Insufficient Funds will be closed* from 4/19-4/27 for yearly maintenance. Pardon the inconvenience**.
In my absence please visit The Hofbrau† for any questions or concerns.
Thanks, The Management††
*Insufficient Funds reserves the right to make posts from the Dominican Republic should the opportunity present itself. **It's not like I haven't left you high and dry before so this should come as no surprise to you. † Insufficient Funds is not responsible for the content provided on The Hofbrau. †† We don't have any management here at Insufficient Funds Worldwide Headquarters, but it seemed like the right thing to say. We have no overhead, and we expect to turn a profit in the year 2034. For investment opportunities please send any inquiries to matt617 AT gmail DOT commmmmmmmmmm.
We all know by now that I have a healthy (at least I think so) obsession with the female genitalia. Recently a friend mentioned that Barstool Sports, a blog I don't allow myself to read for fear of repeating their content, had a link to a website called Guess Her Muff.
The site is exactly as billed, and the user is presented with a non-nude before photo by which they must predict the grooming techniques of the subject. The categories are Natural, Trimmed, Patch, Landing Strip, Brazilian, or Shaved Bald.
Below is a sample of the women who participated (willing or unwilling one may never know) in the study, and brings to the forefront some of the obstacles one faces while making decisions. Are they European? Age? From the South? Fakies? Can they ride the subway for a reduced fare?
In true down and dirty journalistic fashion I decided, for the sake of my readers, to test my self-proclaimed expertise in this area. And I think everyone will be surprised by the results.
Total number of subjects 346 Margin of error +/- 7.5%.
Surprisingly, I only got 28.32% correct. Slightly less, but no more disappointing than my Calculus exam.
In full disclosure, I held myself to the highest scientific standards, and when any answer was held in question I decided not to count it toward the correct column. Because of bad camera angles, poor quality, and tight cropping I was unable to validate my findings to a precise number.
Also, I do believe there is a fair amount of subjectivity in my discoveries. For example, what I may consider to be a landing strip others may consider a patch. Sort of like pouring a gin and tonic or any other cocktail, one must factor in personal preference. As with alcohol, the same measuring techniques of finger counting is applied. In my book, a landing strip should be considered one finger width or less.
Others may disagree.
On the other side of the spectrum, some of the women had what I consider a natural cut, but in this arena I had to categorize them in the Trimmed section.
Another wrinkle in my study was the slight nuances between Shaved Bald and Brazilian. Some photos did not allow the proper perspective to gauge between the two categories while others unfortunately did. Like too much.
Below is a graph that will certainly preclude me from doing something really important in my future, but also an accurate visual of how the subjects, and arguably the rest of the world, maintains their nether region:
And what post of mine would conclude without a self-deprecating jab? In college I used to shave my pubic hair into wild shapes. Sorry Smally, Matty O, Schlichte, Smitty and Flinny. I know you guys shaved your beards and sideburns with those clippers. Hopefully, with the amount of time that has passed this little of knowledge won't sting as bad.
I did this to mess with my girlfriend at the time who already found me quite revolting. On Valentines day I sculpted a nice romantic heart. I also cropped a shamrock looking thing on St. Patrick's Day. It proved to be more difficult than expected so it looked like a club. Another time, and this was my favorite, I created an arrow pointing down to my peen. As in, here it is. Do something with it. I thought it was a riot, but it fell on deaf ears.
I would forget about my little creations, but I wasn't naked in public that often so I figured my secret was safe. However, one time after a hockey game I found myself in the showers alone. I always got undressed the slowest on my team. I have flat feet, among other attractive physical features, and my skates hurt like hell. I'd spend a good 10 minutes moaning in agony after the game as my feet regained circulation. By the time I hit the showers everybody was gone. A pleasant but unintended consequence. However, on this particular night the opposing team, who shared the same showers, came into the prison-like room. Completely unaware I was soaping up with the water hitting my back.
What's up guys? Good game tonight. Who's #14? That prick really crushed me on that open-ice check in the 2nd period. Clean hit.
My sportsmanship was met with absolute silence. I rinsed off and walked out of the room. As I left I heard an uproar of laughter. It isn't that small I thought. Certainly doesn't warrant that sort of reaction. I figured they were pissed because we beat them and were just being dicks. Then I heard one of them say:
Great news about the captain being rescued from the pirates over the weekend. The details about the heroic efforts of the captain trying to escape, the precision of the sharpshooters who aimed their weapons from a rolling ship, and the overall camaraderie of the freighter was boner inducing.
Good Guys: 100 Bad Guys: 1,349,239,675
I am, however, conflicted about this story because it turns out that I am a descendant of pirates.
My Uncle Ed who aced his boards (he didn't get a 370 on the math portion of his SATs) was a star student at Boston Latin. He was recruited by the CIA to work as a spy because he spoke German fluently. But not before a thorough background check.
The results came back positive (really, how tough could a background check be back in the 1940s?) and he was allowed to pursue his honorable duty in the service. However, they did add a footnote in his debriefing mentioning that although they didn't discover any connections to the Nazis they did find a troubling connection to piracy. Is anyone surprised?
I am merely standing on the shoulders of those who have gone before me.
Five years ago I was living in Kahana on the west side of Maui. Lower Honoapiilani Hwy to be exact. Sort of rolls off the tongue doesn't it?
By all accounts I had the world by the balls. I was room mates with one of my best friends. I worked at the Ritz Carlton pool bar serving Mai Tai's and Lava Flows to trophy wives while their husbands played golf. I made great money. I surfed all the time. I had a bronzed tan. I was in shape. I saw tons of celebrities. I had an incredible group of friends. I went on mind-blowing hikes which simply cannot be justified with words. I Scuba Steve'ed it. I watched the sunset most nights while listening to conch shells blow in the distance.
It was the good life.
But for some god-damned fucking reason my family decided to remain in miserable Boston, and I missed them terribly. So I moved back. I am glad I did, but I think of Maui almost everyday which is not easy during these cold and gray winter months.
This past week however, as always, was incredibly difficult for me. The PGA plays its opening round, The Mercedes Championship, at Kapalua Plantation Golf Course. A golf course that was less than a mile from my apartment. I played there a bunch of times, and with my Ritz Carlton discount it only cost me $50 a round. So, essentially the same price as say Presidents Golf Course in North Quincy. Seems fair.
I know you think it's silly, but this tournament really does a number on my psyche. Each year I try to watch, but it is too painful, and I wind up turning it off. The network shows too many b-roll footage of my old neighborhood. Like surfers at Flemings (a break I surfed often,) a gorgeous ocean shot looking out to Lanai and Molokai, or just a tiki torch. Yes, just a tiki torch. That's all it takes. Done. I'm out. Let's watch Matchmaker Millionaire.
While I was living there I volunteered for the Mercedes Championship. I showed up a few days before the event and offered up my assistance. The guy running the show said it was just my luck because they needed one more fairway marshal. You know, the guys who hold up the Quiet Please signs.
I filled out some paperwork and was told to report back on Wednesday morning at 8am sharp. None of this Maui time bullshit. 8am on the nose. I was told that I would be given a uniform as well as a hole assignment when I arrived that morning. Sweet. I was in.
On Wednesday they hosted the Pro-Am celebrity challenge. Most PGA events are held over four days starting on Thursday and ending on Sunday, but since this was the first stop on the tour they play an extra round. Which makes sense because most golfers arrive early because Maui isn't exactly Cleveland, and they can raise a ton of dough from all the swells who can afford to play a round with someone famous. This was beneficial to me as well because I could practice being a fairway marshal. Although I do play golf, and understand the game, I was nervous that I would somehow fuck it up and wind up looking like a dick. The Pro-Am didn't mean anything so there wouldn't be any pressure.
I showed up at 7:45 and went directly to the staff tent. I was told to go to the tee box at the 9th hole and check in with Mr. Willis, the captain of the hole. I showed up and saw this old timer lingering about in a blue polo shirt like the one I was just given.
Hi, are you Mr. Willis? Yes, are you assigned to this hole? Yes, my name is Matt. Hiya Mac, call me Jim. Ahh, it's actually Matt. Nice to meet you Jim. Pleasure's all mine Mac.
Because we were on the 9th hole it would be a few hours before the golfers actually reached our tee box. So Jim and Mac shot the breeze for a while. Old people typically like me and this was no exception. Jim and Mac hit it off, and the time just seemed to fly by. We spoke about our hometowns, WWII, the military, his wife, his kids, and his fuuuucking grand kids. Jesus Christ did we talk about his grand kids. Oy!
Finally, the crowd surged around our hole indicating the golfers were finally arriving. Jim told Mac that he was going to take the fairway post while I would stay back on the tee box. My job was simple. I needed to watch the ball and point my Quiet Please sign in the direction the ball was heading.
Fair enough.
The first group arrived with Retief Goosen, a middle of the pack golf pro, and three other amateurs who are probably responsible for all this shit going down on Wall Street. They oozed money. I could smell it. I nodded politely, but was ignored by every single one of them. Assholes.
Retief, having the honors, teed off first. I held up my dumb sign. He striped the ball with a silky smooth back swing and effortless, but powerful, follow through. The ball sailed right down the middle of the fairway. I just held my sign straight up in the air. No need to do anything else.
Retief made a comment like OK I showed you the way. Go get 'em Carl.
Carl, teed off next, and as he began his pre-shot routine I found myself rooting for him to shank his drive.
Fucking shank it you douche. Can't nod back to me because I just a piece of turd? Well, let's see how you do Mr. Big Shot. Shank it. Worm burner. Pull it. Pull it you prick.
Unfortunately, Carl was a gamer who obviously knew his way around a golf course. He hit a great drive. Not as far as Retief, but pretty good. The rest of the foursome followed suit. And why wouldn't they? They probably all grew up at a country club, and were active members at some snotty establishment. Fuck em. They might be rich, good looking, and excellent golfers, but they are still assholes. Hey guys, your wives are going to flirt with me at the pool this week. Fuckheads. They want to bang me because you have crusty old dicks and you can't keep it up. I'm going to put my thumb in your Lava Flow. How do you like that?
They walked away and Carl turned around, as if he could hear my thoughts, and smiled at me.
Have a great day! This is something else isn't it?
Damn it. Carl is a good guy. I felt like a jerk.
The next several foursomes followed the same format. The golf pro stripes the ball. The amateurs hit decent drives and they hobnob while they walk to their balls. To be honest, I was getting pretty bored. I didn't have to wield my authoritative sign once. I just held it up in the air like an idiot. I didn't add any value. Just stood there like a big goof.
Then, the next foursome approached the tee box. Roger fucking Clemens. Keep in mind, this was 2002 which was slap dab in the middle of a Yankee dynasty. We were their bitches, and I hated everyone associated with the pinstripes. Especially this guy. You wanted to move closer to your family? Huh? How is Toronto closer to Texas asshole? Then, you wind up with the Yankees?! I don't care what Dan Duquette said. You broke my heart Roger.
Shank it. Shank it you big lug. Noonan. Noo Noonan!
Nope. Big hitter that Roger Clemens. That's what roids will do to the golf swing. He crushed the ball. As he and his foursome left the tee I was muttering to myself, and before I knew it I was looking straight into the eyes of Joe Torre. I think I shrieked. It was like seeing a ghost. Literally. He looked like shit. Like Carl, he couldn't have been nicer. He waved hello to the fans and nodded politely right to my face. I gave him an awkward glance and can't be certain that it was a friendly one. Although I didn't wish for him to shank it, he did. And I felt badly for him. Not a terrible shot, but certainly the worst of the day. And I didn't even move my sign. I was lulled into complacency. The poor old timer Jim would have his hands full trying to find the ball. Oops, Mac wasn't paying attention. My bad.
Then the crowd really began to swell and that could only mean one thing. Tiger. I was waiting all day for this foursome. He walked up to the tee box and his presence was larger than life. I was star struck. I was standing exceptionally close to him, and his caddy Steve Williams a pseudo celebrity himself, barked at me.
Hey mate, take a step back. Your in his line of sight.
Tiger, used to this sort of thing, didn't even blink. He addressed the ball and absolutely crushed it. His swing was different from the rest of the golfers. It was special. Something about it. I figured that this one shot was worth the entire experience. I couldn't wait to tell all the guys back home about being that close to the best golfer to ever play the game. I was utterly blown away.
The rest of the day was anti-climactic. I couldn't wait to come back the following day and see how intense it got when real money was on the line.
After the last foursome came through I had to go straight home because I had to work a shift at the restaurant. When I got to work, completely exhausted from sitting in the direct sunlight all day, my manager told us in our meeting that we had a full house. All of the golfers and celebrities were in town and most of them were dining with us.
She was right. One famous person after the next came in, and several of them sat at my tables. It was a really cool experience. I almost poured a pitcher of water over Joe Torre's head, but he turned out to be nicer than I ever expected. I wound up telling him about the time I was at Fenway when he returned from his cancer scare back in 1999. The entire park stood up and gave him a raucous ovation. It was one of the best experiences I ever witnessed on Yawkey Way, and made me proud to be a Red Sox fan. It could have been my bad breath, but he welled up and thanked me for reminding him of that great memory. He was obviously touched.
Another golfer David Gossett was at my table, but that is not the exciting part. His younger sister was an ABSOLUTE nugget, and sparks flew when we made eye contact. So I hung around that table for most of the night. I tried to google her, but I couldn't find her. Oh well, you'll just have to take my word for it that she was incredibly hot. And even more implausible that we had a connection. We did. I told her to look out for me on the 9th fairway, and that's when her brother reminded me that he was playing in a MAJOR golf tournament the following morning, and I should go check on their meals.
After the shift I made the poor decision to meet the rest of the crew for drinks. I vowed to have a couple of beers and head home. I had a long day, and needed to be in tip-top shape for the following morning.
At last call we decided to do another round of shots. Then, we naturally went to an after hours party and hung out until the wee hours of the morning. Bad Idea jeans.
I slept through my alarm clock. I woke up 30 minutes late and jumped out of bed (eerily similar to another story isn't it?) and jumped into my fairway marshal uniform. I woke my room mate up and demanded that he drive me to the golf course. He was still drunk, like I was, and probably could have gotten a DUI if we were pulled over. I gave him a high-five and ran to the 9th hole.
I showed up at the 9th hole at 7:59, and the old timer was already there waiting. Fucker.
Hiya Mac! Oh hey Jim. You caught the worm, huh? Yup. I guess it's the military in me.Looks like we have another perfect day on our hands. We certainly do. We certainly do.
I wanted Jim to take over the conversation because I was afraid he would realize I was still drunk if I said too much. He didn't. He asked me a million questions about my childhood and my dreams and aspirations in life. And because I had a nice buzz on I opened up and let him have it.
We stared out over the ocean looking at the island of Molokai. We were talking about the importance of family and he was happy to hear that I was so close to mine. I started giving him details, like he did with his grand kids, and I probably bored him to tears. But fuck him. I listened all about Nathan, Michael, Jonathan, Anne-Marie, David, and Chloe. This fucker was going to hear about me. Plus, he asked for it.
In the middle of one of my stories I looked over, but Jim was gone. I was like mother fucker. How did he ninja move out of this one? Then I looked down, and the poor prick was lying on his back clutching his chest.
CALL 911!!! CALL 911!!!! SOMEBODY HELP!!!
Fortunately, someone with a walkie talkie was within earshot and heard my screams. He called the paramedics and before long the 9th tee box was surrounded by people who could help. Jim was whisked away and I never saw him again.
I started to cry. I thought back to my grandfather and knew that his poor grandchildren were going to lose their Papa like I did. It was awful. He really didn't look good, and I was blaming myself for not reacting better. How long had I been talking before I realized he was having a heart attack? Who knows it could have been as long as 5 minutes? Maybe more? Just look at how long this fucking post is, and you can see how drawn out I can be. Fucking windbag.
Well, the show must go on. I made the executive decision that the tee box position wasn't nearly as important as the fairway post. Plus, the tee box was boring as shit, and I wanted some action. So I made my way out to the corner of the dog leg and waited for the golfers to show up. At the :17 second mark of this video you can see where I was positioned.
I was critically hungover, and the baking sun was not helping. In my haste I forgot both my sunglasses and hat which only exasperated my fragile condition. I was hurting. Big time.
But being the seasoned professional fairway marhsall that I was, I powered through and did my job well. Most of the golfers hit their drives in the same 20 yard radius so the job was pretty easy. In fact, I probably could marshal the whole fucking hole by myself because I am such a badass.
The job became pretty routine. I was bored silly. I wasn't interested in seeing any of the golfers at this point. I had served most of them the night before and the thrill was gone. I just wanted to crawl into bed, close the blinds, drink a large Gatorade, put on my oscillating fan and watch a Police Academy movie.
Instead, I was suffering out on the 9th fairway without as much as a single palm leaf protecting me from the sun. It was brutal.
Then I heard a whizzing sound zip right past my right ear. Instinctively I ducked, and when I regained my composure I realized that I was almost struck by a ball. I looked up at the TV towers and noticed that all of the cameras were pointed directly at me. Oh fuck. I have NO IDEA where that ball went. None. Not even a clue. I wasn't even looking at the tee box. I was staring at a woman (legit) and got side-tracked. ADD/hangover strikes again. Or maybe it's just the Booby Orrs?
I figured, from the horrifying sound that I never wish to hear again, that the ball probably missed me by about 5-10 feet. And if the ball were at that height it should have landed in the rough at the foot of the large valley. I ran toward the rough, with my handy dandy orange flag, hoping to God I would find the ball and mark it before the golfers arrived.
The rough was thick. I couldn't see shit. I looked over at the television crew for help, but they just shrugged. It was up to me. I circled around an arbitrary perimeter I established based on my physics calculation and searched for the ball like a hound dog. Nothing. Not even a hint of a ball.
The golfers arrived. It was Tom Pernice Jr's ball and he wasn't pleased at his shot. He was more displeased when he realized there wasn't a tiny orange flag sticking out of the ground marking his ball.
Where's my ball?
I shrugged, just like the television crew, and he shot me a dirty look. He and his caddy were now looking for the ball as well. A minute went by and we still didn't have any luck finding it. I was praying to God, Allah, Buddah and whoever else would listen that the ball would just miraculously appear.
His caddy asked me where the ball landed. I panicked and lied.
It landed right here and then it dissapeared into the rough. I'm so sorry. Nobody hit it this far so I didn't position myself down the hill.
That was the absolute last thing either of them wanted to hear. They stopped dead in their tracks and bore holes in my skull with their dirty looks. The other golfer, and his caddy, who was partnered up with Pernice came over to assist in the search. Then, from behind I heard a whizzing sound of a golf cart. It was someone from the PGA. He had a set of headphones on and said something into the microphone about a lost ball. All hands on deck, report to the dog leg on number nine. He asked me the same question.
Where's the ball? Where did it land?
I didn't have any answers. After about 5 minutes, which felt like an eternity, more people in golf carts arrived on the scene. The tournament came to a screeching halt. The other golfers from the 8th hole were now arriving on the tee box. It was incredibly tense and everyone in the search party continued to give me dirty looks. All of the cameras were still pointed right at us, and I was convinced the anchors were talking about the "problem on nine" during the broadcast. They probably had to cut to more erectile dysfunction, IBM, and life insurance ads.
The PGA official started talking about the possibility of taking a drop. This was not what Pernice wanted to hear. That would mean he would lose the ball and take a penalty stroke. He marched right up to me and said:
You have no idea where my ball went? You aren't sure where it landed? Your only job is to watch my ball. That's your only job. Right? That's your ONLY job?
I muttered something barely coherent and braced myself for a golf club to get wrapped around my head. I told everyone that the other marshal had a heart attack (yes, I was desperate and played that card) and I was working the hole by myself. Nobody cared. Millions of dollars were on the line, and I was fall guy. 3 more minutes past. Pernice was ready to take a drop. Then, by the grace of God, someone yelled out:
Titlest 2! With three black circles?!
They found his ball, but it was nowhere near where I had indicated. It was a terrible lie. Nearly impossible. He took an aggressive hack at it, and barely got it out. The ball landed about 75 feet from the green and he was pissed. I had thrown off his rhythm and it was obvious that he was all out of sorts.
My girlfriend and I just bought iPhones, and we haven't said a word to each other since. Goodbye real world!
Wall E needs to come save us.
UPDATE:
We still don't know what we're doing with this new fan dangled device, but we're learning. By accident, I managed to download all of her personal contacts. I was trying to make a phone call and saw Uncle Phil on the list. Weird. I don't have an Uncle Phil.
Then I saw that I had over 300 contacts in my phone. Whoa!
Who is Mike and why do you have his work, cell, home and lake house numbers? Oh? An ex-boyfriend? That's cool. Who's Dave? I don't think I know him either. Huh. Oh, just a friend? OK, that's cool.
Then, for my mental health, I squinted at the rest of her contacts now living in my phone and deleted them one by one. Only took about an hour or so.
Hey, it's cool. I am friends with most, if not all, of my ex's. I think. And she should be able to hang out with, and call, whomever she wants. I'm cool with it. No jealousy whatsoever. I am open. Understanding. Flexible. Patient.
Does anyone know of a private detective that doesn't require 30% down for the retainer? I tried several different places, but didn't have any luck.
Quincy, the city just south of Boston, is the home to former Presidents John Adams and John Quincy Adams; statesman John Hancock; the legendary punk band Salacious Crumb who brought us hits such as 30 Pack, Cat Pee and White Powdery Beef; Howard Johnson's; the first but certainly not the last Dunkin' Donuts; The Quincy Quarries from which the granite stones of the Bunker Hill Monument and other historical treasures were mined; The Hofbrau; the guy who changed his name, officially, to Uncle Sam; the Fore River Shipyard which built Naval ships that fought in WWII; and me.
And now, allegedly, the list continues.
In 1990 thirteen pieces of art from famous masters Rembrandt, Manet and Degas were stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston. As a constant reminder of the devastating loss, museum curators intentionally left the original placements of the stolen art work symbolically blank.
Many speculated that the masterpieces were probably being traded on the black market overseas. Among the paintings, was a Manet called Chez Tortoni which according to recent developments hung in the bedroom of a Quincy apartment building.
Classy.
The painting is still missing, but I am sure if it ever gets returned it will undoubtedly suffer a severe case of Stockholm syndrome. The FBI psychologist would be conducting an interview with the painting and he wouldn't get anywhere. He'd throw his hands up in the air exasperated by the total lack of cooperation from the painting and look toward the 1-way mirror for help.
Hey anyone catch the numbahs from last nights drawin'? No? Nobody? Fahkin' useless bunch a pricks. Hey pal, why don't you be a peach and shoot down Tedeschi's and pick me up a pack of Pahliments. And while your at it get me a copy of the Herald and one of those #4 scratchies. The $20 ticket. Yeah, the billionaire bonanza or whateva the fuck it's called. You know what I'm talking about sideburns. Hey, where'd you pick up that tie? You catch Faaahlines Basement Closin' sale? Yeah, looks like you picked it out of a bin. Looks good on you though. Stripes is fittin' for your look. Losah. Oh, and don't forget the Mountain Dew! The big kind. Thanks chief. Where'd you get that guy from? Hahd up for bodies huh? Everybody's hurtin' from the recession the days. It's tough. It's tough out theah.
Right now God is giving Degas the life isn't fair pep talk.
On our way to theater 13 we walked past award winning movies such as Gran Torino, Slumdog Millionaire, Revolutionary Road, MILK, Valkyrie, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and Bride Wars. OK so maybe not Valkyrie, although well executed, it is up against some tough competition this year and will probably lose out. My point is there are some great movies out right now. And we didn't see any of them.
Instead, we chose Marley & Me.
We were early. I pulled into a spot that really wasn't a spot. Had we not gotten several inches of snow in the previous 24 hours it totally would have been a spot (that was taken) but the plow, fortunately for me, could only push the pile so far, and left a half spot. A spot that several hundred people before me ignored. In fact, it was probably less than half a spot, but I took it anyways because, fuck it, right? We basically had the 17th best parking space in the lot if you consider all sixteen of those handicap spaces that are always unoccupied. Or worse, taken by people who don't have any visible disabilities whatsoever. These people, after flipping the stupid fucking "non-transferable" placard on their rear view mirror, usually end up skipping to the front door. And they always smoke. Always.
If I am going to circle around the lot a few times looking for a normal spot I want to see the people using the handicap spaces with really bad, tragic, and visible handicaps. I want to see the poor pricks in wheelchairs with straw-powered navigation. I want to see people who make me feel awful inside for complaining as much as I do. The ones who force me to re-evaluate my priorities in life.
I need to see Tiiiiimmmmmmmaaaaay.
I don't want to see "Nancy" who has a handicap placard because she smokes, eats, and drinks too much. What, Nancy can't possibly be expected to walk an additional 30 feet to the entrance before she saunters her fat ass around the mall hunting down the nearest Cinnabon? No, not her. She has a doctor's note to prove it. And a lawyer too.
Unlike those inconsiderate assholes, I jammed the JETTA halfway into a snowbank. I even backed up, and punched it so I could really cram it in there. Despite my efforts the entire back end was sticking out like a F350 extended cab, with dualies, parked in a Compacts Only section. Hey, it was a legal spot and it was within the lines, but I can guarantee that 9 out of 10 people said:
Will you look at this asshole?
And they'd be right. I know I would be yammering on, like Paul Giamati in every role he's ever played, if I were on the other side of the parking transgression. I am so unbalanced and mentally fragile that it would take me about an hour to let it go.
Who does that? Seriously who does that? That guy just parked there and he thinks that that sort of thing is OK. In his convoluted fucked up world, parking like that is acceptable. You know what? I'm just glad my grandfather isn't alive to see how fucked up this world has become. He was a gentleman. His generation had a sense of decency. Now? Now the world is totally fucked. Nobody cares. It's a C minus world. And it's only going to get worse. The same animals who park their shitbox JETTA like that are having more animals. And those animals will have more animals. What a disgrace. I mean nobody could get by, but that probably wouldn't bother him because he is either too stupid to know the difference or he just doesn't care. But it does bother me. I don't want to live in a world where something like that is OK. A large popcorn and two diet sodas please. Thank you. Yes with butter. Thank you very much. Do you have the tickets? Oh I have the tickets. They were in my pocket. Which theater are we in? Why do they print these things so small. OK, theater 13. I know, I know I will try to let it go. It's the little things. OK I will stop. I know I can't change the things that are out of my control. Did you see it though? He was like 5 feet out of the max zone. He was way out of the limit. He couldn't just drive around? He had to be an asshole. I'm not shouting. It's the previews. OK, OK I will stop. OK. Fine. OK. Don't shush me. OK I won't. Just don't shush me. OK. Shush you. OK. OK. I will. OK.
But that's just me. I know myself. I know that I don't like people. I don't enjoy their company. I don't feel good about myself when I am surrounded by people. Aside form my family, I like only about a couple dozen people in the world. Tops. I could live without the rest.
As such, I've made adjustments in my life. I don't go out much. I avoid crowds and any opportunity for people to disappoint me. I know, it's sad, but this is just the way it is right now. I am of the belief that that the universe, ultimately, is not good. I don't believe man is inherently righteous and pure. Given the choice, man will always do what is in his or her best interest without regard for the greater good. Perhaps this dour, albeit battle tested, outlook is the product of my environment. Maybe it's the northeast? Maybe it's Boston? Maybe it's the subway and the filthy animals with whom I commute every single day? Maybe it's the depraved cut-throat industry I work in?
I don't know. Maybe I just need a vacation? Maybe I'm just a Kunt. Oh, it's OK because I spelled it with a K. It doesn't have the same effect as her cousin which is spelled with a C. This is safe for the networks. It's like the British version. It's kind of cute. Or kute.
Although I don't like people I do love movies so god bless Netflix and OnDemand for allowing me to enjoy one without the other. From the comforts of my home I can transcend my humdrum routine and experience a wonderful magical place on-screen without the body odor, nose hair whistle, the ass-in-the-face excuse me as some prick goes to the bathroom, ridiculous cell phone ring tones, incessant talking, giant craniums blocking my view, the cock-in-the-face excuse me as that same prick comes back from the bathroom with popcorn this time, coughing, sneezing, hacking, farting, and any other disgusting annoyances coming from my fellow man.
I guess what bothers me most is the potential of watching or listening to something beautiful and sharing it with people whom I consider undeserving. Yeah, yeah I know. Who the fuck am I?
Or worse, if they don't find the beauty in what I cherish.
So I become jammed up, anticipating that at any moment my experience will be ruined by an outburst from the crowd. Will I see another gentle, peaceful, and enlightened hippie behave selfishly at a Phish show? Will I hear another I didn't get it! That movie was HORRIBLE! We should have gone to Armageddon instead at the end of The Big Lebowski? Or witness a grown man in face paint yell at a referee from the second balcony?
I don't suffer from Agoraphobia, but instead prefer to avoid instances described above at all costs. Movie theater floors are like the sticky fly mats trapping the lowest common denominator and therefore the cineplex is on my bad list. Instead, I prefer nights when it's just me, my girlfriend and Opie sitting on the couch watching a movie. Opie usually falls asleep on his back with his legs stuck straight up in the air. Snoring. He snores so loudly that we need to turn up the volume so we can hear the dialogue. But he's a dog. So his lack of social etiquette is not only excused, but encouraged. With belly rubs.
And that's about as good as it gets.
My girlfriend, a saint, teased me about my neurotic behavior pointing out that we haven't been out to the movies since Bourne Ultimatum, and that didn't really count because we saw it at the Drive-In. She allowed me to pick our seats, and I chose aisle seats in the second to last row. I figured odds were that most people would prefer the middle seats and we could have a comfortable buffer zone surrounding us. I was wrong. A couple of assholes smelling of fast food sat directly behind us. Great. Why didn't I just sit in the last row? Stupid Matt.
Then, a group of teenagers walked up the side aisle peering into the center looking for an empty group of seats together. I kept willing them, with my Jedi mind, to duck into an aisle, but alas, they chose our row. Fortunately, they left three seats between us which I found to be a delightful and courteous gesture. Maybe they were decent folks after all. Maybe the world isn't going to shit?
Nope. They were dicks. But we were still in the previews so I couldn't be too upset.
I realized that I was in the wrong target audience after suffering through the He's Just Not That Into You trailer. It had all the trimmings of a sappy chick flick: men are inconsiderate jerks; the hip gay friends who serve as fashion and cultural advisers foiled against the straight neanderthals the women actually long for; all the latest sayings like totally, mySpace as a verb, and so preceding any adverb; Jennifer Anniston; The Cure's 'Friday I'm in Love'; and a befuddled heroine, played by Drew Barrymore no less, who totally gets the guy in the end. The premise, to all you single ladies, is meaning what you say without saying what you mean. Whatever the fuck that means?
Don't even think about it. We're not seeing that one. Not even on Netflix. We aren't wasting a slot in the queue over that. You can OnDemand it, or see it with your sisters.
Next up, Shopaholic.
Yup. Definitely in the wrong theater. I wonder what all the men are doing today. They're probably fixing their snow blowers, looking at engines at the Boat Show, experimenting with a new BBQ rub, smoking ribs in their handmade smoker, welding, or maybe they ARE RIGHT NEXT DOOR IN THEATER 12 WATCHING GRAN TORINO!
OK, I've seen this same movie a hundred times. Working Girl, Legally Blonde, Clueless, Pretty Woman, and in the not too distant future He's Just Not That Into You. Yes, I will lose that battle too. It will somehow jump a list of documentaries in the queue and show up at our doorstep in that wonderful red envelope.
Terrific. Same premise as every other chick flick. The girl discovers her self-worth while battling her way in a man's world, but realizing in Act 3 that she's had the strength all along but wouldn't discover this unless she had conflict with the antagonist. Materialism, suddenly isn't important anymore. Yay!
The audience was laughing hysterically at all the clammy, hacky jokes. If this blog were a Woody Allen film, I would break down the fourth wall and look directly at the camera. I sit in a cubicle, and someone out in LA is driving his convertible Porsche on The PCH getting road head because he wrote this piece of shit. You can't be serious? Yeah, it probably won't be as good as the book. It never is.
And I didn't expect Marley & Me to be any different. I enjoyed most of the book, but chose not to finish it because I didn't want to read about a dog dying. No thanks. Man losing his best friend. Awesome. Can't think of a better way to spend a couple of hours. All set. That would be retarded. I am still emotionally scarred from reading Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows as a kid. I didn't need to repeat the same mistake as an adult.
Finally the movie started and I wondered if Owen Wilson was still on the junk. He looked pretty healthy so I assumed he was back on-track and doing well. I was happy for him. Then I tried to imagine what Jennifer Anniston's vagina looked like. Was it a beefy slab of lips, or was it neat and trim? Just a little slit? Sometimes you are surprised by these things. You expect some girls to have monster pussy lips, but then they don't. It's weird. I like both styles, but I wonder how that happens. I guess it's like God handing out big cocks. Some people get them and others don't. Just the way it is. She probably had large labia, but opted for the labiaplasty after Brad dumped her. Now Angelina Jolie, she looks like she has big pussy lips, but I would bet my small cock that she doesn't. She most likely has one of those surgical slits. Just my guess. My vagina instincts.
Then, I started thinking back, as one with ADD is wont to do, about a conversation I had with my friends over the summer. Naturally, it was about vaginas. We had exhausted breasts at that point. I was telling these guys that collectively we have seen a fair amount of vagina in our day. Some people, for example, have seen a vagina that other people in our group would absolutely kill to see. Like people we know. Neighbors. Friend's sisters. Friends of ex-girlfriends. The chick in History class (not mine since I went to an all male high school, but then again one of those dudes could be a post-op tranny.) The girl who used to work at Dunkin Donuts. Stifler's mom.
We could cover a lot of snatch as the classy broads like to call it.
So my idea was to hire a police sketch artist. We would describe, in detail, what we remembered about the vagina and he, or she, would bring that image in our mind's eye to life. Scratched out in charcoal on newsprint.
It looked more mean. It was an angry looking thing. More round up top. Bigger. Yes, much bigger. Billowy even. Like it was throwing up or something. But like a nice throw-up. Like a bouquet of flowers. And then it begins to taper off at the bottom. Yes, to a point. Not that pointy. Yes, like that. Wow, you are good. And there was a mole! Yes, a mole. On the right side. No the other side. Oh yeah, her left. My right. Yes, right there. I wouldn't say it was completely hair-free, but it wasn't completely shaven either. No, no, no certainly not waxed. We're talking 1993 here. Yeah. I know. That was like the birth of shaving. It certainly was. It was the renaissance of vagine. You know what it was? It was Cinemax. It was, it was. Think about it. That time when they switched from the saxaphone-heavy fantasy plot to more of the girl-next door scenarios. With that came the end of the big floppy bush. It was the early nineties when that happened. I'll bet you anything. We'll Google it. Fuck you. I guarantee that that was the turning point. OK, you're right. We're paying him by the hour and so far we've only done 20 sketches. Back to work. Do you need a water? A break. Anything. OK, so I think you've captured the essence pretty good, but I feel like we're missing something.
I thought my idea was the second (or first for my Jewish readers) coming of Christ, but was admittedly disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm in the room. Total silence. People just looked at me like I was a psychopath. I don't care what they say or think. It's a great idea and if I have to fund it myself, than God damn it I will. They all laughed at the Velcro guy didn't they? I rest my case.
I was startled out of my flashback because one of the teenagers got up to use the bathroom. He basically stepped on my leg without so much as muttering or gesturing a pardon. People suck.
Oh that Marley!
He and Opie would get along famously. In fact, Opie would probably make him look well-behaved in comparison. Like the half-retarded kid in grammar school who would come into the general population for Social Studies and make even the bully of the class appear tame. He would wreak of cigarettes (his own) and call the teacher a cunt while she pulled down the map of Western Europe. And she would turn around and demand to know, trying to be appear unbiased, who shouted that terrible naughty word. Nobody, including the teacher, had the balls to admit the truth. Then it would be onto learning about Prussia as if the outburst never happened. This kid ate pencils, etched red marks into his arm with eraser burns, and had a mustache in 4th grade because he was thirteen. Yeah, that kid. Opie would have the same effect I think.
Like Marley, he is impervious to training. He's been to hardcore, expensive one-on-one obedience school, but that went nowhere. I've read a million dog behavior books, watched tutorials on-line, and tried several different techniques used by other dog owners with no success. We basically need Caesar Milan. To live with us. In short, Opes, Ope the Dope, Lord Charles Oppenheimer III, Heimer and sometimes Asshole Face was at the pound for a reason.
I remember the day vividly. We drove up to Maine. It was snowing like a bastard and we almost got into an accident as we pulled into the shelter parking lot. We walked inside and asked to meet Opie. The staff were basically tripping over themselves trying to help us out. They were polite. Almost too polite, but you can never tell in Maine. When I asked the vet how long he was at the shelter she answered, without hesitation:
11 days!
She didn't have to think about it. She knew. No question.
But I could have sworn she added a quiet …this time a few beats later. Had Opie been through the system before? Was he a re-offender?
I was too busy playing with his big floppy ears to pay any attention. We fell in love. Instantly. We took him for a short test drive and he was prancing along as proud as could be. He was smiling even. There wasn't a question in the world that he was the dog for us. So we decided on the walk that we would pull the trigger. He was coming home with us.
As we made our way back to the office we stopped at the car to get our paperwork ready. The door was open and Opie jumped right into the backseat.
Look, he knows which car we drive. He's so smart. He must have smelled us. He's a real hound dog. Wow, this is a sign. We have to get him now.
We came back into the office and told the staff that we were going to adopt Opie. They all rejoiced. Wow, I thought. These people are really dedicated to animals. How lovely.
The vet pulled out a folder and began the paper work right away. She told us that if we took Opie home with us, that day, she would wave the normal adoption fee. We would only be required to pay for the medical bills he ran up while he was in their custody. Not a big deal. In total it was like $80. We couldn't believe our luck. We were getting a purebred Foxhound puppy for $80. What a deal! We signed on the dotted line, and within minutes we were the proud owners of Opie.
As we left, the entire staff wished us an onimous good luck!
Opie climbed into the passenger seat and fell asleep on my girlfriend's lap for the entire ride back to Boston. He snored for 4 hours straight. It was adorable. He didn't budge.
He slept for about 18 hours a day for the first week. I even commented that we must have the "chillest dog on the planet." But of course, that was short-lived. In no time Opie's unique personality came through. We had a wild man on our hands. He destroyed two heavy-duty crates by actually bending the bars, with his head, like a deranged zoo animal. So we tried to cordon him off in the kitchen instead of the dangerous crate situation. We barricaded the door with sofas, two useless cages, boxes, shelves, ottomans but when we returned home he would be sitting on the couch in the living room eating a pillow. He also escaped, like Houdini, from the house about a dozen times. He'd run the streets trying to find his way back to Maine. Or Mexico. Anywhere, but here. We'd eventually track him down, but we knew it was only a matter of time before he was run over by a bus because he never looked both ways. North Quincy isn't exactly Maine. If we left him in the car he would wind up chewing the entire interior. He ate all of our seats. He'd howl at prey that didn't exist. He was a lunatic. He was a hunting dog. Not a house pet.
It took us months for him to finally trust us. I gave him a pep talk one day telling him that he wasn't going anywhere. He was stuck with us for life.
So I could relate to all the shenanigans Marley put Owen and Jennifer "beef drapes" Anniston through. I became engrossed in the film. We kept looking at each other laughing at all the common traits Opie and Marley shared. They even played Dennis Wilson's River Song. A track I have fantasized as my own opening scene of the screenplay I have yet to write. Hey, this movie isn't so cheesy after all. I was laughing at all the same jokes as people in the audience. I was feeling good. I was happy.
My ADD finally subsided and before I knew it Marley was in the later stages of his life. The point in the book where I decided to stop reading. I nudged my girlfriend and motioned to the door. She shook her head no. I thought about maybe taking a walk. Or checking on the car.
Marley, now with a distinguished white face, took a laborious step up the stairs. Owen swallowed hard realizing that his days with his best friend were numbered. The golf ball I don't remember swallowing started to make its way up through my esophagus. I was in the red zone. I tried desperately to force my mind to wander to my happy place, but I couldn't. I was trapped in theater 13.
Things went from bad to worse. The writers teased the sniff of death quite cleverly as Marley suddenly went missing. Did he wander off to die alone? Was he struck by a car? Where is Marley?! Where the fuck is the little guy? Marley returned, but he wasn't doing well. He was lethargic and sick.
It was time.
I started doing the math on Opie. If we are lucky we will only have the little fella around for another 9-12 years. That's if we are lucky. I began to think about the dreaded day when we would be the ones at the vet carrying our little friend in his favorite brown blanket as other pet owners stare at the floor trying to avoid eye contact. I was beyond the point of no return. The tears jumped from my eyes without bothering to run down my cheeks. They just fell onto my lap. I suddenly had strep throat and I was trying to control my breathing.
The vet left Owen with his pal during their final moments together. Owen held onto Marley and gave him one final scratch behind the ear before he took his last breath.
Quietly, he was gone.
I was not only crying, but I was sobbing uncontrollably. Behavior appropriate for the side of a casket. I was doing my best to avoid the sudden intake of air. A sound so distinguishable and one that transcends all ambient noises for a one mile radius. I lost it. I was wheezing. Sniffling. Moaning. I was a complete mess.
The credits rolled and the audience silently headed for the exits. Lots of sniffling. Even the group of teenagers in our row left with their heads hung low. We sat in our seats until everybody was gone. The cleaning crew started making their way into the theater as we left. The tears dried up, but our eyes were swelled up. I was grateful that we were alone. My girlfriend went to the bathroom and I waited by the door thinking of my little guy at home. I couldn't wait to tackle him when I walked through the door. And take him for a walk. Let him chew on a remote control if he wanted to. I'd let him eat the rest of our couch. He was about 25% of the way through. Why not let him take the whole thing down. We could sit on the floor. I wouldn't matter.
I heard the toilet flush and walked over to the ladies room door where I imagined we would embrace and walk out of the theater together with a little bit of dignity. At that moment theater 12 let out. Suddenly the quiet hallway was filled with people who had just seen Gran Torino. Oh fuck. They were in a completely different mindset than I was, and it bothered me. I felt like they were robbed. They saw the wrong movie. I looked at the floor. Praying that I wouldn't bump into anyone I knew. Not in this condition. I started thinking of excuses. Allergies. The flu. Bad news at home.
Finally my girlfriend appeared and we made a bee line to the exit. Back to the poorly parked electric blue JETTA.
One step closer to my best friend who never lets me down.
I was waiting for my train home tonight at Downtown Crossing when I stumbled upon this little gem scribbled on the wall. At first glance, I mistook it for another piss poor attempt at a graffiti tag, but upon closer inspection it revealed to be some sort of math equation. A code perhaps?
Is it addition? Multiplication? Nah, can't be. Nothing makes sense. 70+70+70=210. Or is that a 90? Yes, that last one is a 90. Ok so what's with the 380? How did they arrive at the 380? I could hear my train rattling into the station, but I wasn't happy because I needed to figure this out and I was afraid I didn't have enough time. I decided to snap a picture and figure out the logic on the train.
I couldn't. And still can't. Please someone, anyone, help me solve this mystery. Why the 380? Why? How? I realize I am probably looking for answers that don't exist, and will end up in my garage scribbling out equations ultimately chasing madness. What was this vandalism-prone mathematician trying to work out? Help me. Please.
I don't have the analytical aptitude to solve this. I am left brained. Or right brained? I don't know. You see, this is evidence in and of itself. A left/right brain person would know the difference.
I wasn't exactly at standout in math. In fact, I scored about one notch above a mentally challenged kangaroo on my SATs. I somehow, much to the chagrin of my parents who spent good money, which they didn't have, on a private education, ended up with an impressive 370 on the math portion of the exam.
On my second attempt. Hey, some people don't test well.
And I think you get 200 points just for showing up. This left me with (carry the two) only 170 points of actual points that I earned on my own. I was never brimming with confidence in classes related to mathematics, but this indelible benchmark wasn't exactly, what the French call, a self-esteem boost. I understood, conceptually, the logical reasoning behind theories, but could not translate that knowledge into execution.
I was essentially this guy:
My teachers, to their credit, always spent extra time with me because they thought I was "this close" to having a breakthrough. Invariably, they would follow the same strategy, and ask me to explain, in plain English, what needed to happen to solve for X. And I could. Like a scientist, I would expound on each step, and they would send me on my way certain that I would succeed.
Ms. Mary Madden, a legendarily kind woman who took a shine to me, spent hours preparing me for a do or die calculus exam. She put me through the paces in multiple one-on-one sessions. After which, she was absolutely, positively convinced I was going to pass.
The day after the exam she handed out the results, face-down of course, and made comments to each student on their performance.
Well done Michael. I am very proud of you. Anthony, great signs of improvement. This is a terrific step forward for you. Joseph, I expected a little more from you, but there is still time for you to catch up.
She eventually made her way over to me. She gave the most genuinely warm smile as she handed back my exam. No words were needed I thought. She was beyond proud of me, and we shared a quiet moment together that nobody else in the classroom could possibly understand. I returned her maternal gesture with my sincerest expression of gratitude.
I anxiously turned the book around waiting to see just how well I did. Unlike most math exams I had taken, I felt really good about this one. I nearly aced it. Being a realist, I didn't expect a 95 or above, but was thinking I would fall somewhere in the low 90s.
Then, my world came crashing down. I saw my favorite athlete's number written in a gentle hand in red felt pen. No more. No less. There wasn't a circle around the number. No percentage sign. Not an underline. Not a comment or a smiley face. Just the number.
33
She asked us to pair up with the student sitting next to us, and go over the exam answer by answer to see where we made our mistakes. She excused herself and walked to the ladies room. I was speechless. My parents were threatening to take me out of school because we couldn't afford the tuition, and frankly, my grades didn't warrant that sort of sacrifice. I was given multiple chances to redeem myself, but I never seized the opportunity. I remained a very mediocre student. Never living up to my full potential as so many report card comments had indicated.
I snapped.
My seat happened to be located on the left side of the classroom directly next to the chalkboard we never used. I wound up as hard as I could and punched the chalkboard with a left hay maker.
FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!
The entire classroom froze. Chalk dust, ingrained in walls since the 1950s rained down on my entire row. Ms. Madden's footsteps reverberating out in the hallway came to an abrupt stop.
She appeared in the doorway, and with a loving smile quietly told me to get my belongings and meet her outside. Great. I was totally fucked. Not only did I bomb the exam giving my parents all the reason they needed to pull me out of school, but I was layering on a disciplinary problem as well. I gathered up my books and stuffed them into my bag and met her in the hallway.
I expected her to send me to the office where I would meet my old friend the Dean of Discipline. We were on a first name basis. He was a really good guy, but he was known for being a relentless ball buster. The Jesuits have a twisted sense of humor and like to completely fuck with students heads. They call it JUG which stands for Justice Under God.
Unlike most detentions, JUG was used an opportunity for the Jesuits to impart some sort of wisdom on the rule breakers. Aka bust our balls. It was never as simple as sitting in a room for 45 minutes. Instead, they'd have us write 10 page essays on "what it must be like to be a turkey at Thanksgiving time," "the social and economic implications colored papered clips have on society," and my favorite "Is Booby Orr still the greatest hockey player of all-time?" And if you knew your audience he sure as hell was. Or they'd have us march around the flagpole in single file. By the end of the JUG we probably walked 6 miles albeit in a tight circumference. Sometimes, they'd have us tell jokes, and if the priest laughed, we could go free. They never did, and it wasn't because they were easily offended. Other times, we'd mop floors or pick up trash. That option, however, was short-lived because they caught us dumpster diving and filling our trash bags with already spoken for garbage. Apparently trash, in the trash, was not considered litter.
If you really fucked up they would make you write out the Student Handbook. If you didn't finish the entire 100 page document (nobody did) during the JUG you were allowed to take it home and submit it the following morning. I did this, twice, and learned the hard way that they actually read each page line for line. I snuck in a little editorial in the middle pages which they of course found right away. The priest crumpled up the paper in front of me and told me to write it out again. Then he laughed in my face.
If you really, really fucked up they would call you for Saturday JUG. It was rare, but I also had the pleasure of this unique learning experience.
I spent an entire Saturday in the catacombs of the rectory unlocking a wall of lockers. The priest handed me a giant ring of keys, and told me to make sure all the lockers were opened and left unlocked. There were probably 100, identical and unlabeled, keys on this ring. It was torturous.
Nope. Nope. Nope. Not this one either. Or this one. Not this one either. Nope. Not a match. This isn't the key. Not this one either. Gotta be this one. Nope. OK, this one. Nope. Fucker. Slut. Nope. Nope. OK, this is it. Nope. No. No. No. No. Nope. Wrong. Not this one. Oh this is fucking bullshit. Nope. Fuck. Whore. Nope. No. Nooooo. No. No. Nope. Nope. Nope. CLICK! Yes! OK, I am on a roll. Here we go. No. No. Nope. Nope. Not this one. This is not the correct key. Nope. Fucker. Nope.
After 4 exhaustive hours I managed to unlock all of the lockers and summonsed the priest as I had been instructed.
Finished already? OK, let's have look.
We went back downstairs and he congratulated me on my thoroughness, but wondered why I didn't leave each key in the lock? Seemed to be a wasted step in his opinion. Fucking Jesuits!
So I was back to square one. I repeated the process, but this time left the key in each locker as he directed. A step he deliberately left out of his instructions, the prick. All part of building character I supposed.
The priest came back downstairs and nodded approvingly at the wall of lockers. He told me I had done a terrific job. Next, he wanted me to lock all of the lockers, but this time put the keys back on the ring. No doubt for the next victim to go through this futile exercise.
Seems like a colossal waste of time, doesn't it? Well, this is about as unproductive as acting up in school. Now get out of here, and I don't want to see you back any time soon.
Regardless of what form of punishment was handed out it was never a simple exchange of time. And I am convinced their late night whiskey fueled rants on Joyce in the rectory were only interrupted by ideas on how to fuck with us. I have to hand it to the Jesuits, they were always creative.
Instead of a trip to the Dean, Ms. Madden showed mercy. She put her hand on my shoulder and told me to take the rest of the period off. No books. No study hall. Just walk around campus and cool off. This wasn't the end of the world she insisted. We would meet tomorrow to discuss how I could pass the course. Then she told me that I probably stopped the presses at The Boston Globe, which was across the street, with my F-bomb. Very impressive.
Meanwhile back in the present day, I was rumbling along the red line tracks on the other side of The Globe trying to figure out an equation some halfwit scribbled on public property. It was a self-imposed JUG. Some moron used a Sharpie to figure out his bills, a shopping list, a drug exchange or some other bullshit and I was obsessing over what it meant. His train probably came, and he left the equation where it was, but continued his problem-solving on the wall of the subway car.
70+70+90=230/380
Life is too short to waste time on unproductive matters. I have the Jesuits to thank for that.
Ad maiorem Dei gloriam.
But if someone in the audience can figure out what 380 means I would be grateful. No shit.
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