar and restaurant area are all tastefully decorated and I liked the muted lighting in the place. However, I think most of the attention to detail has been spent on creating the atmosphere and not, in my opinion, where it really counts: the food. We ordered the calamari appetizer since it's usually a good gauge on how much control a kitchen has over the quality of the meals it produces.

The appetizer came out and although the presentation was decent, they failed the true test. The calamari rings were just this side of being rubbery little gaskets and the breading was far too thick. Ok, not a great start but let's reserve judgement shall we? I had ordered a burger done medium/well and the Wiff got a shrimp salad doo-dad. When the burger came out it was quite well done (overly cooked and super dry) and the fries were greasy little blobs with not even a hint of crispiness. Bummer. The Wiff said the shrimp were also over done. The overall vibe I got from the food was that the kitchen was lazy. They didn't seem too interested in trying to win new customers. The prices were reasonable but even a decently priced meal that isn't tasty will feel like a rip-off. Ah well, next time we'll just go to The Blue Ox.

During our dinner the thunderstorm that had been threatening to come finally did. The skies opened up and dumped an impressive amount of rain down onto the quaint little streets of Melrose. I looked like a movie where they have those huge rain maker things. It was epic. I put the thought that all our windows in the house were wide open out of my head and we made our way over to the library after the rain stopped. Keith's talk was cool and it was interesting to hear him talk about the projects he's been working on. I also didn't realize just how far ahead a syndicated cartoonist has to have their strips ready. It's like 5 weeks ahead for a daily strip. That's a lot of work. Even though he went to the same high school as me (go Tornados!...or..y'know, not) and I've been a fan of his stuff for years, I'd never actually met Keith. The Wiff went to college with him and I did know one of his sisters though. The guy is just super laid back and confident and it's nice to see he's doing what he loves to do and that he's able to be very successful. Thumbs up all around peeps.

What was not a thumbs up was the fact that the building where I had my very first job is now closed. The Malden Public Library is now in a whole new-to-me section that while I'm sure is better in the sense that it's not a crumbling building that is impossible to heat or cool it just does not have the same "cool factor" as the old building. I dunno when they moved but I'm sure it's been twenty years or something like that. I've not been there since 1988 myself. It didn't even smell like a library y'know? I just kinda...was. Hmph. Stupid reality.

We made our way home and as we turned onto our street it became pretty clear that the little storm we saw in Melrose had been much more intense back home. There were tree limbs and leaves everywhere. Several trees had major damage and it looked like the wind had blasted right down the street stripping leaves and branches like a big hand. We pulled into our driveway and went into the house to deal with the water that had been blown into the house during the storm. Luckily for us it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated. The big ol' tree in front of the house had only lost a relatively small branch which had fallen harmlessly onto the curb. Whew. That could have been much worse (and had been for some).

Then at 2:30 am I was awakened to a bizarre noise that I could not identify. I was still in a sleep fog when I heard it again. It sounded like a giant shopping cart with a stuck wheel and is full of empty bottles being dragged down the street sideways. I laid there listening to see if it would happen again and sure enough it did. GGGRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrararttllllllllllebbbbbrrt!!! Oh. What. The. Fuck? Who the hell is collecting recycled beer bottles at this time of the night? Goddamn crackheads, just cuz you can't sleep doesn't mean the rest of us want to be kept awake to listen to the crazy adventures of your sad existence ok? Go away...damn you...go away. Then, as I woke up some more I thought, "Hmm, that's no shopping cart." I got up and went into the front bedroom. As I looked out the window I saw the source of the noise. A huge truck with a fucking wood chipper on a trailer behind it was parked right in front of my house. Two very fat men were tossing branches into the big gaping mouth of the machine. BBBbbllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaAAAHHHaaarchhTT!! Sigh. Goddamn city living.

I whispered my very best gypsy curse upon them and went back to bed. I will eventually move away from all these people. Someday this WILL happen, just not today.

Get Some More Rest. Trust Me.

2010-05-28T11:50:00.012-04:00

I have had a week. And it has not been a good one.

The week started with a delay in getting the components I needed to finish a project at work. This pushed my time to meet the deadline off by a day and a half. So that meant that I had to work late the past several days. Although this isn't the best scenario and it certainly was an inconvenience, it doesn't happen very often so I'm really not complaining about working late so much as just putting it in context. So Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday (yesterday) I worked late each night. How late? I put in about 12 hours for each one of those days (oh awesome. I just did some quick math {thanks Malden public schools!}and figured out that I'm now officially working for free today).

And during all this the kitchen project is on-going and so my home is in disarray. Add to that the fact that we STILL do not have internet access at home (or Video On-Demand for that matter since that also runs off the router). The replacement router that Verizon sent us also did not work so that was less than helpful. Oh, and they sent what was clearly a used router. I'm all for recycling or whatever but goddamn it for the money I send these fuckers every month they should send me a brand-new router dammit. The Verizon guy is coming tomorrow to troubleshoot and hopefully fix what the issue is. I just wanna watch TV shows on Hulu. Is that too much to ask? So far, yes. Yes it is.

Meanwhile work is crazy busy and threatening to become busier. Hmph. I had to do a couple of trainings this week and that never sits well with me. At this company we are scattered between several building sites (in Cambridge, MA all within walking distance of each other. It's inconvenient but you have to make it work) and so scheduling meetings with people can be difficult. Especially if they have another meeting that butts (heh..."butts") up against the time slot you are trying to book. They may have to walk from one site to get to the next meeting at another site which can make the start times slightly off. The running joke here is that meetings usually start 5-7 minutes late but I've seen people come in 10 minutes late. My point? Ok, chill, I'm getting there. I like how I projected that you the reader might be bored by all this detail since it was boring me. But I don't really know do I? Perhaps you LOVE details. Maybe you revel in making lists and organizing things by shape and size as well. I mean, you're still reading this paragraph right?

I still show up to meetings on time if not slightly early if I can. I have yet to adjust to this slight delay in start times and so when no one had showed up for the 9 am training yesterday by 9:05 I have to admit to being a bit pissed. Finally 3 of the 4 people showed up by about 7 past 9. I got the training started and was making good progress when at 9:37 (yes, I remember the exact time) the 4th person finally showed up. He apologized and found a seat. I was so annoyed with him. I looked at him and then at the clock and said "Look, I can't sign off on your training seeing as how you missed half of it. You'll have to reschedule." Ooooh! Layin' down the LAW! Ok, so a minor power trip there but c'mon...Fuck that guy. Whatta douche. He looked at me like "Really?" and I gave him my best "Yea, fucking REALLY" face (was it the Gas Face perhaps?). So he got up and left the conference room. The other nozzles in the class all continued to stare down at the table. That's right bitches. Don't make eyes at me.

Then last night after working late (again) I decided to take a different route home than usual. On Wednesday after working late I had encountered a lot of traffic over near the Museum of Science and I just did not have the stamina to deal with another clusterfuck. So I took the longer but somewhat more scenic route home. Ye Olde Jetta was in fine form but a bit parched as the fuel gauge "fill me" light had been on since the previous night. I knew I had enough to get to my usual fill-up station so I wasn't really concerned about it. As I was driving I had passed several gas stations and noted that none of them sold diesel. I meandered along through Melrose and made my way onto Route 1 north in Saugus. That's when I noticed that the Hess station had a diesel sign. "Oh sweet", I thought to myself. "I'll just fill up here and it'll be done." The station I usually go to is past my house so I was glad that I could just get this done now and not have to drive right by my house to go to the Irving station in Salem. Since I was feeling a bit brain-dead and tired I welcomed the chance to get home earlier.

I pulled in and sidled up to a pump. It looked just like the ones at the Irving station. Two pumps on the right, the space in the middle where you put in your credit card and stuff, and on the left-hand side there was a green pump. Nice. Let's do this. I got out, put in my credit card, picked up the green nozzle and started pumping. I stood there not really looking at anything for a little bit. Just sort of spacing out really. Then I looked at the pump itself. "Hmm," I thought. "Diesel here is pretty cheap. This may be my new place. Hey, look at that. They have the wrong rating system here. It says '87 octane'. Heh, don't they know that diesel has cetane not octane? Boy, Hess must be run by a buncha maroons." La, la, la, la, still pumping away with not a care in the world.

And then it hit me. Oh fuck. Oh no. Oh shit. I looked, I REALLY looked at the pump. There, written in white letters 5 inches high on the green background was the word "REGULAR". Oh fuck me. I immediately let go of the handle on the pump. How much had I dumped in there? "12.08 gallons. Of. The. Wrong. Fuel", said the gauge in what I perceived as a slightly dickish tone. FUUUUUCK! I stood there with the nozzle still in the tank for a good minute just trying to assess if this had actually just happened. Yep. It had. Ok, so what the fuck do I do now? Well, I knew enough not to try to start the thing up but that still means that I am stuck here. As I walked around the car to grab my cell phone to call for Triple A I noticed a big (and I do mean BIG) sign off to the right that said "DIESEL HERE" right over a pump that was separated from all the others like it had farted or something. And the handle was bright red. No, Hess gas station, no. Diesel is supposed to have a GREEN nozzle thingie. Goddamn stupid brain.

I know I'm totally projecting onto Hess that they're the dummies for having their pumps kinda-sorta look like diesel pumps from a completely different company but jumping-jesus-fuck-a-monkey they do look like the Irving ones.

This is not the offending pump but it does illustrate the layout of the one I used last night. See how the tyrants at Hess like to segregate the "regular" fuel from the "premium" and "plus" options? I know what they're doing here. They are trying to subliminally make people who do not need "plus" or "premium" fuel for their cars (and who are not paying attention) to instinctually grab for those pumps rather than the poor, lonely "regular" pump that has been banished to the left. So not only have they ostracized the diesel fuel onto its own separate island away from the "normal" fuels but now they also are trying to swindle the brain-dead public into buying the more expensive types of gas. I know you're game Mr. Hess and I'm callin' you out on this. Yer a sneaky mofo.

And so 35 minutes later the tow truck showed up and towed my poor poisoned Jetta home. The kid (and he was a kid too, like 21 years old. Fucking hell I'm ancient) did a good job getting the thing backed into our driveway. He had to do like a 52-point turn to get it in but he managed. By this time it was about 9pm and since his truck was loud and had flashing lights every one of my neighbors were in their windows gawking at us. Yea, I know. I would have done the same thing but it really just annoyed me last night. I kept saying "Yes, it's a tow truck. Fuckin' AMAZING huh?" to no one in particular. I wasn't in the best mood. I had just spent $38 on fuel I could not use, had my car towed and now I have to find a place that will be able to fix this problem that I created. I got my stuff out of the backseat, locked the car (not sure why) and went in to drink a nice scotch to put this day behind me.

So right now the car is sitting stoically in my driveway awaiting another tow truck to drag it to the doctor's. It's a good thing I have my mantra to guide me through these little hiccups that life and my tiny brain throw at me. None of this shit matters. I must remain calm.

UPDATE: Had the car towed to the garage on Saturday and now some $250+ later, she's back to her old self. Although I think the trust she had in me is gone.

It'll Take Two Weeks

2010-05-24T14:16:00.001-04:00

We are deep in the middle of the kitchen/pantry remodel project thing. It's...uh, stressful. I'll post pics and stuff when it's all done but let's just say that at the moment my house is a bit messy. All the stuff that's usually in the kitchen is now in the dining room and has spilled into the living room a little too. It resembles one of those houses you see on Hoarders minus the decomposing animals that is. Plus as a bonus this past weekend our modem shit the bed so we've been without internet access since Friday. It isn't a terrible thing but it is annoying. Verizon tells us that the new modem will be here on Tuesday. God, I guess I'm going to have to like, talk to the Wiff and stuff until then. Oh wait, there's still TV. Whew!

So what else is going on? The Wiff and I went to see Bill Burr play at the Wilbur Theater a couple weeks ago. I'd only seen him on his specials on TV and I've been a faithful listener to his Monday Morning Podcast for a while now. This was the first time seeing him perform live and it was a really good show. The opener was Joe DeRosa (who works with Bill on the Uninformed Radio Show) and he was really good too. I'd only heard him on the radio so to see him perform was cool. We took the train into the city (Blue line to the Orange line) and that was a mistake. We should never have transferred to the Orange line. That line is just packed to the gills with people with whom I'd rather not be in an enclosed metal tube. The Blue line is no picnic either by the by. Standing on the platform at State Street with the stale urine smell wafting by my nostrils and being forced to listen to inane conversations going on around me made me wish that we had driven into Boston. But the parking situation in the theater district is enough to give me fits so the only option really was the T.

After the show we decided that we'd just walk up Tremont Street to Government Center and skip the whole Orange line transfer nonsense completely. That was a much better idea. Although walking up Tremont Street on a Friday night is pretty annoying too. You kind of have to do the drunk-college-kid/lost-tourist/suburbanites-in-to-see-a-show hurdle in order to maintain any semblance of forward motion on the sidewalk. Normally I walk at a pretty slow pace but I guess I had shifted into another gear cuz the Wiff said she had a hard time keeping up with me. Look lady, I'm old and fat but I can move if I have to. We made it back to the car which was parked at Wonderland, picked up a pizza at Bianchi's, and listened to the Bruins lose in overtime to the Flyers. Who knew they would go on to lose 4 in a row and be eliminated? Schmucks.

Now I have to root for the Flyers to eliminate the Canadians. Ultimately I think I want to see the Blackhawks win it this year but honestly, the wind is out of my sails now. I'm still watching the games but the huge choke that the Bruins let happen still stings. Ah well. At least the games are still fun to watch.

Oh, and my iTunes did something wonky the other day. I have approximately 8,500 songs on my home computer and suddenly I had over 23,000. It had made doubles and sometimes triples of the MP3 files and in the process, wiped out all the cover art for the albums. I was pissed. So now I have to do the tedious and time consuming chore of pruning the files, making sure that they are the correct ones, and updating and/or downloading the cover art for all my music files. It sucks balls and I don't want to do it. I have my iTunes pointing to a removable hard drive thing and I guess the settings got ... oh who cares? You certainly don't. All I know is that I have to spend a stupid amount of time fixing this. I miss vinyl.

Me Ego Knows No Bounds

2010-05-10T22:38:00.007-04:00

I got an email recently with the subject "Not sure what to make of this" from my friend Crispin. He went on to say that he came across an MP3 from a band called "3.1416 Magnum" and that....well, why don't I let youse read it?

Hey Mark,
How goes it all?
Weird... I came across an mp3 by a band called 3.1416 Magnum. I think they're from western MA. Never heard of them. Anyway, I found an edit of one of their songs. It kinda seems like they're ripping off your song - hard to say...

This is not a bluff
You will be the focus of my violence
You'll agree that retreat makes sense
This is your final warning
This is the calm before the storming
This is the calm before the storming
This is the calm before the storming

Thought you might be interested.
Hope all's well with you and yours,
-Crispin

Why would someone steal those lyrics? Are they that desperate? Perhaps they are from a developing country and don't have access to actual real rock music ...and uh, stuff. I will FIND these people and then contact the appropriate authorities (as soon as I determine who those authorities are. Is there a Shitty Lyric division at the police department?). I immediately did my own google search for these thieving fuckers. I got a bunch of hits that made no sense and one that talked about condom sizes. "Hmm," I thinks to meselfs. "I didn't see anything with music or any ...waitaminnit." And then it dawned on me. I'm a little slow on the uptake y'see.

I went back to Crispin's email and there buried at the bottom was an MP3 file. I grinned and opened it. It was a frickin' brilliant (if I may say so, and I may goddammit) rendition of my teen-age-angst-laden song. I played and replayed it, no kidding, 20 times. This is Crispin Fucking Wood from The BAGS singing lyrics I WROTE and shredding on the song. I was absolutely giddy and I still am. Yes, I had hoped that a number of people would have sent in their own versions of the song but weeks went by and I hadn't seen jack poop. I just assumed that the "challenge" was dead and I had moved on. Then out of the blue I get this and I know it's silly but goddamn I love it. You must check it:

Right? I think it totally catches what I was hoping to ... of fuck it. It ROCKS! Yes, it may be ironic rocking but it still rocks. Either way, Crispin Rules. Believe that.

Inducing of Vibrations

2010-05-01T18:21:00.005-04:00

I was a good kid growing up. I didn't cause (much) trouble and I did well in school. I did briefly fall in with the "wrong crowd" in the third grade but as you may have guessed, my career as a juvenile delinquent was short lived. During my spree the crimes included throwing wads of soaked toilet paper at the boys bathroom ceiling (it made an awesome sound and the clumps stayed up there like tiny mashed potato stalactites), writing "Boobs" on the wall in the playground behind the school, and in one case stealing 80 cents when I was in charge of collecting dimes for milk in the lunchroom. I skimmed a little off the top and we split it amongst each others. My share was 30 cents because I had taken the most risk. I didn't want to tell them that I felt awful stealing the money because they were all excited that we could go buy Swedish fish after school. It was then that I decided that I'm not cut out for the criminal life. But how to break my bond with these other shitty little no-good-nicks?

Our school cafeteria was a quite the multi-purpose room. It served as the cafeteria, a gym when it was raining, and it was also where the school plays were held (including the dreaded Christmas Play). During lunchtime, the caf was patrolled by two older women known to me only as The Lunch Ladies. These women were gruff, hardened old battle-axes who had been through epic foodfights and chocolate milk fueled riots. They didn't take shit from anybody. One of them, the shorter, dark haired lady used to have a bunch of spoons (like 3 of them all stacked and tied together) that she would use to bang on the end of a table to get everyone's attention and/or regain order in the cafeteria. God help you if you were sitting anywhere near the end of the table where she chose to bang those spoons. Your head would be ringing the rest of the day.

On this particular day The Lunch Ladies were having a hell of a time controlling the room for whatever reason and that's when my semi-evil little cohorts decided that this would be a perfect opportunity to start a spitball fight. I knew damn well that this was a horrible idea and that further we would surely be caught immediately. The taller Lunch Lady did NOT like spitballs and I seem to remember her screaming at the top of her lungs at a kid who looked like he might possibly think about perhaps making a spitball. The poor fucker didn't know what hit him and that was just a fucking warning shot as far as she was concerned. She had a zero tolerance approach. But I didn't express my concerns or suggest another less risky activity because I'm a follower, people. Oh, and a pussy.

We each had our straws and our lines of spitballs prepared (the spitballs were hidden under the lip of our lunch trays. Clever huh? I'm sure they'll never think to look there) and although I can't remember who shot the first one, I can tell you who shot the one that brought this whole affair to a grinding halt and got us caught. That would be me. I had a nice wad stuffed into the business end of my straw and as I turned to shoot it at the kid sitting next to me, I misfired and shot it too early (wassup ladies? oh crap...I'm never gonna get that right). It was one of those slow-motion moments as the ball went right between two other kids and hit this girl in the back of the head...right in front of the dark-haired lunch lady. Totally busted. In a flash they were both at our table the spoon lady on one end beating the hell out of the spoons and the other one yelling at all of us at the other end. It sucked.

They marched us all down to the principal's office and made us sit there for what seemed like hours. Finally the vice-principal came out and she stood in front of us with her arms folded and her face all scrunched up like she had just free-based a grapefruit. The taller lunch lady was there too and she looked so pleased as if she had just brought in the ring leaders of the MS13. I guess in her little world she had. The vice-principal walked over to us and asked us to tell the truth about what happened. She said that we were going to be punished but if we were honest she'd be more understanding. And so one by one she asked us if we had shot spitballs in the cafeteria. And one by one my stupid friends said "No. I didn't shoot spitballs." Yes, you did jackass. They SAW us do it. They have all the evidence. Lincoln Elementary's version of CSI had gathered up all our spitty wads of straw wrapper and napkin bits and were sending them to the lab for DNA testing as we sit here! Just fess up already so we can go home!

When she came to me it was pretty clear that she was really pissed off now. She had absolutely zero patience left and all she wanted to do is get these kids out of her office so that she could go home and have a glass of wine (or am I projecting a little here?). I looked at her and then over at my friends and when she asked the question "Did you shoot spitballs in the cafeteria?", not only did I confess, but I ratted out everyone else too. I said "Yes, I did. We all did." Oh man, that is not going to go well for me is it? I mean, it's not like we had sworn an oath of omertà or anything but it's still not a best practice to squeal. Especially right in front of the people you're squealing on. I remember looking at those guys and thinking, "Whoops". The vice principal smiled at me and then at them and said, "Mark did a good thing here. He told the truth. And for that I have decided that he will not have to be punished further." Oh, great. Thanks lady. Why not just hand them all baseball bats and little knives? She then called all our parents. My popularity rating plunged and my friendship stock was downgraded to junk status. A week later Ricky Crotty beat me up in front of the school and I was officially "jumped out" of our lil' gang.

As I said, my academic career was decent from elementary through I'd say junior year of high school. Ah, that's not really true. I just remembered that I totally bombed out of physics in my junior year and I think that's when my whole attitude towards school went...uh, south. The failing of my physics class was a classic fuck-up on my part. I figured out fairly early into the class that:

The teacher, Mr. Carlson, was the dullest teacher I had ever come across
None of this stuff was going to get through my thick skull
Mr. Carlson was due to retire that year so I figured if I fail the course, I can just re-take it the next year and surely the teacher will be 10x better

And so I slacked and I slacked HARD. I goofed off in class, did sub-par lab work, forgot to do homework, and spent most of my time trying to make the kids around me laugh. I did progressively shittier and shittier on tests until finally it was clear that yes indeedy I was going to get my first ever F for a course (in one example where I actually studied for a test, the only thing that stuck in my brain was the book's definition of resonance: "the inducing of vibrations of a natural rate by a vibrating source having the same frequency". It wasn't even on the goddamn test). It was going to be hard to convince my parents (especially my mom) that I wasn't going to need tutoring, summer study, or just a beating (I towered over my parents by this time. I had a good 6 inches on my dad but he easily could have kicked my ass if he wanted to and I knew it. Plus my mom was a ninja with a wooden spoon). Somehow I convinced them that they shouldn't kill me and we all agreed that I can just re-take the course as a senior and that will satisfy the science requirement for graduation. Whew, I am one gifted negotiator. Last name "Eva", first name "Greatest".

The next year I signed up for physics again and it was going to be a clean slate for me. New year, new class, new teacher, and a new attitude. I got my schedule and there it was: Physics, period 6, room blah-blah-blah, Mr. Carlson. Oh fuck you. This has to be a mistake right? That crusty old shitbird retired during the summer didn't he? He's like 80 years old for fuck's sake! But it wasn't wrong. He hadn't retired. And hoo-boy did he remember me. That class was pure torture for me that year. He made damn sure that I was paying attention and would routinely call on me. Fuck dude, I don't know the goddamn answer and you know that. I am a science dumb-dumb ok? My oldest sister got all the math and science smarts for our family, I got zippo on that front. But I hung in there people, I battled with that grey-skinned old fart and I squeaked out at the end of the year with a C+ grade. Ha! Take THAT Carlson. In your FACE! He probably still hasn't retired.

Put the iPhone Down and Step Back

2010-04-28T11:02:00.000-04:00

I've lamented before how I wish people could just walk without having to be connected to someone via their phones. I went for a walk recently and the sheer number of people walking around with a phone plastered to their ear was ridiculous. At one point this woman was walking behind me blathering on her phone and I had to stop and pretend to read a sign so that she could go past me. I just couldn't deal with her conversation interrupting my supposedly refreshing walk. It's bullshit. Put the phone down and walk to wherever you're going. When you get there, if you still feel like you absolutely need to tell Brenda about how awesome your yoga class was and how it was so super hot in there but it didn't matter cuz everyone was in harmony and god the instructor was a total hottie and now you want some lunch and SHUT THE FUCK UP! Oh my god, PLEASE shut up.

This need to be connected to everything at all times confuses me. Granted I'm an old fuddy-duddy but can't we just unplug ourselves for a certain amount of time during the day (and I'm not including sleep here .. The Wiff actually has a radio that she listens to all night long. I think it's to keep the voices in her head at bay)? I was in an elevator at my office this morning and this woman got on with me. Right there I'm annoyed because she was a swooper. She swooped in at the last minute. I believe she was planning on taking the stairs originally but saw the open elevator and jumped at the opportunity, thus ruining my chance for a solo ride. She hit the 3rd floor button (we got in on the 1st floor) and then immediately took out her Blackberry. Look lady, you're going to be at your desk in what? 5 minutes? Can't you wait that long to check your email? I'm standing there watching her scroll, scroll, scroll through emails when the door opens on her floor and she doesn't make a move. I chose not to say anything because I was interested in seeing if she'd even notice. The doors eventually started to close again and that must have snapped her out of her dreamscape. She lunged towards them and thrust her arm through the narrowing gap (but not the one holding her precious, precious Blackberry). I think the doors actually let out an exasperated sigh as they opened up again. Good work lady, you managed to annoy an inanimate object.

I spend the bulk of my work day in front of a computer so when I leave the office the last thing I want to do is look at another computer screen when I get home. I'm no technophobe, I love me some shiny shiny gadgets and I built my last desktop computer meself (pushes glasses up on nose and gets shoved into a locker...ha! the joke is on you Mr. Bully, I can't fit into a locker), but I can't let it creep into every aspect of my life. It's bad enough that my TV viewing habits seem to have escalated as of late (I blame hockey for this but only because I refuse to shoulder any responsibility for my own behavior) but ever since The Wiff bought a laptop I find myself sitting in front of the TV with the frickin' laptop on my, well, lap. Basically I'm a hypocrite ok? What I'm going to do is curb my own behavior. I admit to having a minor Facebook addiction as well as an obsession with checking to see if anyone posted any comments here at ye olde blog (usually it's a "Nope"). If I can ween myself off this stuff to the point where maybe I get outside a little more often (without my phone), I'd be happy with that.

Oh, Good Thing I Have a Clutch

2010-04-23T10:00:00.005-04:00

Yes, it has been awhile since I have updated ye olde blog. This is not to say that I have nothing to say but to say that I can't think of what I want to say or how to say it. I have a form of writer's block I guess. Blogger's block? Can we do away with the word "blog" please? It's a shitty word. I don't know what would replace it that would be an improvement though. "Journal" is pretentious, "diary" sounds like it should be hidden in 12-year-old girls room. "Chronicle" maybe? Nah, that just makes me think of Mary Richardson and how HD is totally not her friend (which I suspect is the real reason behind her retiring next month). Let's come back to this at a later date shall we? No, let's drop it and forget that I even brought it up? Ok, I'm easy like Sunday morning.

Last night it took me a combined 2 and a half hours to get home from Cambridge. That includes a walk from the office to the garage (it's about 3 blocks up the street from the office) in a ridiculous downpour which, because I did not have my umbrella with me, soaked me like the proverbial drowned rat. My pants were ridiculously wet. I did have a semi-water resistant jacket on so my upper body and head were somewhat protected but my shoes, socks and pants were stupid wet. I made squish squish sounds when I walked across the garage floor. Then, after winding my way down the ramps I encountered a traffic jam in the garage. "Oh, what the fuck", I said to no one. "C'mon people, let's frickin' move it." I was just about to beep my horn to encourage the person 3 cars ahead of me to step on the goddamn gas when I realized that it wasn't that person's fault that we weren't moving (I had assumed it was their fault cuz their car was at this wonky angle halfway in the other "lane"). There was something wrong with the gates. They were stuck and refused to go up thus trapping all these cars.

The line behind me quickly grew and people started getting out of their cars, wandering slowly over to where they could get a look at what was going on and stand there staring blankly at the gates. Hi, um...are you people experts in fixing stupid gates that won't move? No? Ok, then could you get back in your fucking cars then? You aren't helping. And I don't want you to think that since we are both stuck in the same line of traffic that we are now best friends and you can talk to me. I assure you that this is not the case so don't bother trying to make eye contact. I will look straight through you and pretend that the Mazda parked behind you is amazingly interesting. 'Kay? 'Kay. Did I mention that I'm soaking wet and my feet are probably all pruney?

Finally after 18 minutes (yes, fucking 18 minutes) the garage dudes got the gates to open and we all spilled out into the street. The woman who was right in front of me decided that she wanted to see what it was like to drive in London and was way over on the left-hand side of the ramp. When another car coming into the garage beeped at her, she screamed at them out her window and flipped them off. Of course she did. This is why I hate people you see. I then started my dreaded drive home. The Wiff was going out with some friends so I didn't have to pick her up so in theory, since it was a little after 5pm, I should get home by quarter of 6...give or take 5 minutes. Sweet. Let's go people, move yer ass. Marky wants a nap. It was still raining at this point but it had lightened up significantly (meaning if I had just waited in my office for another 40 minutes or so I would have avoided getting wet AND stuck in the garage).

Getting out of Cambridge at this time of night is never an easy, pleasant thing to do but for whatever reason (Sox game in town, rain, stupid humans) traffic was just crawling everywhere I went. I abandoned the idea of going my usual way through the tunnel because as this is a school vacation week here in Mass, the traffic over by the Museum of Science is obscene. I made my way over to the Tobin and while trying desperately to remember my mantra of N.O.T.S.M. ("None Of This Shit Matters". I even had custom silicone wristbands made. I'm wearing one right now), I must admit I refused to let quite a few people squeeze in line in front of me. I believe I may have even muttered "Hey, go fuck yourself there Billy." a few times. I admit it isn't very enlightened of me but I wasn't feeling particularly charitable last night. By the time I made it over to Revere Beach I had been driving in stop and go traffic for over an hour and a half. My clutch leg was yelling at me and I was starting to wonder if I'd ever get to use any gears higher than 3rd (short answer: yes, briefly to 4th but only to immediately be forced back down the gearbox to 2nd).

By the time I pulled into the driveway it was a little after 7pm. I had left my desk at just past 4:30. Fuck me. I live a scant 15 miles from my office. That is just a stupid amount of time to go that short distance. I would also like to call out the shitty traffic updates on WBZ radio. All they did was briefly mention that Rt. 1 north was "hung up" back to Sargent St. (for those of you who aren't from this area just know that Rt. 1 is almost always hung up back to Sargent St. so that's not really helpful). What they failed to mention was that no, Rt. 1 was actually backed up all the way onto the Tobin bridge itself. I really think that they don't monitor this road properly and seem to focus more on west and south of Boston. Wow. I just bored myself with that paragraph. Look, the take-home message here is that there are too many people on the road and in my way. If everyone could pull the fuck over and let me get past them I would be eternally grateful and I might even not swear at them as I drive by. No promises though.

N.O.T.S.M.

2010-04-02T10:36:00.000-04:00

Hi there. I've been pretty busy at work lately so my goofing off time has been reduced drastically. I'll spare you the details since they are less than exciting. It's just work stuff anyway. The kitchen project is not actually starting until the end of April. I was a little premature (what's up ladies? oh wait...) in my last post about when this thing would get going. It still looks like it'll get done before the end of May though so that's just lovely. Oh, and we'll have an eat-in kitchen for the first time since moving into the house almost 12 years ago. That'll be schweet. I like having my breakfast in the kitchen.

I'm in a reading slump right now. I need a good book to kind of kick start my brain. I recently re-read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and it .. um .. wasn't as good as I remembered. I read it originally in high school and I thought it was brilliant and funny. This time around I thought it was kinda hacky and the comedy seemed forced. But please keep in mind that I write this fucking bullshit blog thing so you can totally ignore my opinion. Whatever, why are you so mean to me? Why can't I say what I think anymore without you saying things like, "Oh, you think you're so great huh? How many books have you had published? Has this stupid blog been turned into a movie? No? Then FUCK YOU Mark!" Jeez, lay off Billy. My opinion is just that dammit: Mine. I can call out Adams as a not-so-great author and that's perfectly valid. So there. Fuck you, you judgmental cunt.

Ok, then. Got a little side-tracked for a sec. Books. Yes. I need to find some books to read so that I don't get any dumber. Suggestions? I'm not logging into Good Reads or whatever that site is so don't suggest that (I'm looking at YOU Nancy). I'm just too lazy for that. So please do all the work for me. Thanks. Chop chop people...let's get moving.

Blather and bother

2010-03-23T10:37:00.001-04:00

The pantry/kitchen project has become quite real over the last couple of days. We have the cabinets, appliances, and countertops ordered and the contractor is on board as well. Watching TV doesn't do much to alleviate my stress over this situation. We've done all the stuff you're supposed to do when you do major work on your house. We got 4 different contractor guys to come to the house and give us quotes (although only 3 of them actually gave us quotes. The 4th guy was a total goober and I didn't want to work with him anyway). We hemmed and hawed over who we wanted to work with. We tried to remove ourselves emotionally from the project and make it all about business; who could we trust to do the work as planned, on budget and on time. But those goddamn shows like Holmes on Homes have me completely on edge. I just want everything to be done.

Ultimately I think we went with the right guy but if I'm honest, he's also the guy I personally liked the most so there goes that whole "keep yourself distant and keep emotion out of it" angle. Whatevs. I think it'll be fine. Honestly, I have no way of knowing do I? I mean, I've looked him up in the BBB and all that stuff but at some point it becomes a leap of faith. Fingers crossed he doesn't screw us! Nah, it'll be fine (that's me freaking myself out and then me again trying to reassure myself...I have a very complicated inner dialogue). Work starts in a couple weeks and I'm already pulling wallpaper down. It's gonna be messy for a bit.

The hockey play-offs are coming! Yes, I'm still watching hockey. I know, I've been able to keep to a plan for more than 2 weeks. Huzzah! I only wish that the Bruins didn't suck so bad so that when I watch them it doesn't make me yell at the TV. And you have to understand that if I know that you're not playing well, that means you must be playing really badly. Meh, they'll make it in and then get eliminated in the first round. I'm certainly not going to bore you with my analysis of the games or teams here because, well, I don't know what I'm talking about. Buy me a drink some night and I'll talk for hours about hockey and all other subjects I know little to nothing about. It will be my gift to you.

Meanwhile, I wasn't kidding when I asked for peeps to submit a song using the shitty, shitty lyrics I posted a little while back. These are honest-to-goodness crap lyrics written by a 16-year-old Mark sitting on his twin bed in his room in his parent's apartment circa 1986. You can't make this shit up. So have at it ok? Just contact me either via a comment below or ye olde email address and I'll post that shit right here so that all 8 of my readers can hear it. It'll be awesome on a whole new level. C'mon! Do it! You know you want to...or at least you now know I want you to. Pretty please?

Sorry About All of This

2010-03-18T14:38:00.006-04:00

Sometimes I like to pretend that I'm really not just an big oaf so I will venture out of my house and try to get me some of that there culture stuff. I will on occasion make my way to a museum or I'll go to an opening at a gallery (especially when Sistah Soul-Jah is in the show). This story is about a time that I went to see a show my sister had some pieces in at Mass Art (where she did her undergrad work).

I forget what year it was but it must have been around 1994 or so because The Wiff (then The Chick Who Lives In Sin) and I were still living in Allston and neither of us could drive yet (did I mention I didn't get my license until I was 25? I had? ok. Did I mention that The Wiff didn't get hers until she was 28? Yea, we lived in the city...didn't need a car). Aaaaaanyway...We get to the show and it's not a formal gallery or anything but a big open room where all the students were showing their work from the semester. I think it was work they were going to be presenting for a grade or credit. Isn't this a great story so far? Do you want me to go into more detail about what I was wearing that day or which way I faced on the Green Line trolley? Why do you read this stuff anyway? Sorry, why am I abusing you for my lack of story telling abilities? Oh, right, cuz I'm a dick.

We got to the school and walked around the room checking out some of the pieces. There were these partitions set up around the room to create little spaces and nooks where they could display some of the artwork. These temporary walls were set up in big T, H, or L shapes around the room. The key word being "temporary" here. This will become clearer soon. I meandered around the place looking at the wicked good ahhhht and chatting with some of Mary's friends. There was this one really elaborate piece that was a big ol' 5–foot wooden cross (I'm trying to remember if it was a modified door maybe? I forget). The whole front was glass and it had this array of mixed media things inside. It was cool. I was enjoying being around creative people and seeing the stuff they were working on. I was standing next to one of the partition walls talking to someone when I decided to lean up against the wall. Yea...can you see it coming?

In my head this wall was a real wall and not a "temporary" wall so I REEEAAALLLY leaned into it. Did you know that the partitions that Mass Art uses in these situations are not only not designed to have some dude lean up against them but also have fucking wheels? I didn't. But I do now. I leaned on the wall and it immediately scooted backwards a good foot. I did a "Whooooop!!" and almost went over backwards. Then there was this sickening CRRRRRAAAAAAASSHH! and the sound of shattering glass. Everyone in the room did a collective GASP! and looked over to see what had happened. By this time I had recovered from almost landing on my ass and had moved over to the other side of the wall. There, on the ground, surrounded by a halo of broken glass and bits of wood was the 5–foot cross piece. "Oh holy fuck no," I thought to myself. "No, no, no, no." Oh yes, fatty. Yes indeed.

I went over to it and tried to lift it up to put it back. As I lifted it, everything inside of it (including some fragile glass pieces) came tumbling out, smashing onto the floor. It sounded like someone in a restaurant dropping every dish in the place. The instinct to "run, run away, quick! before someone sees you" was so overpowering that I probably looked like I was going to bolt at any second for awhile there. I was devastated but I was in much better shape than this poor piece of art. People came rushing over to help but there was little if anything that they could do. I kept asking who the artist was and if they were in the room. I just wanted so desperately to evaporate into the the air and not been seen anymore. Apparently the artist was not there yet but was going to come later. Oh boy. This is gonna suck.

I literally had no idea what I should do. Here I had just annihilated this person's submission to this show and they weren't even there to yell at me (it was back up against the wall but all of the contents were still spewed out on the floor in vague shape of a cross. People were kicking pieces of glass over into a pile so that they would be easier to clean up). Everyone in the place was being soooo nice to me actually. "Oh, they should have secured that better," they said. "Don't worry about it." WHAT? Were you not here when that fucking thing hit the floor? My ears are still ringing for shit's sake. I knew one thing for sure was that I couldn't hang around and wait for this person to make an entrance. I felt like I was going to throw up or cry or both (shut up Lisi). There was a guest-book at the show so I went over and I took up a whole page with my rambling apology. I left all my contact information and said that I'd pay for the damage or do a trade or something for fucking up so royally. I don't know how I thought I'd be paying for anything thinking back on it. I was making probably $10 an hour or so back then.

I went back over to the friends of the artist and apologized again for the hundredth time and they said "Don't worry about it" for the hundredth time and then I slinked out of there with The Wiff in tow. I remember walking over to the train station and sitting there waiting in silence. She didn't say a word but she put her hand on my knee as if to say "There, there my big clumsy dope of a boyfriend. It'll be all right." And it was eventually. But at that moment I thought I had become the most hated person in the world. The person never contacted me about the smashed cross so I guess I'm off the hook. Lesson learned: Determine the structural rigidity of a wall before attempting to lean against said wall, especially if there is a super-fragile glass-front cross propped up against it on the other side.

Why Did the Man Do That With the Puck Thing?

2010-03-11T12:33:00.001-05:00

As I have mentioned before, I'm not a sports fan. But during the winter olympics I watched a bunch of hockey games and I have to say that I was enjoying myself. So I've decided to give watching NHL hockey a try. Why not right? I mean, it's a fast-paced game with some amazing feats of athleticism and the occasional fight. As it turns out I have Versus and NESN on my cable system so I can watch hockey games during the season. Nice. A couple nights ago I switched over to the channel to watch the game that was on (a real yawner unfortunately between the Dallas Stars and the Washington Capitals) and it became clear very early on that I have no idea what's going on. It just looked like organized chaos and dudes crashing into each other.

The next night I watched part of the game between the Flyers and ... I forget who the other team was. Ok, clearly I have not been hooked yet but I'm working on it. This game was a lot more interesting though and I was fortunate in that during the 2nd period The Wiff came home and sat down to watch with me. I say I was fortunate because The Wiff actually used to play hockey and likes to ice skate (whereas the last time I tried to skate I stepped out on the ice and fell immediately backwards, slamming my head on the ice hard enough to see stars. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the stands staring at my shoes and trying not to throw up). She's more of a man than I am basically. I proceeded to ask her question after question regarding the plays. "What's 'icing' mean?" "Why can't that guy come over that line thing?" "What does it mean when the ref guy holds his arms out like that?" Et Cetera. By using the pause and rewind feature on our DVR thing she was able to show me some of what the hell all that skating around and hitting each other was all about (or "aboot" Hey-OHHH, Canada! In your face!). By the way, how the hell did we ever watch TV before the invention of Tivo and the DVR? I get annoyed at my car radio now because I can't just rewind it when I've missed the traffic update for the third time.

The Wiff's hockey knowledge has waned over the years (probably been replaced by knitting and crafty-craft-craft-craft stuff) and there were gaps in her teachings. It was obvious that I'm going to have to look elsewhere if I am to completely man-up and become a hockey fan. Last night I went out with some peeps from work and I mentioned my new sports initiative. One of them mentioned that I should wait until the playoffs to start watching as the games are more exciting. That may be true but I'd like to at least have watched a few regular season games so that I might understand some of what the hell those guys on my TV are trying to do. I'll do an update on this in a few months to see if in fact I have bailed or if I'm on my way to becoming a true hockey guy. I'm just not going to try to skate anytime soon.

Do I Really Look Like That?

2010-03-07T16:53:00.007-05:00

Back in January I posted this story about a particularly embarrassing episode from my yooth. The overall gist of the story was how I became a giant baby when I got lost at age 15 in one of the safest neighborhoods in the Boston area. Long story short, after I posted the story I asked some friends to submit their interpretation of my breakdown on that faithful afternoon. I got these entries and I think they're all hilarious. Please to be enjoying:

by Linda Bean Pardee (a.k.a. ScurvyAnn)

by Crispin Wood

by Dave Blanchette (sorry about the watermark thing)

by Dave Lisi

I frickin' love these! Thanks to Linda Bean P., Dave B., Crispin, and Dave L. for doing this for me. Who knows? Maybe this can become a feature here at Flunky Boy? Seriously, I'm thrilled that they all sent me these.

I used to write song lyrics back in high school and I had a little notebook with pages of them (along with all kinds of doodles and sketches). I don't remember what happened to them but I think I threw them all out one day out of embarrassment. I sooooooo wish I hadn't because I'm sure they were all unintentionally hilarious; all full of teen angst and posturing. But during the Great Purge of 2009 I found a sheet of paper with a song written on it. It didn't have a date on it but I think it must have been right around 1985/1986-ish. When I wrote it I probably thought it was the balls but hoo-boy it totally isn't. I'm posting it here in public in the hopes that maybe, just maybe someone will take it and make a recording of the song.

Calm Before the Storming

You will get out of my face now
You will leave, I don't care how
This has been a bad day
Leave, you know the way

You will close the door behind you
You will allow me the peace I'm due
This is not open for debate
Leave now before it's too late

Get out
Get out while I'm calm enough
Leave
Leave while you are able
This is not a bluff

You will be the focus of my violence
You'll agree that retreat makes sense
This is your final warning
This is the calm before the storming
This is the calm before the storming

Wow...Yea, I was serious about that. I meant every line. Holy hell. "Leave while you are able, this is not a bluff". Um, yea it is. You hadn't been in a fight since the 3rd grade and you LOST that one, chubby. Anyway, if you want to record a version of this and send it to me, I'll gladly post it up here. Again, thanks to all my peeps who sent in the entries for this post. You all rock!

Pahlay Vooo Frenchy?

2010-03-02T13:18:00.006-05:00

I'm a pretty lazy guy generally and I think it's only now that I'm officially an old fuck it's starting to dawn on me how many things I've just let go (and I don't just mean my fat ass either. HEY-OHHH!). One of the things that I've always wanted was to be fluent in another language. I know a bunch of people who not only know more than one language (sometimes several languages) but can switch between them so effortlessly that it blows my tiny mind. I guess cuz I don't have that skill set that I had assumed that it would be more of a huge gear shift to go from say Spanish to English or Hindi or whatever than it seems to be for them.

Back in high school I took 4 years of French. Why French? I don't know. I guess I'll just point out that most of what I do is not really very well thought out at all. My older sisters had taken French so I went with that. I think my younger sister also took French but I can't remember. And so, after 4 years of high school French, did I walk away wowing the babes with my frenchy-french-french talk? Nope. I can kinda understand someone speaking French as long as they speak slowly and with a Malden accent. Otherwise, I'm pretty much lost. Why didn't I take Spanish for jeebus' sake? I don't blame anyone for this other than myself by the way. I'm not here to slag off on the wonderful free-ish public education that I received. They tried their best but I'm a giant dope and the information just couldn't find a hold in my noggin. My brain was too occupied with girls and why they wouldn't talk to me (hint: I was terrified of them and high school girls can smell fear).

A couple of years ago after getting tired of listening to me lament not learning a language, the Wiff bought me that Rosetta Stone software for my birthday. She got me the Spanish version and I was totally psyched as I had completely bought into their ads on TV. "Used by blah-dee-blah to do yadda yadda." It sounded good enough for me. But have I used it? Um, no. Not really. I started to for about two weeks (even going to the extent of scheduling time at night for my "classes") but I soon got distracted by the interwebs or whatever and I started skipping classes. It was like college all over again. I'm the worst fucking student ever. Now whenever I go into my little computer room upstairs at home the box sits there on the shelf and silently judges me. I can hear you Rosetta Stone (but I can't understand what it's saying cuz it's in Spanish. Zing!). I know I'm a slacker. I get it.

This is not the only example either. There's the time that I thought I'd really like to learn Flash so I went and bought the suite (this when Macromedia still owned it and the motherfucker was NOT cheap). Again, I set up times to teach myself since at the time I had been laid off from ZDNet (this was what? 2002 maybe). This was really the most opportune time to teach myself this software but again I just stopped pursuing it. I dunno why exactly. It's not like I got super busy or anything. I just lost interest. Now I have this expensive software package calling me out as a punk-ass every time I open the top drawer to my desk.

Did I mention the bass guitar? Of course I have. My friend Gary gave me his old bass late last year in the hopes that he'd help re-kindle my interest in learning how to play (and then perhaps we'd get together in his living room with some other guys and play songs while pretending that we're not a bunch of ridiculous middle-aged dorks). It worked for about a month or so. I went out and picked up a strap, a cord and some picks and set out to teach myself how to play. I had an old bass amp that I dragged out and plugged in with "learn bass guitar" video on YouTube playing in the background. I don't know why but I didn't even get through the first hour of practice. Pathetic. Why can't I commit to a hobby? What is that all about? Quite frankly I'm surprised I've kept this blog thing going for as long as I have.

So this is me saying that I'm going to pick up where I left off on these activities and start over. I don't have kids or even a dog that needs walking so in theory I have plenty of time to learn. I think I need to get out of the "this is school" mindset and just do it cuz it's fun to learn new shit. Let's see how long I can keep this up (insert hacky Viagra joke here...HEY-OHH!).

All the Thiiiiings Come Back to Yooooooooou

2010-03-01T14:33:00.002-05:00

I was listening to ye olde iPod just now and a song came on that elicited a very strong "Oh god, I don't ever want to hear that song again" reaction. The song in question? "Dream On" by Aerosmith. Yea, I know. Shutup, I'm an old person. I think Aerosmith is one of those bands that should have broken up in 1977; maybe with the untimely death of Steven Tyler so that we would not have to see pictures of his old lady-lookin' ass anymore. Dude looks like an octogenarian.

So what songs do you NEVER have to hear again? I'm gonna list out a bunch that are currently stinking up my iPod that I have to purge. I'm sure I'm omitting quite a few that I would skip but these ones came up recently and my short term memory isn't what it used to be. Here they are in no particular order:

Mr. Cab Driver - Lenny Kravitz (y'know, I pretty much never need to hear another song from this guy again. Consider yourself deleted Lenny).
Smashing Pumpkins - I Am One (God, I think I'm going to blow them out of the 'pod as well. If I feel like listening to them I'll just tune in The Silversun Pickups and avoid Billy Corgan all together).
Jesus Christ Pose - Soundgarden (yes, I know I said that I was done with them before...but I'm like that friend you have that always forgives the abusive spouse. "Aw, she said she's sorry. I'm sure it'll be different now." It never is though is it? Fuck you Cornell, you sexy cunt).
Paper Airplanes - M.I.A. (ok, it's catchy. Move along)
Crazy - Gnarls Barkley (I love Cee-lo and Danger Mouse but this damn song finds the base of my spine and nests there, eating away at my brain. Out, damn spot!)

Looks like I have some work to do...leave examples of the songs that you would like to avoid in the comments area.

You Shall Not Pass

2010-02-28T13:06:00.003-05:00

I don't go out to see shows very often anymore. Back in the day (oh man, did I just write that? I did. And I did it completely sans irony too) it was a given that from about Thursday on through the weekend I'd be out at the local rock clubs watching bands. I'd sit in the back of the store where I worked and scour the local papers (usually The Phoenix) looking for shows to go to. I knew a bunch of people in bands so I'd see if they were playing or if there was a band I wanted to check out. One difficulty was the fact that I didn't drive and my apartment was in Jamaica Plain. This meant that I'd have to gauge how my evening was going and whether or not I had to hustle to make the last train home or not. Taking a cab somewhere was a luxury back then and reserved for...uh, special occasions. Let's just say I took the train a lot :-( .

The mere fact that I worked in a copy shop gave me an insight into who'd be playing on the weekend. Guys would come in (it was always guys coming in too...never the hot female bass player/keyboardist) to get copies made of the flyer for whatever band they were in. These guys had slaved over this frickin' flyer and were usually the most anal of all copy customers. "Dude, how come the motorcycle that I cut out of a magazine and then pasted on this drawing of me with my Telecaster looks all faded out?" It looks that way because ... well because this is just a fucking copy machine and not a giant 4-color printing press. Besides, no one is going to give a shit about the slightly faded chopper or the fact that your drummer's name is misspelled as they throw your flyer out or staple their own flyer on top of yours on the telephone pole. And no, I don't think that using goldenrod paper will get you signed.

Going to see shows back then meant going to a smokey bar crammed with people and the risk that your shoes were probably going to end up with beer on them (or something far worse depending on the scenario). There's an art and an etiquette to maneuvering through a crowd at a club without pissing off a lot of people and/or getting too annoyed yourself. The main thing to employ is politeness. The fact that you're shuffling sideways probably dipping your shoulder slightly and saying "excuse me" and "sorry" every two seconds lets those whom you are shoving out of your way know that you're not an asshole, you just want to get by. Even if the person you're trying to move past is totally blocking and being a douche, the onus is on you as the person who needs to pass through to be polite. Most people understand this process and will accommodate your passage. There are the occasional assholes who get all riled up but they tend to be rare. I have to admit I've used the ol' "rigid elbow" move on a few jackasses in my day. Basically that means as the person who is annoying you tries to squeeze by for the 50th time, you lock your elbow and prop it so that as they pass, they get a nice taste of the bony end of it. It's stupid really but it used to make me feel better back in 1991.

I do still go out on occasion and on Friday the 19th I went out with the Wiff, Sistah Souljah and Dee to see Ad Frank and The Fast Easy Women play upstairs at The Middle East. The show was great and I love seeing them play but now that I'm an old person I have some, let's call them reservations about going to see a band play. I used to go right up front at shows so that I could really get a good view and also to maximize the amount of damage done to my hearing (earplugs? we don't need no stinking earplugs! That was my mentality back then. Actually, it wasn't even that I thought that earplugs were "uncool" or whatever, it was more that I never even considered using them. I now have a lovely high-pitched sound permanently reminding me of how dumb I am). Now that I'm far more fragile and cranky I tend to go to the back of the club and find a place to stand where my back is up against a wall or pole or something so that when I get tired I can lean against it. But here's the kicker. It now seems that no matter where I stand in a club it is a traffic area.

The Middle East Upstairs is one of the few clubs that I used to go to that is still standing (R.I.P. Bunratty's, The Rat, The Channel, The Abbey, et al.) and I hope it doesn't go away (ok, TT's is pretty much the same too). The entrance is all the way in the back of this long skinny bar and once you go through the door, it's like your standing on a Green Line trolley on the T. Everyone gets jammed up in the doorway waiting to get to the bar and the little wall that separates this area from where the bands play doesn't help the situation at all. After standing in this area for a bit I made my way to the back of the room (by the soundboard) to check out the bands. Almost instantly it became apparent that this is going to be a major thoroughfare of peeps going from the bar back over to the far side of the club where the toilets are and back again. After the 100th time someone bumped into me I moved over between a couple of trash barrels and pushed them ever so slightly forward so that I had a buffer zone.

I thought that politeness has taken a backseat somewhat at shows but that's not really true. I think what's happened is that since I don't go out as much as I used to, I'm more sensitive to the near constant bumping and people standing too close. I'm old and far more cranky than I used to be so I notice that stuff more. I just have to remember that and get over myself. Ultimately I had a good time at the show and I was glad that I had gotten my sorry ass out of the house even if I did end up with beer stained shoes and gum on the back of my shirt (seriously...there must have been a wad of gum on the back wall and I leaned up against it for 3 hours...awesome).

Get Offa My Foot, You Little Freak

2010-02-18T12:58:00.003-05:00

Well, it looks like what I had planned to post will be delayed a couple days. No worries. I hope to have it up by Monday (or maybe Tuesday).

In the meantime I want to address a pretty serious topic. Sexual harassment. Over the years there have been a number of famous cases of sexual harassment in the media from Clarence Thomas to Bill Clinton and the workplace environment has been drastically changed by the introduction of sexual harassment policies and laws. The public's awareness of this issue has also changed the way that victims are treated making it easier for those hurt by these acts to seek justice and support. However, what if you're being sexually harassed and/or battered by your own cat? This is my difficult story.

Our cat Mugsy died last year. During his life he did his best to be the tiniest diplomat in the world by working tirelessly to unite our feline-dominated household. His work in struggling to break down the long-standing sectarian turf battle between Molly, who's territory is the Second Floor (with her headquarters located in our bedroom), and Morticia who runs the First Floor from her vantage point of whatever chair she decides is most advantageous at the moment (usually this depends on which seat has been recently vacated by a human's bum and is now quite warm and toasty). This conflict has been raging for years now and although he never quite got them to sit down and hash out a cease-fire (or a cease-hissing/spitting at each other), his very presence bestowed a certain level of calm and dare I say civility amongst the rest of the furry little assholes. When Oliver was introduced to the household 5 years ago, it was Mugsy who tried to help him ease into what can be a potentially highly volatile dynamic.

As Mugsy's health declined and he became less active in the day-to-day political negotiations, the tension between the First Floor and the Second Floor factions escalated. After all, the food and water as well as the access to the basement (where we keep the piddle-palaces) are all located in what clearly is Morticia's territory. This area had long since been designated as a DMZ but it was a very fleeting and tense peace. Since his death, clashes in this region have intensified including minor terrorist attacks being observed in the form of unprovoked tail swatting and barfing directly into the water dish. Sources close to the Morticia camp indicate that Oliver may be a not-so-secret sympathizer with the Second Floor tribe. Mugsy would never have stood for such derision. In his mind, Oliver was the clear choice for successor to his legacy of peace-keeping. But this, sadly, does not seem to be what Oliver wants. The number of perceived infractions from Molly on Morticia's turf have gone up significantly since Mugsy's passing.

My praise of Mugsy and his own death have made the decision to share with all of you the dark side of his personality all the more difficult. I can no longer overlook his flaws. I don't know how to sugarcoat this so I'm just going to come out and say it: Mugsy was a catnip spray addict and serial foot rapist. There, now the truth can be told. I loved Mugsy and maybe that's why I never confronted him and told him how his actions made me feel. It made me feel dirty and it kinda tickled. This is how these "espisodes" went down. When I went to bed, Mugsy was usually curled into a little ball near the footboard. I would slip under the covers which would disturb his slumber and he'd walk around the bed for a couple of minutes before settling back down near my feet (usually using them as a pillow). And then, not every night but often enough, he'd wake up and with a weird primal cry he'd mount my foot and proceed to bang the fucking shit out of it. And this from a dude with absolutely no balls at all. This would wake me up and it may take a couple of seconds for me to process that my cat is furiously humping my foot before I'd shove him off me. This is where it turns really ugly. He didn't care at all. He'd just get right back on that horse and continue to rape my poor tootsies. Granted, the Wiff and I were enablers on the catnip spray front but that does not excuse his abuse of it.

Please excuse the shitty quality of the above video. It was taken by a crappy camera in low light conditions. It is basically my attempt to capture Mugsy playing on a chair while he was stoned out of his gourd. He had rolled himself off the chair a couple times previous to my video taping him and I was glad to capture his most embarrasing and from the sound of it, most unprepared-for tumble. He sobered up after this one and pretended that he meant to do it all along. I think he bruised his pride a bit.

Since I have forgiven Mugsy for this transgression (and subsequently outed him in this public forum) and he has passed on to meet his maker (or more specifically to reside in ashy form on our mantel in a wooden box), I assumed that the abuses would stop. But a disturbing trend has begun and I refuse to play the role of victim again. Oliver has been sexually harassing me. This started with "innocent" arm licking. He would come over when I was lying down and lick the inside of my arm while "making biscuits". I thought it was cute if not someone painful (the dude can really get into it and if we haven't clipped his nails recently his little talons can fuck your shit up) and relatively harmless. But lately he's been trying to shove his ass in my face just before and right after the arm licking thing. And last night I noticed that the little pervert had a fucking boner. Seriously. He did the licking thing, stood up, swung his butt around and into my grill and then sat down with his legs open. And there, standing at attention like a fucking evil gum stimulator from hell was his frickin' cat wang. "Oh DUUUUDE!" I exclaimed and tossed him off (ooh, poor choice of words..) the bed. "That's it," I said. "I'm filing a complaint."

I have not yet been able to find a proper authoritative source to whom I can submit my complaint. Would it be the SPCA perhaps? Would they offer some relief from the onslaught of cat dong that Oliver is trying to rub on me? Can they tell him to stop trying to shove his goddamn asshole in my face? Is there some recourse I can take? I'm just saying for the record that I will not stand for being sexually battered by my male cats anymore. This shit ends now.

Goddamn, I Lead a Dull Life

2010-02-16T11:11:00.000-05:00

I haven't updated in a bit. You know why I haven't updated in a bit? It's cuz I don't actually DO anything worth mentioning on a weekly basis. You know what I did this weekend? I waited for a contractor to come to bid on our re-vamped pantry project, I watched TV, I probably farted a lot, and I sat in front of my computer trying desperately to think of something interesting to write about. But the thing is, I'm genuinely not that interesting. I get up, go to work, do work stuff, come home, think about the work stuff I forgot to do when I was at work, watch TV, go to bed and start the same shit over again the next day. The weekends are a variance on the same theme. All you have to do is add some more sleep time and considerably more TV watching and you have a typical weekend for me. Maybe I'll toss in a couple loads of laundry just to justify my existence. It's dull, people. Dull, dull, dull.

I'm not complaining that my life is dull, oh no. I actually kinda like it. I don't have kids so I don't have to be all that responsible or occupied when I'm at home. My job doesn't usually interfere with my off-work time (it will on occasion and I've been known to stress over work stuff but for the most part I'm able to separate the two), so I don't often have that problem. I don't really have much in the way of things I absolutely have to get done nor do I have any real hobbies. I do have a list of shit that I really SHOULD be doing and/or completing (painting the spare bedroom, organizing the attic, fixing this and that; boring shit really) but since I have no discernible deadline for said tasks, I'm apt to let them slide. I'm lazy at the core of my being I believe. No, seriously, I am.

But I have assigned myself the task of updating this blog right? What I try to do is update it at least once a week but I just looked at the number of posts and clearly I've slipped a few times. But sometimes I update a couple times a week so I figure that must even out eventually right? Ideally I'd like to post stuff that is interesting and hopefully funny or whatever but I'm telling you...nothing interesting or funny is going on right now. I sat in front of the computer on Saturday just staring at the screen with nothing to say. I thought about maybe talking about the whole why I didn't finish college thing but that just bummed me out a bit so I nixed that idea (I'll prolly still do it eventually though. It's too fucked up not to talk about). I downloaded some podcasts to see if maybe that would inspire me with a topic but all it did was make me sit there and play Snood for several hours. See? Lazy.

But I do have something planned for later this week (oooh, a potential 2-post week! How fucking amazing!). I asked some friends if they would submit their interpretation of this story where I ended up crying on the corner in Brookline. I've got a couple drawings so far and I've seen drafts of an animated gif that almost made me spit coffee all over my keyboard. So I'm hoping all of these will be ready by the end of this week. Oh, and today is the Wiff's birthday. I got her some PJ's (cuz she loves those kind of things) and a couple of pieces from The Enormous Tiny Art Show up in Portsmouth, NH. Other than that, there's not much to report. I'm just gonna go back to work now.

B.F.C.

2010-02-07T18:15:00.000-05:00

Back in December I went up to New Hampshire with a couple of my friends (Matt and Adam) to this place where you can brew your own beer. When we were there, it was put to me to come up with a label for the beer. The recipe we had chosen was called "HopsZilla" and so I thought that maybe I'd do something along the lines of a bottle of beer destroying Tokyo or whatever. That seemed boring so we decided that our version of this beer would need to have its own name. We spent the rest of the time there brainstorming.

And we came up with a doozy. What is it? I'll let the label do the talking (yes, I know it is a terrible photoshop job. I don't care):

Big Frothy Cock: Drain one tonight

I know. It's genius. Try saying the name without giggling. Try using it in a sentence: "Hey, can you grab me a Big Frothy Cock?" or "Would you like some of my Big Frothy Cock?" or "Mmmm, this Big Frothy Cock is delicious!" I'm telling you, it is hands-down the best name for a beer ever. I'm 15 years old apparently. And now I'm thirsty, I think I'll have some Big Frothy Cock. Let's see Google filter this website now!

Move Along...Nothing to See Here

2010-02-02T15:32:00.006-05:00

I sometimes get visitors to ye olde blog who have clearly come here by mistake. They'll be searching for something on the interwebs and Google will send them my way. Personally I hope they stay and read my blatherings but what usually happens is they'll bail immediately once they realize this isn't the site they were hoping to find. Earlier today I got what is currently my favorite misdirected visitor. Click on this picture to check out what this guy was surfing for:

What the fuck kind of hyper-specific porn is that? I like the terrible typing "eussian" and "on a room". But rather than judge this poor Indian gentleman (you know it's gotta be a dude) for his wanting to see a Super Russian lady of age 40 who just happens to like to fuck a boy on a room, I'm more interested in why Google thinks that out of 658 results (which is a lot for this I'm thinking), my little blog matched perfectly. And what's that Trent Reznor sex link? Hmm. I'm curious now. I also like how Google didn't even bother to offer help like they usually do with the "Did you mean.." alternate spelling suggestions. I think this time they just threw up their hands and went with what he typed as gospel.

So, thanks Google for sending people to my site but if it's going to be this kind of bait and switch tactic I think it may end up turning them off in the end. That is unless I add some Super Russian ladies or whatever "bajar gratis kazaa musical sex" is. Lemme google it.

Next Stop: Not Where You Live

2010-01-30T17:18:00.004-05:00

I was going to do another installment of the 5-Song Shuffle but instead I'm going to talk about the time a strange man drove me home. This is a story I've told to people before but this is the first time I'm going to tell what actually happened.

It was 1985 and I was a dorky 15-year-old kid who had gotten into collecting comic books (wow, I bet you never saw that coming). My friends and I would travel to Allston from Malden to go to New England Comics (which at the time was on Brighton Ave in an office building but now they're around the corner on Harvard St. They later opened a store right in Malden Square in the old Jordan Marsh building. That store was the shit. They're still in Malden on the same street but further up). Every Saturday we'd take two separate buses and spend all our money on comics. I was obsessed with Daredevil and I was trying to get all the back issues (especially the Frank Miller ones from the early 80's). Usually after we had all our comics we'd then go over to Herrell's Ice Cream to get a "smooshed-in" ice cream. For those not in the know, a smooshed-in is the ice cream flavor of your choice with any number of other goodies folded into it. I know that now there's Cold Stone Creamery but back then this was a revolutionary idea to a fat kid like me. Basically those Saturdays when we went into town were all kinds of awesome.

That being said, it also took all goddamn day to get to and from Allston on public transportation. None of us were old enough to drive and in the winter, it was a real bitch to be standing on the bus platform at Sullivan Station waiting for the bus to show up. That place is like an evil wind tunnel. So when on a lovely summer afternoon my oldest sister Theresa (a.k.a. "Tree") invited me to go with her and HER friends into Boston to go buy records and comic books I jumped at the chance. Not only for the fact that my college-going older sister was acknowledging my existence (which was cool enough) but also cuz they were going to Newbury St., specifically Newbury Street Comics. Up until this point my record-buying experience had been limited to places I could either walk or ride my bike to without too much effort. This meant my choices were pretty limited. Going to there would mean that not only could I buy comics but also music!

Growing up in Malden meant that most of my MBTA experience was limited to buses or the Orange Line. And not even the whole length of the Orange Line either..I'm talking just from Malden Center to Downtown Crossing. My friends and I used to jump on the train to go to this cheesy store called "Stairway to Heaven" (no, they were not kidding) where we would buy posters of our favorite musicians and/or half naked women. The store also sold other things like bumper stickers, rock t-shirts, incense sticks, crappy skull rings and the like. In other words: we loved it. But it was a rare thing for me to transfer to other train lines. I stuck with what I knew. My navigation skills were terrible and I didn't like new places (they have improved now but I still get very nervous if I'm going somewhere unfamiliar).

In order to get to the store it meant we would have to transfer from the Orange to the Green line. Yikes! The Green line has a buncha different trains that went to god-knows-where and if you hopped on the wrong one, you would be raped by horrible people and end up dead in a dumpster behind a sex shop. Or at least that's what my mother had led me to believe. But I was with my sis and she'd been going this way for ages so I'd be totally safe! I just tagged along and tried to not be annoying which for a 15-year-old boy is really hard to do. We got to the store with no drama and it was better than I had hoped. I'm all jaded and curmudgeonly now but I can still remember going into what (back then anyway) was a for-realsies record store. Now-a-days Newbury Comics has a bunch of locations and is leaning more to the mainstream than they used to, but back in 1985? It was my new favorite place (side note: my 11-year-old nephew Cam has recently discovered Newbury Comics himself. He loves going in there because for a kid that age, it's like heaven).

I spent all of my money (this will come into play soon) on comics and some cassette tapes of local bands who's names I liked (I can't remember the names now though). I was totally over-stimulated. We all left the store and spilled out onto the super busy street. There were people everywhere and all of them were way cooler than anyone I'd seen in Malden. I was totally having the best day ever and all because my sister wanted to hang out with me. Awesome! We walked down the street a bit and I was talking to one of her friends about the cassette I just bought. He was telling me how he'd seen that band (!!) and how I should get this other band's tape cuz he thought I'd like it better. Wow! Thanks! I'm being included in a college-age conversation! Then Tree came over and told me that they were going to go grab some lunch and it was time for me to go home. I'm sorry, what?!

I was crushed. I don't mean to sound like a big baby but c'mon now people...I'm TOTALLY a big baby. Have you not learned this by now? She asked me if I had enough for train fare which I did but .. can't I just come with you guys? No, I don't have any money left for lunch. Ok, fine. I'll go. Just point me in the direction of the train station and I'll be on my way. Hmph. And she did. She told me EXACTLY what to do and where to go. I went to the train station and looked at the signs. Tree had sent me to the Inbound side and to me that made absolutely no sense. I knew from my years of experience on the Orange line that when I'm in Boston and I want to take the train home, I should get on the Outbound train. Perfect logic no? No. Not really.

What I failed to understand that in the mysterious and wondrous world of the Green line is that in order to get back to my beloved Orange line and ultimately the apartment in Malden, I would need to go inbound to get to the outbound train. I know. It's totally fucking counter-intuitive. This is why I said to myself there is NO WAY I should get on the inbound train. I went over to the outbound side of the station all confidently, thinking Tree doesn't know what she's talking about. She's so out of touch with Boston (she had been going to college in Pennsylvania) that she doesn't even understand how to use the T.

The trolley pulled into the station and I got on board. I found a place to stand near the doors and off we went. Everything was going smoothly. I had some new comics to read, I had a couple of cassettes to listen to and I was on my way back home. I had even gotten over being dismissed from lunch. Let me just check to see what station we're at here...hmmm, that name doesn't look familiar. I'm sure it's fine though. Park Station must be the next one. I'll get off there and go catch the Orange line train to Malden. The train continued on and suddenly we came out of the tunnel and we were on the surface street. Whoa! What the fuck is this all about? I certainly don't remember seeing this on the way INTO the city. None of this looks familiar. I stood there unable to think about how to fix the situation. The train made stop after stop and finally I thought "get off the train now!!" So without saying a word to the trolley driver (are they called engineers?) I jumped off at the next stop which was Brookline Village. It didn't occur to me until years later (seriously) that I could have just talked to the driver and told him that I had gotten on the wrong train. I'm sure he would have just given me a transfer or something to get back onto the correct train.

Instead of walking over to an MBTA employee, or a fellow commuter or anyone really, I just started walking. Where was I? Where am I going? How am I supposed to get home now? I literally had no money on me. Not even enough to use a pay phone. I just started walking down the street and tried not to panic. I also didn't have a watch so I could only guess as to what time it was and that's when I realized that aside from my sister Theresa, no one knows that I'm in Boston. My mom would be coming home from work soon and she'd flip out if I was gone with no explanation. There was a couple of people walking towards me and so I asked them where the nearest police station was. That's a good idea right? I'm a lost kid miles from home, I should totally go to the police. They'll sort this out for me. The people I chose to ask were not from Brookline and one of them said that he thought the police station was behind me on Washington St. (it is). I thanked them and went in the complete opposite direction up Harvard St. No, I don't know why. I just did. I wonder what they thought about that.

I continued up Harvard St. not really understanding why and not having any idea of what to do next. I was in full panic mode by this time. And then, at the corner of Harvard and School streets. I lost my shit. I just started blubbering. Imagine that you're walking down a lovely tree-lined street in a busy area bustling with people and shops and you come across a chubby 15-year-old kid standing on the corner crying. You'd totally cross the street to avoid him right? You might even think some less than progressive thoughts about his masculinity (or perhaps you aren't an ass like me). But one brave soul did just the opposite of that. This guy in a business suit came right up to me and said "Hey, what's the matter?" I fucking unleashed all my panicky freak-out sobbing on him. "I-I-I'm l-l-lost! I don't k-k-know where I am! I have no m-money to get h-home! My m-mom is g-gonna kill me!" And this dude, rather than laughing in my face at what a total bitch I was being, said "Hold on. I can take you home. You want to call home first and let them know you're all right?" I nodded with tears rolling down my face."Ok, my office is right in this building. Let's go in and you can call your mom. Then I'll take you home." Did I mention that I was a sophomore in high school? Yea...

I'd like to take a second here to point out that I had no fear of this guy and no red flags came up. What I don't get is he did not offer to take me to the police station or anything like that. If I was confronted with the same scenario as an adult, that is the number one thing that I would have done. Actually, the number one thing I'd have done is to keep on walking the fuck by the kid in the first place. I just don't like drama y'see. But this guy was totally into helping me. We went into his building and he let me use a phone to call home. I called and my sister Mary picked up. My mom wasn't home from work yet (it was probably around 3 o'clock or so I'm guessing). I said to Mary that I'm coming home now and she was like "Ok, whatever." Ah, sibling love. See, she didn't react how I wanted her to react (something along the lines of "OMG! I'm sooooo glad to hear that you're safe after all you've been through! When will you be home dearest brother?! Hurry!!") because she had no idea about the terrifying adventure that I had been on all afternoon. I ended the call and my new hero said "Are you ready to go?" Yessir, I sure am.

I don't remember what kind of car he had but I do remember that it was a new one. It was so much cooler than the cars my family had (a 1973 Vega and a 1978 Plymouth Volare station wagon that used to be a Boston cab...sweet rides indeed). We got in and he said that he knew how to get to Malden but I'd have to direct him to the house. It was at this moment that I first realized I was now in the car of a complete stranger. This stranger had promised that he would be taking me home but I really had no idea if he was lying or not. We drove off and the combination of having no idea where I was and my own poor navigation skills left me really disoriented. I'm sure we talked about stuff but I can't remember a word of it. We drove and drove for what seemed like a really long time but suddenly I started to recognize stuff. Hey! There's that place that's kinda near my house! I was able to direct him right to my front door. He pulled up and we said our goodbyes. I got out and went into the apartment. What? What'd you think happened? The dude just took me home, just like he promised. He didn't even ask to meet my parents or anything like that. He just dropped me off, and drove away. I don't even remember his name.

Here's where I caught hell. My mom was furious at me and my sister Theresa for "abandoning" me in Boston (she really didn't but there was no arguing with mom). She asked me how I got home. I thought about it for a second and figured that telling her I willingly got into a car with some guy that I don't know would have pushed her over the edge. She was looking at me waiting for my answer and I said "A Brookline cop drove me home. He lives in Medford." It was as near perfect an answer that I could muster and she believed me. The thing is, I've been telling people that very same lie for 25 years. That includes the Wiff. So, this is me clearing up a story that no one cared about in the first place except me. There was no Brookline cop who lives in Medford who drove me home in a cop car. I happened to stumble across an honest-to-goodness good Samaritan who took pity on me and helped me.

So why lie about this for so long? I don't know. Why come clean about something so innocuous after all this time? Well, believe it or not, that lie has been bothering me for years. I don't like lying. I try my best to be upfront and honest with my friends and family and this relatively small lie seemed to undermine my whole philosophy. Sounds a little corny or perhaps disingenuous but I'm serious. It's important to me that the stories I tell are truthful and that one wasn't.

The Original House of Style

2010-01-26T22:04:00.004-05:00

So on Tuesday, January 12th, the Wiff and I set out on our trip from Kinsale to Galway. The rain was really coming down hard and the wind was gusting to gale force. We made our way up the now snow-free driveway of our hotel and then back down the access road into Kinsale itself. It was unfortunate that the weather was as inclement as it was because Kinsale looked really interesting. The roads were pretty empty as most people were probably already at work by the time we set out. We thought about maybe going into a couple of shops in town but honestly that wind driven rain didn't look too inviting. It was almost coming down sideways. We're going to have to come back in the spring or summer so that we can really explore this town.

The roads were much improved with the occasional exception of some of the hills. Due to the rain itself and the melting snow there was some standing water on some of the roads and on a couple of the hills the water made the road look like a mini river. Luckily the little Prius retained its composure and we got to Galway without much incident. We only got lost in Galway itself for a little bit (and yes, the Wiff sorted it by going to a fire station and asking for directions...honestly I'd still be driving around in circles on the outskirts of the city this very moment if I was left to my own devices) and when we found the hotel I was happy to find out that yes, they did have parking. We weren't positive that this place would since it was right down by the docks and space is a bit tight.

That first night after a nap we went downstairs to the hotel bar. We sat at the bar and chatted to the bartender Mike. I really liked the atmosphere in the place. During the week I guess the hotel has a lot of business people staying there (and there was a party of peeps who were definitely having the business meeting/dinner at one of the tables) but the vibe wasn't too formal at all. The food was pretty kick ass too. We had been in Galway a few years earlier when we did the bus tour thing (aka the Cliff's Notes tour of Ireland) but we'd only had 3 hours to look around. This time around we had booked 3 nights in the city and so we asked Mike what he would recommend we check out. That's always a loaded question I realize and he must dread being asked it. Ah well, he came up with some good options and the Wiff also had some ideas of things she wanted to see too.

The next day we got up and walked around the city. The last time we were there I had bought the Wiff a claddagh ring at Thomas Dillons on Quay St. Unfortunately it had broken and she had had it repaired in the states. Whoever did the repair didn't exactly do a great job so we knew that stop #1 was going to be this shop. We walked in and the guy behind the counter said he could repair the ring and it would only take about an hour. Schweet. See you then Mr. Awesome. We walked around some more and went to this great little coffee shop at the end of Quay St. near the river Corrib and the Spanish Arch. When we went back to pick up the ring (which he repaired at no cost by the way. Their rings have a lifetime warranty), the repair was so perfect and the ring had been buffed to its original shine that the Wiff was convinced that he hadn't actually repaired her ring but had instead just replaced it (thinking that maybe the damage was too great to make a decent repair). It wasn't until later on when she was looking at it more closely when we were having lunch at the Quay Pub that she realized that no, this was in fact her original ring. That guy was just that damn good. Pretty cool.

We walked all around going from shop to shop basically doing up the whole tourist bit, taking pictures and spending money on things we don't really need. We ended up at the Galway City Museum which is an excellent place to visit. It goes through the history of the area and how people used to get by. Kinda made me realize what a weenie I am. It was a really good day all in all. That night we went were going to go back down to the hotel bar but we'd had a late lunch so neither of us was hungry. Plus, we had planned on taking a drive out to the Connemara region to visit Kylemore Abbey so we needed to get some sleep. The Wiff had noticed the poster above the hotel computer (this hotel was cool cuz it had a computer in the lobby hooked up to the interwebs that guests could use for freebies. For a nerd like me that was a truly welcome thing) and checked out the drive to the abbey. It looked like a really nice day trip and the weather promised to behave.

And so on Thursday the 14th, our last full day in Ireland, we set out on our day trip to go see Kylemore Abbey. The Wiff and I are big fans of the day trip. When we both finally got our driver's licenses (me at age 25, the Wiff at age 28) we would rent a car on some weekends just to take a day trip up to Maine or Franconia Notch in NH. This trip out to the Connemara would be just like that. Just a real chill experience. By this time I was fairly comfortable with driving on the opposite side and luckily we didn't hit any sheep during the ride. This area has a lot of free-range grazing sheep who like nothing better than just wandering out onto the road. At one point we came around a pretty blind corner and HEY LOOKOUT there's a sheep's butt right in our way. My mad drivin' skillz of course came into play and we did not make mutton outta him (or her). I didn't even beep. That's rare for a Bostonian and even rarer for me.

We finally made it to the abbey (after only getting lost once...and yes, the Wiff went into a post office to ask for directions..for those of you keeping score at home: she has by this time gone to a police station, a fire station and a post office to ask for directions) after a really nice drive through some beautiful country. We pulled into the parking lot for the visitor center and it was immediately clear that the place was closed. There was no other vehicle in the lot. We got out, walked over to the ticket booth and discovered that yes, they are closed. Now keep in mind that we had gone on the website earlier and there was no notice that they'd be closed. As a matter of fact, the site said they were open. Ah well. It was disappointing that we couldn't check out the buildings themselves but after all the crap we'd been through up to this point, it didn't phase us. We took some pictures and headed back to the car. As we approached the car we came across 5 women from Michigan. Of course, that's common way out in the middle of western Ireland in the middle of January. They were students who had walked all the way from town to come to see the abbey. I broke the news to them and considering they claimed to have walked for 3 hours to get there they took the news rather well. They took a couple of pics of the Wiff and me but unfortunately those were the ones that our camera decided to eat.

We drove back to the hotel and had dinner at the bar again while chatting with Mike and Kevin (another bartender at the hotel). Thanks to Galway and the Connemara (and the great staff at the bar) our vacation had been saved. For the most part the vacation had lived up to the extremely vague expectations I had. I'm glad that I was in Ireland for my 40th birthday. That essentially was the entire point of the trip really. I wanted to be there and so we saved our money and went. Ireland is a beautiful country with great people and lots to offer. The only thing is I would caution against going there in the winter. Trust me on this one.

You Can Check Out Any Time You Like...

2010-01-20T15:57:00.004-05:00

The morning of Sunday, January 10th we checked out of The Shittiest Hotel Ever and headed across Dublin to retrieve our rental car. It was snowing (of course) and the hotel staff didn't even think that any taxis would be running in the city. Oh come on. Luckily there was at least one brave soul who dared drive in this weather and he took us to the car rental place. Now bear in mind that we had paid for everything for this trip up front (which is why we stayed at The Shittiest Hotel Ever and didn't just leave to find a better place...we would have lost that cash if we had) and one of the things we had purchased from our travel agent was insurance. We had the whole kit and caboodle from life, accidental this and that, trip insurance (in case the flight had been canceled or something) and car rental insurance. When we presented the little brochure thing to the woman behind the counter she pointed out that the car rental insurance does not list Ireland so we would have to purchase additional insurance. Oh, fuck you Dublin. Fuck you long and hard.

So 380 euro later we get our car. Originally we had reserved a Ford Focus but "because of the misunderstanding" they offered to bump us up to a bigger car. Oh sweet! Hey Dublin, sorry about what I just said in that last paragraph...maybe we just got off on the wrong foot y'know? Let's give this another try ok? Like a fresh start. Whattaya say? The car that they upgraded us to? A Prius. Oh, fuck you Dublin. We jump into the car and head off. Luckily, being that it was Sunday morning and presumably the entire city was sleeping off a real banger of a hangover, we had the roads to ourselves. This was a really good thing as they had still not plowed (did I mention that they don't plow? or shovel? oh I had? ok). I figured (wrongly it turned out) that once we got out of the city limits and onto the motorway that the surface would be in much better shape. Not really. The travel lanes on the dual carriageway were slushy and somewhat clear but the passing lanes and all the on and off ramps were completely snow and/or ice covered and dangerous.

We drove for what seemed like hours and hours but it must have been about 3 total or so and we finally made into Cork. The snow was still coming down and mixing with sleet as we pulled into the city and it gave it a real ominous tone. Cork is a pretty industrial city and with the grey sky and grey stone walls it wasn't giving off a "hey, come on and hang out here" vibe. I'm not saying Cork isn't a great place, I honestly have no idea since all we did was just drive through (getting lost a couple times in the process). It's just that on that particular day, Cork wasn't having it. "Move along fatty", it seemed to say. And I listened. I was still smarting from kick in the balls that Dublin delivered.

Kinsale is a small town about 20 miles or so south of Cork. It is, and I hate to use this term but I think it fits: quaint. We rolled into town (having missed the turn to our hotel) at around 3:30 pm on Sunday. Unfortunately the snow had picked up again and since it was going to be getting dark soon we decided to head up to our hotel and check in. There'd be plenty of time on Monday (the 11th, my birthday) to explore the town and enjoy ourselves. The forecast was for a mostly sunny day with temperatures in the high 30's. Hey, things are looking up here. The access road to the hotel was this tiny, narrow road that twisted its way up a slippery hill. We were behind this SUV and they were having some trouble getting up the road. Finally after creeping up the hill at a break neck 8 miles an hour we made it to the entrance to the hotel. The hotel driveway was yet another tiny road that was so narrow that they had places on it where a car could pull over so that one going in the opposite direction could pass. Um, excuse me but...um, if you're going to go through the trouble of carving out these spaces for 2 cars to move around each other, why not make the whole driveway that wide the entire length? No? Ok.

The driveway led back down the same hill we had come up to the hotel itself. At this point the snow had kicked it up another notch and while the Wiff went in to check us in, I went to park the car in the almost empty parking lot. As I was sitting in the car I noticed that the exit ramp that led back out to the hotel driveway was not only steep but covered in snow and ice. Uh oh...Ah, fergettit. I'm sure by the time we get up, have our breakfast and take some pics out on the veranda of the bay this'll all be melted. After all, snow doesn't stick around in Ireland right? Isn't that why they don't bother plowing and shoveling? I gathered myself and made my way into the hotel. The Wiff had our room keys already and we set off for our room. Let me back up a bit here. First of all this hotel is gorgeous. From the grounds to the lobby to the furniture in the lobby, everything just worked. I was pleased. Oh holy shit I hope to hell they have hot water! Aaaaaaaaand drum roll please....THEY DID! Hooray! I can finally scrub my nuts! Oh christ in a bucket am I thrilled! That night we even had a lovely dinner at the hotel bar while chatting with the bartender. I think I like this place.

The next morning after the first really good night of sleep that we'd had since arriving in the country, we woke up to a really pretty day (and we still had hot water!!). The sun was out and there was actual blue sky visible. Holy shit! Check it out! Ireland is all pretty and stuff:

These 2 shots are of the same area just across the bay from our hotel. The little cluster of houses is visible in the center of the bottom pic.

Wow. Boy, that sure beats the ever lovin' shit out of where I live. We walked around the deck of the hotel taking pictures and generally getting used to the idea that perhaps our luck on this vacation had finally turned for the better and maybe, just maybe we could relax and start having some fun. We went back to the room to figure out where in town we wanted to go. After getting an idea of some places to check out (including Fishy Fishy, a restaurant my boss had recommended we try out) we piled into the car and took off. Remember the long driveway that goes uphill? On one side of this driveway is a rocky slope that while not steep enough to kill you necessarily it certainly would ruin your day. On the other side is the uphill side of that same slope with very large rocks forming a wall. "What about the snow and ice", you ask? It was still there. I forced that little car and its anemic engine (the car did not have snow tires or even all-weather tires on by the way...did you know that snow is rare in Ireland?) all the way up to the point in the drive where there was a 45 degree bend to an even steeper uphill section just before the hotel gates. Right in front of me was what appeared to be an even smaller access road that looked like it might be another way out without trying to get this car up that hill. I made an attempt and realized pretty quickly that no, this was not a good way to go when the car sank up to its rims in mud. Don't make me mad at you Kinsale...you won't like me when I'm mad.

I managed to wrestle the car from the grip of the mud (due to my mad driving skillz) and backed up to the point of the newer steeper incline. It was grinning its icy cold grin at me. "C'mon and try me you giant-headed, whiny cunt", it said. Boy, that's one rude imaginary voice. I backed up a little bit more and then made my first attempt. Fail. I backed up again and shifted the retarded Prius transmission into whatever the equivalent of 1st gear is (it's like "B" or something...I forget. Toyota can blow me) and made another attempt. Fail. This fail had the extra added bonus of more sliding than I was comfortable with. I tried one more time but the car just didn't have enough torque to pull us up the drive and since it also was a turn, I couldn't get enough momentum to simply power my way up. I looked at the Wiff and said, "Look, I don't know that I'm ever going to make it up this hill and if I do make it, what do you think the access road into town is going to be like?" We sighed together and I did a 32 point turn to get the car pointed back down the driveway to the hotel.

When we finally got back to the hotel we went right up to the front desk to ask to talk to the manager. When the manager showed up, a nice guy to be sure, I asked him why is it that they have not done ANY treating of the surface to allow people to get out of the hotel. He went right into the now very familiar explanation of how y'know it never snows here and usually when it does, the snow doesn't stick blah blah blah. I pointed out that it does indeed stick as I'm fucking looking at it right now. He then suggested that we wait an hour (it was about 1 pm. and I can't figure out why waiting an hour was any kind of a solution) and try again. He said that if we did end up getting stuck again (and we would have) that he'd come help to push us out. Oh. My. God. Are fucking kidding me? This is the best solution that you can come up with? I asked him about the giant tractor that was parked at the entrance to the hotel gate yesterday when we arrived. It had a big ol' bucket attached to the front of it. "Why not use that thing to scrape the snow off of the hill? Wouldn't that be a better idea?" He just chuckled and said that they can't do that because of liability issues. He apologized about the icy conditions but said there's little that he could do beyond the "push you" idea. He also verified my concern that if the hotel's driveway was that bad, then the access road into Kinsale was sure to be as bad if not worse.

And that's why we didn't get to go into town. We ended up hanging out in the hotel and having a really good dinner in the restaurant. Since there were only about 20 guests in the whole place the restaurant was almost empty. The next day we woke up to a giant rainstorm with winds of gale force. Ok, Ireland, now you're just fucking with me. I looked out the window and at least the snow had all gone away but now in its place were hundreds of tree branches and, in one case, an entire bush. We checked out and headed on our way with the hope that perhaps Galway will be the savior of this trip. I know I said this'd only be 2 entries but I think another is in order to wrap this all up.

Boo! Rainy, icky.

Next time: Galway. Will it be on fire? Will there be any water at all besides the stuff falling from the sky threatening to wash out the roads? How many Guinness does it take to get me drunk? Tune in, same Bat time, same Bat channel, er...blog.

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