Insufficient Funds

Up in the air

2011-10-07T17:09:00.001-04:00

Great news. Our new travel policy is in place at work.

Send an Excel spreadsheet with specific line items of cost to Account manager.
Wait for approval (can take up to 24 hours.)
Book the travel.

Good thing airline fares are fixed over time.

I'm a PC

2011-10-06T03:52:00.000-04:00

This morning I took a cab to work. Not a common occurrence especially given the $30-35 fare when you factor in the morning rush hour traffic. You see, I woke up late. I worked until 1:30am the night before. On my 8th anniversary no less. Honey, I hope you enjoy the ads I made for you.

For us.

Where was I? Of yeah, the cab. Well, as I was hustling to the train station this morning after sleeping through my cell phone alarm. I had a 10:00 creative review with the "big client" and couldn't be late. I was fast walking like chicks who just had a baby, and exercise on the beach every Tuesday with their overweight friend Maureen. Moving my arms with determination, and with labored breathing, I looked at the subway app on my phone.

No. Impossible. This thing is wrong. No way.

According to the app there were several trains on the north side of the city, but none on the south side. My side. There must have been some sort of accident. Or incident as they like to call it. Weird, I never got the alert. Fuck. If all went according to this schedule I would arrive, with one transfer, at my stop at 10:17am sharp.

Exactly 17 minutes late for a meeting I was running. Awesome.

Realizing my desperate fate, I dove into the backseat of a cab waiting outside the station.

Back Bay station!

The cabbie sensing my desperation stepped on it. Or he just did what was inherently familiar to him and drove like an asshole. We weaved in and out of traffic like an ambulance with a stroke victim in the back. Right up until we got to the bridge. The fucking bridge that has been under construction for over 2 years. As the three lanes merged into one, I asked the driver if he knew how long this "Little Dig" would take to complete. He said he didn't know.

Says October 2012. Looks like we have one more year of this bullshit, I informed him while tinkering with my phone.

We spoke a lot about construction projects, and wondered if it would be cheaper to run a 24/7 crew for a few months versus the typical work schedule of two 8 hour shifts over a few years. I brought up Carmageddon, the work that happened over the summer on the 405 in Los Angeles. If I remembered correctly, the contractor needed to complete 10 miles of construction in 48 hours, or he would face ridiculous penalties. Like a million dollars per half hour. The cabbie didn't believe me. And I assured him it was true. I had friends in LA who told me about this.

Nope, I lied. It was 53 hours. Not 48. Yeah, it says here that they even finished earlier than expected. Can you imagine being in charge of that project? What balls?

We finally got over the quarter-mile bridge, and I checked my app to see if the subway had caught up to us. It hadn't, but it was close. We hit a snarl on the highway. A fender bender right at the Morrissey Blvd. exit. I checked the map, and it looked like it was clean sailing after the bottleneck. And true to form, once we got past the hard-ass Statie lecturing the two commuters who accidentally bumped each other we were fine. Traffic moved along at the normal pace just like my screen indicated.

We zipped in and out of side streets in the South End. We were making such great time that I began to think we had enough time to hit Starbucks before my meeting. I would have blown someone for an iced coffee. I was tired. Really tired, and the meeting would be better, I rationalized, if I were more alert. We'd sell the idea in if I were just able to get my coffee.

We're gonna make it. We're gonna do this.

And that's when I saw him.

He was wearing a grey hoodie sweatshirt over his head concealing most of his face which was otherwise covered by a scraggly beard. He was dancing on the yellow lines, and peering into cars stuck at the red light as if they were trespassing onto his private property. He was outraged. I mean, after all, this was his main city thoroughfare. He was entitled to make sure only "friendlies" passed through on his watch. He shouted. He grimaced. He made hand gestures. He walked backwards into oncoming traffic.

OH SHIT?!?!?!?!

Yep, the junkie walked directly into a city bus that was careening down the street. He wasn't clobbered like Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black, but instead just sort of walked into the side of the bus like a clueless moose on a Maine highway. Naturally, he stayed on his feet thanks to the drugs coursing through his veins. At 9:48am. He sauntered off to the side of the road, and suddenly found danger where it didn't exist. His brain was about 30 seconds behind reality so he panicked as he bumped into a parked car. He put his hands in the air, and crab-walked sideways to avoid being crushed by the stationary vehicle. He looked around wondering if anyone saw just how close he came to getting crushed by the parked car. He gave an incredulous look of disgust to imaginary passerby who still remained out of his focus.

Did he…just get…

Yes, the cabbie assured me. Yes, this guy was six milometers from death. And he will never know how close he came. Ever.

Right now, this man sleeps in an alley, or a shelter, with a perfectly healthy pancreas, while arguably the greatest innovator of our time lies on a slab. This junkie will live to the ripe old age of 84. His days will be filled with chasing a high. Shoplifting, begging and robbing to get his fix. He will be a net loss on society yet Steve Jobs' life ended prematurely this afternoon at the age of 56.

But that's not the crime. It's us. Not the helpless cases like the poor slob who battles demons in his grey hoodie every day. It's those of us who swim in the middle. The ones who appear successful yet are squarely positioned in the sea of mediocrity. The ones who commute every day to an otherwise meaningless job. We're the ones who won't learn the ultimate lesson of this great loss. We'll continue to produce things that are just good enough, and meet our budget and timeline. We'll consume television shows that are common and safe. We'll patronize chain restaurants. We'll listen to music that is spoon fed to us by conglomerate record labels. We'll pay exorbitant fees to see these bands in concerts, and pay $9.25 for a draft beer.

That's what bums me out.

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life selling sugary water, or a chance to change the world?"

Most of us are selling sugary water.

Including me.

As such, we should expect to spend more time in traffic.

Midlife Crisis

2011-09-15T18:10:00.000-04:00

I'm really good at…

2011-09-02T21:04:00.000-04:00

…starting things.

I am not so good at finishi

Chillin'

2011-03-21T16:37:00.000-04:00

Rubber walls

2010-12-14T23:55:00.002-05:00

Thumbs to yourself

2010-12-09T20:08:00.000-05:00

This video requires no editorial.

Only the good die young

2010-10-25T21:23:00.001-04:00

1979-2010

You were with me—well at least while your AA batteries lasted, which wasn't that long because I usually left you on overnight—in the good times, but more importantly in the bad times.

Breakups. Zits that cropped up on a Thursday morning only to mature into a full-on whitehead by Friday night. The last few seasons of the Facts of Life. Going to an all-boys high school. Taking the subway to the all-boys high school while rich kids drove cars that are nicer than anything I've ever owned. Or will own. Realizing that my peen had reached its maximum growth potential. Jerking off to MTV.

Bobby Brown. Paula Abdul. Eddie Money. Milli Vanili. Richard Marx. Eazy E.

Girbauds. Skidz. Not that I wore them. Well, once. But they weren't mine. I borrowed them. For a dance.

Blue balls.

Bill Buckner. Jim McMahon. Len Bias. Ronald Reagan. Michael Dukakis.

New Coke. Parted down the middle, feathered back. HIV. AIDS. Bobby McFerrin. Full Blown AIDS.

Lybians. Commies. Say No to Drugs. Chess King.

New Kids on the Block. Cher. Peter Cetera.

Peter Cetera and Cher.

Thank you Al Gore

2010-10-19T22:13:00.000-04:00

Should you find me atop the Tobin Bridge ready to end it all please remind me of this little piece of magic.

Mea Dogeza

2010-07-21T12:46:00.000-04:00

I have big plans for this blog…and others. Thanks for checking in, and hopefully it will be worth the wait.

Thanks and sorry,
Matt

Snapshot

2010-06-29T18:54:00.001-04:00

I am working late tonight, but before I ordered food, I decided to be responsible and check my balance(s). Didn't want to eat a $73 pizza. Again.

As of 6:35 EST my financial snapshot is like the gauntlet of big balls in Wipeout.

Almost made it.

10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

2010-03-22T23:53:00.008-04:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!

Wow, 2010 2.0? Can you believe it? Holy shit. It seems just like yesterday that we were celebrating 2010 1.0 when some of us made unrealistic resolutions. It's been a while so let me bring everyone up to speed.

First, I wrote this:

"Although I quite literally limped into 2010 (more on that later) I resolve to write every single day. Should I live to see the year 2011 I anticipate looking back at 365 posts. Not all of them good, but I will write, and hopefully you will comment. I am not looking at you foreign investors. You can stay on the sidelines. Smartphone, however, you are family. Post all you want fella."

Then, I wrote this:

Never have I failed so publicly. Well, that's not true, but never have I failed so publicly and felt this much shame. That's not true either. OK, I fucked up. I posted 9 posts so far in 2010, and all within the first 13 days. But that was so 1.0. Thankfully, Nowruz, the Iranian New Year has given me a renewed sense of purpose.

I'm back.

For now.

So first a bit of housecleaning. Let me welcome all the new folks who have left some incredibly encouraging comments. You helped me through these dark times. And I am pleased as punch to know that I was able to help you through your college assignments, and a tough break-up with your girlfriend who, unfortunately for you, spread her legs, but fortunately for us, because we now have pictures. Which you spread. Like her legs. Oh and to our new Japanese friends let me say Konnichiwa. All are welcome. Have you met SmartPhone?

It's been a tough stretch over here at Insufficient Headquarters. I won't bore you with the details, but it wasn't pretty.

There was a lot of:

And not enough of:

And that's why I look like:

But all of this is changing. No mas. Stay tuned.

CAR KEYS or KHAKIS

2010-01-13T18:21:00.003-05:00

A Masshole's tribute to the now defunct BACON or BEER CAN internet sensation that brilliantly showcased a Rastaman and two buttons 1) Bacon or 2) Beer Can.

Of course, there was only one sound clip.

Baaauuycun

Genius in it's simplicity, it reminded those of us in the "biz" to stop over-engineering simple ideas.

My friends at work joked about creating a Masshole version using my fat mug and thick Boston accent as the "talent." Thirty minutes later we bought the domain name and were off and running.

CAR KEYS or KHAKIS

Thanks Adam HH, Andy, TBO, Raoul, Gib, Jillian, Tyler and Julia (despite not being in the Powerhouse or creating a sweet deck.)

I am going to post every single day

2010-01-12T09:04:00.000-05:00

Updated 3:11 PM

Perhaps, this is a more accurate metaphor?

Updated 3:15 PM

We are like TMZ here at the Funds with our breaking news updates.

How cute are these boots?

2010-01-07T08:29:00.000-05:00

I bumped into a female co-worker this morning while getting coffee. From a distance, I greeted her with a warm hello and a bright smile. Then as she walked around a counter I looked down and saw her foot protected by a walking boot. The ones you see after someone shatters their ankle.

Oh no?! What happened to your foot?

And that's when I saw her other foot. And cast. Whoops.

I tried to mumble something to repair the damage, but it was too late. She was crushed. But she shouldn't be. I am no fashion bug. I mean I shop at Fashion Bug, but that alone doesn't make me so. What do I know about fashion?

In fact, it was just last night that I was reminded how little fashion sense I do have. I was walking into the elevator when I heard two female colleagues say:

Hey Craig you look really nice today. That is a great outfit.

Recognizing their voices, I decided to hold the door for them. As they entered the elevator, I asked the ladies why they liked his outfit. They responded, but I didn't really listen. I think they said something about his shirt.

The doors closed and I could feel them looking me up and down. They weren't checking me out, but it was only natural for them to compare me to Craig. Especially since I had asked.

I asked what they thought about my outfit, and they gave me the "who farted?" face.

You're in Creative. You can get away with looking like you do.

Gooooooooooooooooood Morning Vietnaaaaaaaaaaaaaam!

2010-01-06T23:58:00.002-05:00

I woke up this morning on my back. I don't sleep on my back. I blinked a few times to clear the cobwebs from my eyes. Something felt unnatural. As I gained consciousness, I looked down and saw Scraps licking my balls.

Sort of like this Frosty Paw™ back in the summer.

I'm up! I'm up!

Shabu Shabu

2010-01-05T14:32:00.005-05:00

My friend at work sent me this link. You are required to watch this until the end, and we will discuss this further in the comments section. I've watched it five times already. Keep in mind, this is SCALDING hot water they are being plunged into. Brings a whole new meaning to the dunk tank.

Another example of how the Japanese take a good American idea and perfect it.

Bravo.

Walmart: Save Money. Buy More Cigarettes.

2010-01-04T20:20:00.016-05:00

Thankfully, I had the day off from work today. I was unfit for duty, and thanks to a new benefits package I scored extra holiday time including the first business day after New Year's Day. Only four days into the year, and it couldn't have come sooner. The thought of going back into "that building" makes my skin crawl. In fact, I will probably stand outside "that building" tomorrow morning looking at the revolving door spin around a few thousand times before I have no choice but to step into the class 5 rapids.

(Right now I have both index fingers in my ears and I am doing the lalalalalalalalalala mantra trying to shake the thought of going into "that building" again out of my mind. Der, I am typing with my penis, and because of God's special little gift to me I am able to do so with impressive speed and surgical precision.)

Because the condition of my elephant man leg has been downgraded from "sheer agony" to "very painful" I decided to venture out of the house to get some fresh air on my last day of freedom. Watching another episode of The Smoking Gun's: World's Dumbest Hillbillies threatened to make me as stupid as the felon who thought it was a good idea to sign the waiver form allowing his face to be shown while being carted off to jail. You're a genius.

I didn't have much on my plate aside from a couple of errands and a vet appointment at 3:20 in Weymouth. Plenty of time to jerk it up. I figured most people would be at work, and I could zip into Walmart to pickup the new George Forman 360 Grill I've had my eye on lately. Time to be the lean mean grilling machine. Gotta have the right tools to build the cathedral.

When I pulled into the parking lot I shit my pants. I kid. I kid. Not literally, but figuratively of course. Who shits their pants? In this day and age? Yeah, so I was taken aback by how many other people were shopping on a Monday afternoon. I mean, didn't they have to work?

Then it hit me. Oh right, I am at Walmart, the death of hope.

I've been to Walmarts from Brunswick, Maine to Kahului, Hawaii and everywhere in between. Each store has the following commonalities:

Wandering children who are trying to find their mother/auntie/grammy/uncle with a DVD clutched in their sticky little hands.
Overt child abuse both physically and mentally. Put down the fucking DVD. We ain't gettin' it no matter what you do. Don't make me. Put it down. (The DVD is carelessly discarded in the underwear aisle for someone else to deal with) *SLAP*
Pungent and overwhelming odor of cigarette smoke. And not just the kind where someone just had a butt on the way in, and it's still sort of lingering on their clothes. No, this is like from 3 days ago. Fishbowling heaters in the car and the filthy apartment while watching hours of the The Smoking Gun's: World's Dumbest Hillbillies marathon.
FUCKING four cashiers on-duty. Always. And don't get me started on who these four people are manning these checkout counters. Don't get me started.

This particular Walmart, located in Quincy Point, skews more sketchy than the average store. Knowing what I was in for, I put my headphones on and blared Led Zeppelin's Presence drowning out the soundtrack of despair. I bobbed my head on my way to the Kitchen & Dining section while one malnourished cretin after another carelessly maneuvered their beyond-capacity shopping carts though the crowded aisles with the same entitled determination as ambulances racing through rush hour traffic.

Oh to ride the wind, To tread the air above the din Oh to laugh aloud, With dancing eyes we caught the crowds, yeah

I found the exact grill I was looking for in record time. Yup, Tres Platas. I fired the box on my shoulder and made my way to the front of the store. I scanned the crowd from whence I came looking for the express lane. Fortunately, I wouldn't be standing behind anyone with 4 bags of JAX, a carton of Mountain Dew, 7 DVDs, a TiVo, surround sound, a neck pillow, fish tank with eleven gold fish requiring individual price checks, strawberry flavored Slim-Fast milkshake mix, a fishing rod, twin bed fitted sheets, a dozen socks, 5 packages of razor blades, a ConAir foot bath, three 24 packs of Charmin, Spiderman pen/lolipop, Madden NFL 10 for the Wii, motor oil, an EPSON color printer, a set of ivory hidden bracket shelves which are impossible to hang unless you are a master carpenter, tupperware, 9 more DVDs, a bag of Three Muskateer mini candy bars, a 40 lb. bag of Purina puppy chow, cat litter, bird seed, pink lemonade mix, a plant, Dentyne gum, a diet doctor pepper from the sucker fridge at the beginning of the qeue, baby wipes, an emory board, EPT pregnancy test, Sour Cream and Chive Pringles, 4 more DVDs, Bisquick pancake mix, an iron, bicycle pump, 3 pack of sports bras, a BRITA water filter, children's boxing gloves, marbles, and finally an UltraHD Flip video camera.

Oh wait, here's another family member rushing to the cash register with more precious necessities. Thank goodness we didn't forget the frozen sausage breakfast sandwiches, the hair dryer, nail polish, 2 more DVDs, Funions, a PSP Go with 3 games, onion bagels, a beige short-brimmed hat with a dark brown flourish silk screened at an aggressive angle, Fun Dip, and a slice of pizza from the in-house pizza shop. Already paid for that though.

Cash or credit? Do you really need to ask?

Yeah, I would be dealing with none of that horseshit today. I would be making my way right over to the short express lin…no fucking way.

Oh The mighty arms of Atlas, Hold the heavens from the earth From the earth... Earth…

Speedy checkout? Fuck you speedy checkout sign. Don't fucking mock me.

And she said "Don'tcha want, a-don'tcha want go get, go get cocaine" Hadn't planned to, could not stand'a try it, fry it, ow Now, now, now, now, yeah

The lady in front of me kept looking back at me while I counted the items in her shopping cart. Because she had containers I continued to find smaller merchandise tucked away. Pretty sneaky sis. She was DEFINITELY over the 12 item limit, but at this point I was trying to determine by exactly how much.

Personally, I won't go into the express line if I have 13 items. Out of principle. And when I do have 12 items exactly, I find myself counting them out so those behind me can hear me.

The lady realized I had a pretty accurate count on her, and she kept glaring at me. I held her stare while smirking at her and then glancing down at her cart. Not to be a bully, but rather to let her know that I thought she sucked. And she did, because my count was now at a solid 17. In my book, totally unacceptable.

Oh would you please come on? For Christ's sake old lady you've had the manager come to assist you on every transaction. Twenty minutes passed, and I only moved three feet. 1.5 of that was because the dude in front of the hoarder decided to stuff his merchandise in the candy shelf and walk out of the store in a huff. Can't say that I blame him, but I have a cathedral to build.

Nobody's fault but mine
Nobody's fault but mine
Trying to save my soul tonight
It's nobody's fault but mine

Gotcha! Twenty one items—it's official. You know you suck. I know you suck. The smelly guy behind me knows you suck, but more importantly, the kind yet incompetent fossil working the cash register knows you suck. And that hurts you doesn't it? Look at the disgust on her face. It takes her on average about 90 seconds per item and here you come in with 21 items.

I was burned in the heat of the moment,
Though it couldn't have been the heat of the day
When I learned how my time had been wasted,
(And a) tear fell as I turned away

I finally got to the register and greeted the cashier with a smile. It wasn't her fault. It was my fault. I never should have stepped foot into this building. It's not worth it. I could have picked up the same God Damned grilling machine for a $1.43 more at the mall and would have been in and out in 10 minutes. It's like my old man who will travel .75 miles out of the way to get gas for $2.53 versus $2.59. And then wait in line because 23 other a-holes are privy to this great deal in town and think they are putting the screws to the "man". Great, so you have an 18 gallon tank with probably 2 gallons left. You saved yourself about a buck. I am 14 miles ahead of you and will get the better parking spot.

Which brings me to my point (Quick, think of a point. It's getting fucking late and I am tired and I am not sure how to wrap up this rant and I'll have yet another deadline to hit tomorrow night. Shit, I have 361 more deadlines to hit. Boy, am I going to fall on my face.) which is time is the single most important thing we have in this world, and just like the old cashier can't give me back my 25 minutes nor can I give you back this 25 minutes. Spend it wisely kids. Spend it wisely.

You are welcome.

Only Day 3 and I am beginning to resent all of you fuckers

2010-01-03T23:35:00.002-05:00

So this is what it's like to have a daily deadline, eh? Sorry, I mean sohhrrreee, I just watched a documentary aboat pond hockey and I am wishing I spoke like a Canadian.

Alas, I don't. The classy Quincy accent must suffice, but I will honor that dialect with my poor grammar, guy. Fahkin'.

So yeah, here we are. I made a promise to myself, and you, about posting something every day. I am glad I mentioned that not all posts would be good, but now I am wondering if any will be good.

Fuck it.

I know you have options when you turn on the internets and I am happy, and honored, that you fly with us. I will do my best to keep your interest. In the meantime, let me describe to you what I am wearing while I type this utterly pointless post.

Upstairs, I am sporting a white v-neck wife beater. No stains. Downstairs, I am wearing black spandex-like Under Armour underwear(s) that look like biker shorts. The only reason I am wearing these things is because Allie laid out my clothes for me today since I was running late for my niece's Christening. Congratulations Maeve, you did great sweetheart.

I don't know how to say this, so I will just come right out with it.

I just shit my pants.

Yeah, yeah Matt. Whatever. Just a couple of paragraphs ago you were whining about not having any content. Likely story pal. You tried that same gimmick last year during sweeps.

Well. I don't know what to say. About 45 minutes ago, as I typed a period after my nieces name, shit suddenly came out of my asshole. Also, I was not on the toilet so it went into my underwear(s). Like where the vagina would be if I had a vagina. That part of the underwear(s).

I'm not proud of this. I certainly didn't shit myself, again, for the sake of this blog. It just happened. I was about to say how my knee was still really fucked up because of The Gout attack, and I was slow on the uptake this morning getting ready for the Christening because I was hobbling around like Kirk Gibson. Minus the glory and satisfaction of hitting a clutch home run—in a World Series. No, my morning didn't resemble anything remotely athletic, or heroic like that.

But now none of that really matters, does it?

Incredible.

Don't believe me? OK, but this is the real McCoy. Should you click on this link you will see shit, my shit, in this photo—so don't tell me I didn't warn you.

OK, so we are there. Well, some of us. Line crossed. Obliterated.

I promise to explain why I have toddler shit, like my little niece who did so great at her Christening today, in my adult underwear in an upcoming post. It's part of The Gout of the Closet series and I don't want to spoil (too late?) any of the juicy details of my rehabilitation into a normal person again.

See you tomorrow. Here we go, Publish Post.

I am not an elephant. I am not an animal. I am a human being. I am a man!

2010-01-02T23:56:00.010-05:00

Not here,

or here so much…but right here.

Happy New Year Kids

2010-01-01T19:53:00.003-05:00

Although I quite literally limped into 2010 (more on that later) I resolve to write every single day. Should I live to see the year 2011 I anticipate looking back at 365 posts. Not all of them good, but I will write, and hopefully you will comment. I am not looking at you foreign investors. You can stay on the sidelines. Smartphone, however, you are family. Post all you want fella.

Wholly Moses!

2009-12-11T19:57:00.003-05:00

This is my good friend Ian from Hawaii. As you can probably imagine, I had a lot of fun with this guy. Nothing more. I just love this picture and wanted to share.

More posts coming soon. I promise.

Gout of the closet: Part 1

2009-12-01T22:39:00.002-05:00

Last year I was outed by my colleague down the hallway at Blogger HQ about my very private medical condition. I felt like I was a celebrity, albeit one on the D-List, like a Road Rules cast member, looking at a photo of myself on PerezHilton.com with jizz drawn on my face.

That son of a bitch!

But then I was relieved, because just like my blog nobody reads his either—so what better place to hide a secret? We could both post sensitive information like our social security numbers along with our mother's maiden name, and rest easy at night knowing that our small fortunes would be completely secure.

So let me tell you about this medical condition known as The Gout. Basically, it's a form of arthritis whereby tiny crystals form in the joints because of elevated uric acid levels in the blood. This condition typically plagues Olympian athletes, weight trainers, long-distance swimmers, surfers, extreme mountain climbers and triathletes. Although, there is no medical evidence supporting my claim, I do theorize the crystal buildup has something to do with large quantities of endorphins being released into the body after strenuous workouts. And because I have a low body fat ratio coupled with an over-active metabolism my lean figure can't keep the uric acid in balance like the average man.

It could also be hereditary and result from a poor diet. Although that varies from athlete to athlete. For instance, the main trigger foods for me, and this is absolutely true, include: turkey, asparagus, and mushrooms. Doesn't exactly fit the Rich Man's Disease moniker does it? And this blog isn't called What should I do after I max out my 401k and 529 plans for children I don't have yet because I don't want all this money to just sit in my Savings account is it?

Stage 1: Denial
My first attack occurred a few years ago. I woke up with searing pain in my big toe. It felt like my foot had been smashed with a hammer, covered in gasoline and then lit on fire. I limped to the bathroom trying to figure out what the fuck happened. Could I have possibly broken my foot while asleep? I didn't recall going to bed with a traumatic injury. I wasn't in a car accident. I didn't drop a piano on my foot. Seriously, what the fuck is happening? I was groaning so badly that Allie woke up from a sound sleep. She rushed into the bathroom where she thought I was having a heart attack. I explained that I had broken my foot, somehow, and she didn't need to freak out. I was fine.

I think.

She was just as confused as I was, but after taking one look at the swollen red mess agreed that my foot was indeed broken. She insisted that I go straight to the emergency room, but I was "in between jobs" and didn't have any health insurance. I refused. I wasn't going to sit in the ER with filthy animals who didn't have health insurance and were using it like their own primary care doctor (Yes, I am aware of the glaring hypocrisy.) Plus, they would probably just tell me to elevate my foot and apply ice packs to the swollen area. I could save myself a miserable 6 hour waiting room experience and $800.

Fuck that.

I ate a handful of Tylenol like they were Skittles, and gingerly sat on the couch. I lifted my foot in the air like a slow and methodical crane making certain that I had proper clearance on all sides. The slightest mistake could have catastrophic ramifications. Even the friction of the air hitting my big toe was excruciating, and I began inhaling through my teeth like a figure skater's parent (well the mom anyways because we know the dad is out drinking by the zamboni door wishing his son had a stick in his hand) during a double axel.

Allie got me an ice pack, wrapped in a wet face cloth, and gently rested it on my elevated foot.

AHHHHHH WHAT THE FUCK?!?!

Jesus Christ Al, my foot is broken. Be gentle for Christ's sake.

JEEEsus.

Give me that.

It felt like she dropped a 12 pound bag of ice on my foot like a baggage handler at Delta, but in reality she was as cautious as a bomb squad technician. She could have placed a feather on my foot, and I probably would have had the same reaction.

OK, OK, it's OK. Just please get away from me. I know. I love you too. But please. Just leave.

Seriously, just some space. That's is all that I need.

Fifteen minutes later I decided that the 14oo mg of Tylenol were not kicking in, and it was essential that I double up on the dose. I ate seven more tablets. Twenty minutes later the pain traveled from my big toe and invaded my Achilles heel. I had a rapid heart beat on my heel. The pain not only expanded, but seemed to intensify. By any standard, I was crying. I may not have had tears coming out of my eyes, but I was crying. Perhaps whimpering.

Allie became increasingly concerned and decided to investigate my symptoms on WebMD. After a few minutes she came back upstairs and informed me I had "The Gout."

I don't have "The Gout." I don't. No I don't want to hear it. No.

The she read me all the symptoms despite my protest:

Warmth, pain, swelling, and extreme tenderness in a joint, usually a big toe joint. This symptom is called podagra.

Check.

Pain that starts during the night and is so intense that even light pressure from a sheet is intolerable.

Check.

Very red or purplish skin around the affected joint, which may appear to be infected.

Check.

Rapid increase in discomfort, lasting for some hours of the night and then easing during the next few days.

What?!

Did you just say few days? Oh my God. No. Please no. It really says a few days?

I was crying. Actual tears this time.

She retreated back downstairs to continue her research. She quickly returned and asked me how many milligrams of Tylenol I had taken with a twinge of concern in her voice.

Why?

And that's when I learned that aspirin, taken during an acute attack, will exacerbate the pain. It was like I just heard the brown acid speech at Woodstock.

Get the car keys. No, I am not going to hospital. We're going to the projects. I need drugs. I need to score some pills. No, I am dead serious.

Where's Jeff Gillooly?

Whhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?

Slap 'n sniff

2009-11-30T13:13:00.003-05:00

NSFW unless you work in porn. Or advertising. Or you are unemployed and sitting naked in the office chair you bought at Staples and your ass is sticking to the faux leather because you just jerked off for the 5th time this morning and you built up a sweat and you forgot to put the towel underneath you because it's on the other side of the room and who can resist the busty pregnant latino threesome :45 video clip? Or you own the joint. Or you don't care. But definitely SFW if you have headphones. Louis CK is an absolute genius. You might know him from the material Dane Cook pilfered and currently uses in his act.

Happy belated Halloween

2009-11-23T15:22:00.005-05:00

The Real Douche Bags of New Jersey: Junior Varsity. The dreadful cycle continues. I believe this is what some refer to as cultural relativism.

No, no, you look great. How was Florida?

Can you imagine what their pillow covers look like?

Yet, they are constantly "pulling wool" as a friend from New Jersey said of this pathetic species. What then, does it say about their female counterpart who swoon over this look?

Thank You Colonel

2009-11-18T11:23:00.002-05:00

In death we are reminded how to live.

Don't Let Me Be the Last to Know

2009-11-04T21:32:00.009-05:00

I met two friends out for lunch. I spotted them from across the street, and we met in the crosswalk. I greeted them with a warm smile and an enthusiastic hello. They just glared at me.

Does Britney know you have her hat?

Great. Not a hello. Not a wave. Just a simple cut down at the knees to start the lunch. I happen to like my "gay commie hat" as my father calls it.

It didn't let up. They busted my balls throughout the entire lunch. Relentless ball-breaking.

A few days passed, when my guard was down, and I got an IM from Rachel.

R: Hey I saw someone with the same hat as you.
M: Yeah? The commie hat?
R:

M: Ouch.

The boy who cried Falcon

2009-10-15T21:54:00.007-04:00

I can relate to Falcon Heene.

When I was his age my cousin Eileen and I (allegedly) dialed the operator and yelled FIRE! into the phone. It was hilarious. So much so that we decided to repeat the stunt multiple times, but with each call, elevating our urgency.

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!

My Aunt wondered what we were laughing about and Eileen, even at age 6, was quick to manufacture a cover story. Matt farted.

Awesome. She bought it, and left us alone in the parlor. We giggled and debated on whether we should call the operator again, but just as we were about to make the longest trip on the dial we heard the first wave of sirens.

We looked out the window toward M Street Park and saw a cavalcade of fire trucks racing down the hill. These trucks were in a hurry. You can always tell when they are going to a real call, and when they are going to a routine cat-in-the-tree sort of thing. This was the former because the firemen were hitting the get-the-fuck-out-of-the-way honk often. That's never a good sign.

I shit my pants. Eileen on the other hand was calm as a cucumber.

Look at all the fire trucks! she exclaimed to the entire family who were now all gathered behind us investigating the ruckus outside. Everyone wondered what was happening. Whatever it was—it was serious.

Then the phone rang.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnggggggggggg

My heart exploded. My balls were in my esophagus and I was on the verge of tears. My uncle was walking toward the ringing phone, but his eyes were still locked on the scene developing outside on the street below.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnnnnnggggggggggg

The operator was calling back. She traced the number. Just like in the movie When a Stranger Calls she knew where it originated from, and the call is coming…from inside the house!

Could they send a 6 year old to jail? They must.

Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnrrrrrrrnnn

Here goes. I'm done. It's over.

Yeah, this is crazy. I know. No, we are all OK. What do you think is happening? I know. I've never seen this many fire trucks in my life. I don't know, but whatever it is—it's serious.

OK, that wasn't it, but sooner or later they would come to get us. We were dead. I was going to jail. It was beginning to get intense. Three floors below, firemen and policemen were frantically racing to each house on the block asking residents if they had an emergency in their home.

Meanwhile, Eileen was talking freely as if she were completely taken aback, like the rest of the neighborhood, by the developing episode.

I wonder if Papa and Nanny are OK?

Nahhhh! She couldn't be THAT cold. My grandparents lived across the street, and it was at that moment I realized I was dealing with a pro. My cousin, just seven months my senior, was like a cocky drug smuggler toying with a customs agent. And I was on the verge of blowing our cover. I bravely retreated to the bathroom and hid in the tub. I began to cry.

The door creaked open and Eileen peaked her head from behind it, and shook her head at the sight of me cowering in the bathtub. She insisted that we had nothing to worry about. They can never trace it to us. We were fine, but I was going to blow it if I keep acting like a sissy.

Then the doorbell rang.

OK this was it. They've found us. I began sobbing.

My uncle skipped down the steps and met a fireman at the front door. He was told that there were several emergency calls, made by kids, to the operator. They couldn't trace the exact location, but they could isolate it to this block.

Discovering there wasn't an emergency at our address, the fireman moved onto the next house. I could hear my uncle walking back up the steps, and he announced to my aunt that it was probably just a bunch of kids making crank calls. And those kids should get their necks wrung. Little assholes.

Kids, what do you want for lunch? Do you want a grilled cheese? Or should we wait and go over to Papa and Nanny's for an early dinner? They are cooking a roast.

Jack Chop kid

2009-10-15T08:42:00.001-04:00

Headphones required for Adam Green's latest short:

Layaway plan for people in Lynn?

Suspension of disbelief: Part 1

2009-10-09T08:34:00.003-04:00

Last night I got caught jerking off. By a cop. In my home.

Allie and I were watching television, but apparently she grew tired of How Things are Made and decided to call it a night. She asked me if I was coming to bed, but I declined because I wanted to see how they put tinfoil tops on yogurt packaging. She asked me again, but this time gave me a look like "hey fat fuck you have an outside shot of tearing off a piece tonight so don't blow it. I'm only going to ask once."

Temptation got the best of me.

I kissed her goodnight and assured her that I would be up soon. Nope. Not too late. Love you too. Night. What? OK. I will. I said I will. OK. Night. I won't. OK. Night.

Why are all these manufacturing jobs in Canada, eh? It would be fun to work on an assembly line. Pulling levers (which I would pronounce leevers) all day long. Getting 15 minute breaks. Leaving work at work. Going on strikes. Picketing. Blaming the bastards in management! Joining a union. Going to meetings. And asking tough questions at those meetings. I would be loved. And hated. But always respected.

OK none of this is true. I would be a mediocre assembly line worker. At best. But I did get caught jerking off by a cop while in my own home. So let's stay on track here.

I too grew bored of How it's Made and decided to turn on the internets for some special alone time. Normally, I would go down into the cellar for privacy, but we are painting our basement so my computer is temporarily setup in the dining room. It isn't ideal for special alone time because, well, we don't have shades, blinds, or nary a curtain. It's wide open. And we live in historical North Quincy which means my neighbors, who are 3 feet away, can read what I am typing. Right now.

I decided to improvise and use beach towels and blankets for cover, but I soon discovered that I could only block 6 of the 8 windows. I thought about going upstairs to get more towels and/or blankets, but our stairs creak and the dogs would certainly wake up Allie. Fuck that. I blew it. That ship has sailed. No way I could get a piece now. I decided that 6 of the key windows were blocked, and the only way someone could see me working out is if they were actually standing on my front steps.

I confidently sat in the captain's chair, cracked my knuckles, stretched and got right down to business. I went to my favorite back alleys of the internets and began clicking away. Every now and again, I would peer at the windows to make sure everything was copacetic. It was.

Before long, I had completely transcended my reality, and found myself on a patio in Van Nuys hanging out with Vanessa and April. Or was it April and Vanessa? Either way, they both found me incredibly funny. And handsome. My oh my was this new calorie counting diet working out. It made my snake tattoo on my rib cage really stand out against my six pack abs. And I don't know if it was the light, but this was the first time I could actually get 2 and a half fists on the flagpole.

I was ripped out of my dreamlike trance by the closing of a car door. I leaned back. Pulled the orange, pink and yellow seashell towel aside and looked in my neighbor's driveway. Oh good, it wasn't her. If it had been, she would have certainly heard the cries of passion because Angela, I mean, April was a loud one. Or was it Vanessa?

Relieved, I sat back into the captain's chair and apologized to April and Vanessa. Where were we? Oh right.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in blue standing on my front steps. I looked over, and saw him peering into the window. Before I could make eye contact, he had turned to run down the stairs. I jumped up. Tore the seashell towel from the window and ran to investigate. When I got to the front door I saw a police man jumping into his cruiser. He quickly put the vehicle into reverse. Hit the brakes. Put it into drive and peeled out down the street.

I was left standing there, confused, at the open front door with a seashell towel and half a boner. I decided to go outside on the porch and look through the same window. Just to make sure he had the proper vantage point from where he was standing. Unfortunately, he had a clear shot. Back and to the right. Back and to the right. In fact, because of the god damned French doors Allie insisted we install, the cop could actually see the reflection of the monitor.

And that got me thinking. What about April and Vanessa? I can't leave them hanging. Like a professional, I dusted myself off and sat back in the captain's chair and finished my business with the girls.

I creeped up the stairs like a dirty cockroach and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. And that's when the shame set it. While looking in the mirror I was forced to face myself and my demons. I felt like an animal. I was just caught jerking off. By a cop. In my home.

Was that illegal? Would there be a report?

I crawled into bed hoping like hell I wouldn't wake anyone up, but of course, the dogs were happy to see me and began wagging their tails. They were like "oh hey, I know you. What's up? Whattaya doing here? Good to see you. You hungry? We should totally go downstairs and open that thing. Get some food. I think you have some roast beef left."

Then Opie started licking his balls, and I curled up into a tighter fetal position praying that I would fall asleep.

To be continued…

Intervention

2009-10-08T13:56:00.003-04:00

Writing a new one as we speak. Type. Whatever. Should be up tonight. No, not this one. A good one. Maybe.

I had a nice talk with a friend about writing, and I told him that it was like heroin to me. He asked "Well is it? Because all the heroin addicts I know find a way to get high. Every day. What's your deal?"

I'm gonna get fucked up. That's the deal.

Right down the middle

2009-08-26T20:27:00.011-04:00

Perhaps it was reading too many Ayn Rand books, the countless hours spent listening to talk radio (after Howard and the gang went off the air of course,) or the emotional shrapnel left in the wake of 9/11, but a few years ago my political views were slanted considerably right. I was never on-board with the Jesus train, but I was a zealot when it came to fiscal conservatism (even though I never followed that doctrine in my own life—like a fucking hypocritical asshole head—but hey, at least we have a name for this blog) and homeland security.

In 2002 I thought the world was going to end. Literally. I was convinced that we would be attacked at any minute, and more families would suffer like mine did on that otherwise beautiful Tuesday morning.

Not even living on the beach for a year in Hawaii could allay my paranoia. I remained firmly right of center believing the Democrats were handcuffing the Republicans when it came to our protection. The most outspoken opponent of my belief system was none other than Senator Ted Kennedy. Oh boy, did he piss me off.

So one day when a friend asked me to help him out for a Ted Kennedy protest I jumped at the opportunity. We waited outside IBEW Local 103 where he was giving a speech. We held up stupid handmade signs that looked like a 3rd grader with learning disabilities had created them. You know how you start your words off real big, but run out of room and try to make up for it by making each progressive letter smaller and smaller.

We stood out there like a couple of idiots getting verbally abused from people in passing cars.

Get a life! Get a job! (how did they know?) Fucking pussies! Nazi fucks! Get the fuck out of my neighborhood.

But this only strengthened our resolve. We were obviously making an impact. Causing a stir. So we held our signs even stronger. We held the shit out of our signs.

By the time the Senator's motorcade came zipping by we were worked up into a tizzy. God damn it, Kennedy would hear the voice of reason by reading my ridiculous sign. He would have an epiphany, or so I thought, alerting his staff to a compulsory meeting where he would reverse his policy. Someone call a press conference.

Well, it didn't exactly turn out that way.

As the motorcade drove by he looked right at me and waved. I responded by giving him the finger. It wasn't an ordinary flip-off, but one filled with vitriol. It happened in slow motion. I brought my fist up to my mouth and slowly extended my hand and middle finger as I mouthed a classy FUCK YOU.

He didn't miss a beat. He gave me a giant thumbs up, and smiled widely as if I were his biggest supporter. Before I knew it he and the motorcade were gone, and I was left standing there like the inconsequential piece of shit that I was.

Wow.

He was Mariano Rivera and I was some punk up from Triple A Pawtucket filling in a roster spot while getting my first at-bat in The Bigs.

High heat. Up and in. Called Strike One.

Cutter in the dirt. Swinging Strike Two.

Two-seamed fastball. Strike Three—caught looking.

It was over before I knew it. I was out-matched and out-classed. I sauntered back to the dugout with my sign hanging low. Boy was I humbled.

As time passed, my political views softened. I realized that the approach, I so ardently believed, with securing our safety was not working. In fact, it was completely misguided and flat-out wrong. More and more flag draped caskets were being brought home with little to no progress being made. The concentric circles of pain, just like with 9/11, were beginning to spread at alarming rates. Parents, spouses, children, and friends of these brave soldiers would forever be scarred from the physical and emotional wounds suffered on the battlefield. Meanwhile, I would continue to lead my carefree lifestyle yet shamefully sacrificing nothing.

He was right and I was wrong. Like so many other people I idolize for calling it like it is—Howard Stern, Adam Corolla, Kevin Smith, Bill Maher, and Sean Penn—Teddy Kennedy had the balls to stick to his convictions no matter how wildly unpopular they may have been.

The famous Ad Man Bill Bernbach, whose likeness is portrayed by the Creative Director Don Draper in the AMC hit show Mad Men, held a note in his pocket which read "They might be right."

So now I try to listen more. And listen less.

He's going to the moon with us

2009-08-06T09:06:00.004-04:00

What do you do when you own a mental dog? You get another one. Readers, meet Scraps. We got word this morning that they are going to let us adopt him.

He'll be flying in from California in 8 days which will give me a few more weeks of good weather to pick up chicks at the beach before I drown him in bathtub come Fall.

Shhhhhh. Shhhh. Go to sleep Scraps. You did great. But you are 18 weeks old now and starting to lose your puppy looks. Shhhh. That's it. Go to sleep. Good boy.

We are really excited and can't wait for Opie to have a little friend to hang out with everyday. Opie is actually a really good dog, but the little bastard needs to exercise like a girl with an eating disorder to remain normal.

Oh hey Carol! 75 minutes on the stair master, eh? No, no you look good. Your abs are tight. I can still see the crouton you ate last week. Oh and your collarbone is sexy.

And sometimes we (read: Allie) can't take him for an Iron Man training session. Sometimes we (read: me) work 18 hour days. Sometimes we go to the dog park and nobody else is there which means he isn't running his ass off chasing, humping or sniffing other dogs. He doesn't chase balls. I'll throw a tennis ball and he'll just look at me like what the fuck do you expect me to do with that thing you fat fuck. I'm going to bring it to you, but then you'll throw it away again. Fuck that. Fuck you. That's stupid. You like playing chase the ball? Well, why don't you go run after that thing yourself. Asshole.

But you add another dog to the mix, like say a Labrador Retriever, and he'll chase that fucking ball like it's his job. All day.

Other dog owners have it easy. They don't have a dog with a 164 IQ who uses his intelligence for evil. They can take a walk down to the beach or park, off-leash, and play fetch for 20 minutes and call it a day. We need to lurk out at the dog park, like male prostitutes chumming for cock at the Fens, waiting for other people to show up. Or else, we're walking for 5 miles to wear the little mother fucker out.

Also, he's like Houdini. As soon as he is contained he tests the perimeter for weaknesses like a raptor trying to find his escape route. He's escaped from the dog park at least a dozen times. There are small openings at the bottom of the chain link fence that even a Dachshund would have difficulty fitting under yet he manages to make it somehow. Then he's off to the races—running for Nova Scotia.

Just this past week he had another incident. Allie dropped me off at work. After she left me she pulled onto Congress St., one of the busiest avenues in Downtown Boston, and Opie jumped out of the window while she was driving. She stopped in the middle of street abandoning the car so she could chase after him. He bolted down the sidewalk while several passerby tried to stop him. He was deaking them like LaDanian Tomlinson rushing for the end zone, and they were unable to grab him. He sprinted across Franklin St nearly getting clipped by a speeding cab as he ran toward the pregnant building. Fortunately, he smelled something of interest, probably a bum's piss, and decided to leave his scent. Allie managed to catch up with him. She grabbed him and walked him back to the car which was left idling with the driver's side door wide open creating havoc on traffic flow.

She decided to roll the windows up, despite the oppressive heat, for the rest of the ride home lest he decide to jump out again—especially because she was on the highway. Moments later, he was panting uncontrollably and pacing back and forth in the backseat. He clearly wasn't happy about the windows being rolled up. Then, in an instant, it happened. He had an explosive diahrrea shit. He sprayed the entire backseat. Runny dog shit covered the seat, rug, door handles, windows, seat belt clips, and ceiling. It was a mess. She said it looked like Pulp Fiction. Somebody call The Wolf.

So you are probably wondering what the hell I am doing getting another one of these creatures right? Well, I am fighting fire with fire. As you know, I am not that great at math, but I do remember that two negatives makes a positive.

Plus, look at this little fella.

Free for me, but not for thee

2009-07-29T13:55:00.004-04:00

I would kill to see the uncut version of this profoundly important testimonial. I've watched this seven times today, and I plan on watching it seven more times.

Next speaker.

Taking internal organs for a jog

2009-07-29T10:55:00.004-04:00

Must read:
Andy from the Dose went to a laugh club a couple of years ago.

Bi's, Tri's, and Back on Mon, Wed, Fri

2009-07-27T14:03:00.011-04:00

This photo of Madonna has stirred some thoughts:

1) I am so horny right now. I am way into old man arms. I just want those puppies wrapped around my body while we watch a Rom Com on AMC under some blankies.
2) Or even better getting help opening a pickle jar. Honey, can you give me a hand?
3) And lastly, an embarrassing encounter I had a few years ago when I was at the gym in Kenmore Square. It was a no-frills joint on the second floor of the building across from the Citgo sign. I signed up at this place instead of the nearby, and superior, Gold's Gym because I could save $4 a month. Plus, the kid who showed me around really sold me on the personality (read: glaring shortcomings of the physical plant) of the place.

Here were the selling points:
It's not a chain. We're a mom and pop shop. Who needs A/C when you are working out and trying to break a sweat? Towels? Wouldn't you rather use your own towel? Not much has changed in the past 30 years as far as equipment goes. This isn't a pussy Nautilus gym like the chains down the street. This is a gym for us guys.

Sold. One year commitment. Direct deposit.

One humid August night I was sweating my balls off, while dabbing myself with my own towel, using the preacher curl bench that was held together by wire and duct tape. It was one of the few machines that wasn't a free-weight setup, but had the stacked weights on the pulley system.

I sat down and began eye-balling a girl no older than 20 years old (I was 26 so no EWWW you dirty old man comments. Those are not applicable here, but are probably warranted on every other post. I just want to maintain my innocence when in fact I am innocent.) who was stretching out on the mats across the room. She was one of the five female members, but the only one without an adams apple. On top of that, she was really attractive—by any standards. She would still be considered a knockout at LA Fitness—in LA. She wore yoga pants (God's gift to men since the end of the spandex era) and a sports bra. Her body was rocking. And unlike most gym rats with slamming bodies she didn't have a busted face or a lazy eye. She was hot all around.

I was using the double mirrored approach while stalking her. It's a move that guys think make them invisible, but the reality is we aren't behind two-way mirrors looking at a police line-up. Like a trucker, if you can see his mirrors then he can see you.

By that same logic, well, she could see me. I got caught. Badly. I panicked and picked up the bar and began curling whatever weight was left on the stack.

It was too much.

I was struggling after 5 reps. Although I am ripped, or as some say shredded, I am not very strong when it comes to bicep workouts. I just can't lift a lot, but my form is fucking pristine.

Textbook curls.

Despite having too much weight on the stack I managed to get 12 reps in, but I was completely fatigued by 10 and barely managed to eek out the set. On the last curl I dropped the bar and the stack of weights made a loud crashing sound that reverberated throughout the gym. I stood up. My vision was blurred and I was completely out of breath. I tried to play it off like I was in control and just had a very productive workout. I did some fake stretches and looked off into space hoping my body would somehow recover. Moreover, I was hoping nobody, especially the hot chick, would notice that I was in trauma and on the verge of passing out.

Not so much. Not only was she looking at me, but she was walking in my direction. At first I thought she may have been walking toward the water bubbler (fountain for those of you outside 495,) but realized that the preacher curl setup was in the corner. Also, there wasn't a clock above my head. I know becuase I turned around and checked. She was coming straight for me.

I smiled at her, and as she approached I introduced myself like the suave mother fucker that I am.

Me: Hey, I'm Matt
(I put out my hand so she could have the honor of shaking it)
Her: (confused)…you mind if I work in?
Me: Huh?
Her: (annoyed) You mind if I work in?
Me: Oh! Yeah, sure. I just started. Of course. Let me wipe the…
Her: It's OK.

She sat down and in an instant completely emasculated me with one fell swoop. She took out the pin in the stack of weights, and added a couple of plates. And for those of you keeping score at home, she was beginning her workout with more weight then I maxed out with just moments before.

Naturally, she had perfect form. She knocked out 12 reps without any visible signs of distress. She stood up and gave me the nod that the bench was free.

Still reeling from the first set, and hoping for more recovery time, I awkwardly sat back down and realized my dilemma. What do I do about the weight? I barely got the last set off and should probably go down a plate or two if I were going to lift responsibly.

What did the shithead do?

Swallowed my pride and scaled back on the weight
Kept the pin at the same weight as her and hoped the adrenaline would help me bang out 10 reps
Added another plate to the stack so I could impress the shit out of her with my braun

Naturally, I chose option 3. I took the pin out and added another plate. Like tipping a bartender, I made sure my timing was just right so she could witness my heroics.

I made some adjustments in my seat, exhaled deeply, and began lifting the bar. Instantly, I felt a sharp pain in my left elbow. I didn't experience the burn in my bicep muscles, but instead felt like something was off mechanically. I powered through the pain and brought the bar up to my neck.

ONE.

I lowered the bar slowly and felt sweet relief as I let the tension go. I paused and knuckled up the second rep with a loud grunt. I felt my tendons tear. To compensate for the lack of power in my biceps I contorted my back and flailed my legs.

TWOOOOO.

Unlike the slow descent on the first rep I let the bar fall a little faster and clanked the weights again. I took an extra moment before making my third attempt. Again, I clenched my fists and pulled the bar toward my chin. As my forearms became parallel with the floor I wondered if it were possible to completely tear off a tendon. I showed good form by once again leaning my hips and lower back forward. I had a searing pain shoot from my shoulder to my elbow. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth.

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

Oh fuck. The bar made a free fall back to the starting position making an especially loud clanging sound. I was beginning to do simple math. I have 7 more to go. I have done 3. If I double that effort I will still have 1 more to go. I don't even think I can do one more let alone 6 more on top of that. I began to feel the sweat pouring off my brow and into my eyes. I resumed my good form and went for number four. This time, I yelled like I was being tortured as the bar crept up slowly to my chin. My arms were shaking and I was rocking my back to and fro. Both arms were now in complete trauma.

ARGGGGGHHHGHHHGH FOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

As the plates crashed down once again, I looked in the mirror and saw that my face was beat red. I wasn't even halfway. I was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked. Failure wasn't avoidable. The only thing I was shooting for was how badly I was going to fail. I wondered about a brain aneurysm as I attempted to go for number 5. I got the bar about 1/4 from the resting point and hit the wall. Like an arm wrestler I held my position for as long as I could, but physics would eventually prevail. I was exhaling so loudly that I was making raspberry sounds that little kids do while pretending to ride motorcycles. My entire body was convulsing. My face turned from red to purple.

I buckled. The bar fell and the weights crashed back to the stack. The sound wasn't as bad this time because I was only a few inches off the stack.

I literally started blacking out. My vision narrowed and I began to see stars. I was dizzy. As I stood up I nearly fell. I turned my back to the machine and the hot girl in yoga pants and made my way to the exit. I descended the stairs, one step at a time and with the assistance of the handrail, and spilled out onto Comm Ave like a drunk who was just thrown out of a bar.

Tickets?! Who needs em? Tickets here! Got' em? Need em?

Trust falls

2009-07-24T13:46:00.003-04:00

Opie started barking just a minute ago. Unlike the typical instigator—a harmless falling leaf—it was a group of teenagers hanging out, ironically, in front of the haunted jack-o-lantern house. I calmed him down by giving him a scratch behind the ears, and returned to my computer. Then I heard a crack.

I know that sound. Someone just got punched in the face.

I ran back to the window and saw two of the kids fighting. None of this pussy shoving match type stuff, but good old fashioned street fighting. The black kid, who was holding 2 video games in his hand, had the advantage until the white kid gave an undercut to his balls. Fight was over. The poor kid leaned back against the fence and waved him off. No mas.

Then, they lit up a joint and passed it around and walked away like nothing ever happened.

No summer camp for these kids.

I need to move

2009-07-24T13:37:00.001-04:00

You ever get the feeling that a house is looking at you?

You're welcome readers

2009-07-09T15:01:00.002-04:00

Be back soon kids. I love each and every one of you like you were my own children. Except you reader #27. I hate you. You were adopted. And a mistake. We mistakenly adopted you.

Spin cycle

2009-06-24T20:48:00.004-04:00

My brother is a prick. Not because he is an asshole, but because he is always right. And when he is right that usually makes me wrong. He has a way of cutting to the chase like nobody Else's business. And he knows me so well that he can push the right buttons. Unlike me, he is succinct. He is a data driven guy and his analytical mind delivers biting commentary like the following:

You should be spinning like a top, but instead you are like two dirty work boots tumbling in the drier. You need to get your shit together.

Hmmph. The defense rests. 10-4. Roger that. Message sent. That's a copy.

I don't know if you guys read the twats on the right column, but I was in 7-Eleven last night at 7:30pm on my lunch break and legitimately considered getting arrested on a misdemeanor charge so that I wouldn't have to go back to work. That's insane. I wish I were lying, but I saw the cop in line and wondered what kind of commotion I could stir up so he would have to put me in a pretzel and slap the cuffs on me.

As I reflected about that comment, forever indelible on the www, my friend Chris inboxed me (the Gen Y term for someone sending you a message on Facebook) wondering if I wanted to go surfing. Of course, I couldn't but offered that he use one of my boards. He did, and said he had a blast just getting out there on the water. I was psyched, but also became very sad about not being able to join him.

So my plan, although not financially sound, is to become a mediocre employee. I've given this place (don't mention the name because our attorneys are threatening termination for any employee who disparages the family) too much with little in return. Sure I get a paycheck and that is a fair exchange, but it seems a little too one-sided recently. I am like a girlfriend who is dating a good looking dude who just wants to hang with his boys rather than watch Netflix and order Italian food. So I am going to give it my all between the hours of 9-5, but peace the hell out knowing full well that I can't change him. He is what he is. And yes, I chose a man as my metaphor because it feels very much like I am being dominated. And when I say man, I mean a horse of a man. OK, I mean a horse. He's a fucking horse.

I lost the entire summer of 2008 to him, and I sure as hell won't repeat that mistake again. Considering that we've traded weather patterns with Seattle I haven't lost too much time. And September is the new August.

I am going to have the best summer. You can find me at the beach, with my shirt on, soaking up the sun. I won't look like Powder again. Nor a guy who still has his hospital bracelet on after being discharged from a two week stay in the ICU.

It's on.

I fell into a well

2009-06-03T16:15:00.003-04:00

Actually, that might be a better alternative than my current existence. I could at least ask the rescue workers to divert their flashlights while I masturbated at the bottom of the well.

Instead I am advertising the shit out of things. Like, a lot. In a cubicle. It's awesome.

Also, here is a photograph of a Zorse:

See you on the other side folks, and thanks for reading. More posts to come. I swear.

Julia's Ark

2009-05-20T15:53:00.005-04:00

We all remember Noah. He took a picture of himself everyday for six years. One of the coolest modern art exhibitions I've ever seen. His little clip really had an impact on me. It forced me to question my own mortality and the reason for my existence. The music was spot-on too. A complete grand slam in both concept and execution.

But fuck that guy. Julia Roy just posted this video of herself, and like Elisha Grey with the telephone patent I don't know who Noah is anymore. She is my Alexander Graham Bell.

I would pretend to like cats for this girl.

Extra starch

2009-05-13T13:51:00.010-04:00

This morning, on the way to one of the saddest funerals I've ever been to in my life, I had yet another embarrassing experience. I was driving with my parents, and my aunt to make it extra awkward, over to the church. We stopped off at Starbucks to get our caffeine fix. Tall Pikes Place with two Sweet n Lows, a LARGE (he refuses to say venti) black decaf. LARGE, for good measure. And of course the venti iced black.

The place was packed. I had a nice exchange with a customer as we waited in line. The man behind the counter was pleasant and efficient. I made eye contact with a woman who was typing away on her laptop. I smiled as I poured half and half into my aunt's coffee. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw a handicap man limping his way to the front door. I decided to double time it and open the door for him.

Because I was carrying a tray I kicked the door open and held it wide open with my foot.

My pleasure, sir.

I smiled because it felt nice to do something good for someone—especially someone in need. I took in a deep breath and counted my blessings as the crisp spring air soothed my body. Despite being devastated by the loss in the family—I felt alive—and skipped to the car. I felt loose. Free.

I handed out coffees as I climbed into the car. I placed my coffee on the floor and that's when I noticed my balls sprawled out on the passenger seat.

Those are my balls.

About 7 seconds later, alarm signals rang out. Someone pulled the fire alarm. We have an emergency on our hands, but dumbass isn't getting the full picture.

Those are MY BALLS!

I am not sure what I said, but my father looked over at his adult son sitting in the passenger seat with his balls hanging out of his pants.

OHHHH my god he shrieked as he recoiled in horror.

My mother and aunt were curious and kept trying to peer into the front seat while I begged them to not to look.

What's happening? Why are you bent over like that? Are you hurt? What's the matter?! What is happening? Do you need to go to the bathroom? What?

I had a giant hole in my pants from the seat of my pants all the way to the fly. It must have ripped when I held the door open for the handicap guy, the fucking asshole.

We decided to stop at a dry cleaners. I hopped out of the car and made eye contact with a man who was waiting for the bus. Like Brittney I showed him my junk and he shook his head in disgust. Nobody should start their day like that, but I am not used to being ladylike.

The woman behind the counter informed me that the seamstress wasn't on-duty that morning. Realizing the dire situation, she pointed me in the direction of her competitor's down the street.

We drove down the street and I hopped out of the car, legs closed this time, and ran into the cleaners. I explained my situation to the woman behind the counter. She was cold as ice. She said her seamstress wouldn't be in until 10am and there was nothing she could do. I asked if there were anyone on duty who could help out in a pinch. I reiterated the fact that I was NOT wearing underwear and I was expected at a funeral in a few minutes. Nope. Complete indifference. Not even a sympathetic shrug.

So if all of my 52 readers, 20 of which actually live in Boston, boycott Dependable Cleaners in East Milton Square we will show them who is boss. We will vote with our wallets thank you very much.

I ran back to the car and decided it was best if I head home and change out of my pants. No need going on another futile mission to find a seamstress at this hour.

My mother, however, thought my suit looked nice and wondered if we shouldn't just try just one more dry cleaners before going all the way home. So we stopped at the cleaners up the street from my house and I ran in with lowered expectations.

The kid behind the counter couldn't have been nicer. He told me the seamstress wasn't on the clock yet, but he'd take care of me. Somehow. He went in the back but I could hear him from the front.

I have this guy out front. He ripped his pants and is on his way to a funeral. Oh, and he isn't wearing any underwear. Yeah, that's right. No underwear.

They all had a good laugh.

Julio came out and told me to drop my drawers and he would sew me up in no time. I stood there like a complete asshole as I watched him work the machine. He did use brown thread on my black pants, but I was in no position to argue. I quickly put my pants back on and inquired about the cost of the repair. He shook his head and assured me that there was no charge.

I thanked him profusely and promised to bring all of my dry cleaning there for as long as I live. You should too. They are on Billings Rd in North Quincy.

They are the balls. Sorry.

Cover your mouth

2009-05-12T09:47:00.002-04:00

Nope. I just don't think I'll grow tired of the hilarious swine flu jokes. Anytime someone coughs I cringe. Not because I am afraid of SARS II: Judgment Day, but because I know a swine flu joke is lingering just around the corner.

Out of control

2009-05-09T19:33:00.005-04:00

Craigslist is not just for serial killers, hookers and thieves:

My worst nightmare has come true.

My girlfriend is out of town for Mother's Day and my plans for an all-night marathon of How It's Made, SportsCenter, Spike TV, any Japanese game show, Modern Marvels, Ask This Old House, Dancing with the Stars, MythBusters and anything on Adult Swim was ruined by one clumsy move from the kitchen to the living room while I tried to carry a large pizza, a beer (in a koozie,) and the remote control. The remote control slipped out of my hand and exploded when it hit the floor. Someone obviously rigged it with explosives. I tried everything to revive it, but alas, the beautiful blinking red lights indicating TV, CABLE, POWER, and the 4th thing are no longer with us. It is gone. My other remote, sadly, hasn't been seen since August. She ran away. Teenagers.

The short of it is, I am sans remote and I am willing to pay for your spare (or primary) remote. Five times the value.

If you are interested, we can meet up somewhere in Quincy in exchange for $25 CASH. Also, please show me the courtesy of not killing me, and I will reciprocate in kind.

We (Opie and me) got a few responses. All, but one, were really sweet. Most offered a extra remote for free. One woman offered to lend me her remote for the night because she was heading to bed.

I think this was a terrific learning experience for me. I need to be less jaded about my fellow man and must keep an open mind. Who knew so many people were so benevolent? In my own neighborhood no less. And who knew I was into BDSM?

Tower of Terror

2009-05-05T22:23:00.003-04:00

Today I left my team in the lobby and took the elevator back to my floor. About 10 seconds later we heard the most horrific sound imaginable. The freight elevator had a freefall from the 24th floor to the 10th floor. The emergency mechanism kicked in and ripped the inside of the elevator to shreds. It sounded awful. Like pool stick across face gross. It souned like some died. For a few minutes everyone thought I was a gonner.

Alas, more stupid posts to come.

Also, the rumor mill has the elevator falling from the 47th floor to the parking garage even though our building only has 33 floors.

Sorry folks, park's closed

2009-04-18T22:15:00.003-04:00

Dear 53 frequent readers:

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.

Ear muffs!

2009-04-14T23:35:00.007-04:00

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:

What a fag! What was that? An arrow?!

They all laughed. Oh right. The arrow. Oh well.

One-Eyed Willie

2009-04-13T22:50:00.004-04:00

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.

In the rough

2009-04-08T00:49:00.001-04:00

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.

Hey man, this ain't the mainland!

There's an app for that

2009-04-05T21:18:00.003-04:00

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.

Lasting Impression(ist)

2009-04-03T01:27:00.003-04:00

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.

Opie & Me

2009-04-02T03:15:00.004-04:00

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.

A beautiful mind

2009-04-01T01:46:00.006-04:00

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.

I will try to keep up

2009-03-31T01:10:00.004-04:00

I just learned a friend from college has passed away. Andy Hallet, who played Lorne on the television show Angel, died from heart failure at the age of 33. His father was at his side. Apparently he battled heart disease for the past few years.

I won't claim to be a close friend of his, like so many do in death, but he was a really great guy whom I liked considerably. I am devastated to hear that he is gone.

In contrast to the stoner college kid look, he carried himself with the sophisticated air of a retired hedge fund manager. He looked as if he just stepped off a yacht in Hyannisport. Even for brunch. He was impossibly nice, but you knew that he was the genuine article just minutes after meeting him. A lovable wiseass who could talk himself into, and out of, just about anything life threw his way. I was not surprised to learn that he had broken into Hollywood because for Andy anything seemed possible.

He was a fast walker and told me that successful people walk at a faster rate than unsucessful people therefore I should try to keep up.

We took a public speaking course together and often used each other as plants. Class participation was factored into the final grade and it was often difficult to get the right questions asked to engage the audience. One time, I gave a speech about the negative impact of nuclear facilities on the environment. After my presentation he raised his hand asking, completely deadpan, how many barrels of toxic waste were left over from a typical production cycle.

Great question Andy. On a typical production cycle there are, on average, 13,000 barrels produced of hazardous toxic waste. I believe that number compared to cleaner energy sources proves that nuclear energy is not a viable option.

My professor appropriately cried bullshit! But Andy played it straight and talked his (our) way out of the collusion accusation.

Another fascinating thing about Andy was that he purchased a shcool bus when he was a kid. Most people save up for a bicycle, but he had his mind set on a school bus. He bought it. Before he had a license. I'm not sure he ever drove the thing, but he bought it just the same.

He was terrific guy that I was lucky to know.

We did it!

2009-03-20T08:52:00.007-04:00

It wasn't easy. It didn't happen overnight. But through a lot of hard work and dedication we, blogger and reader, brought the beautiful state of Idaho the profane and psychotic ramblings of insufficient funds. Like a quart of used oil dumped into the pristine banks of a mountainous riverbed, our thingy is now forever part of The Gem State.

Congratulations folks. This is a big day.

And Anonymous, come back if you'd like. I won't blame you if you don't, but just know that the offer is on the table.

Cabin crew prepare for cross check

2009-03-19T17:30:00.004-04:00

I still didn't pay attention to where the exits are located. And I am annoyed by the girls in the back trying to be funny, but I appreciate their effort. And bodies.

You don't find flight attendants like this on the Boston to Detroit flight. Nope. Mary, Gina, and Flora cover that one. Oh and sometimes Brian, the new guy.

Can you imagine the bitter resentment some veteran flight attendants must have when the new crop gets the New York to San Diego leg. Or LA to Kahului.

Listen Janis, we're gonna go ahead and give you the Reno to Buffalo trip. Or you can have the Tampa to Providence leg. Your call.

It's like the Hooter's hiring policy. Sure, they hire the fat ones, but they only serve the bad sections.

OK Angela, you are in Section 1 splitting it with Amanda. And Rachel, you and Melissa are going to handle Section 2. Kristi I paired you up with Nicki again in Section 3. And that leaves us with Bonnie in Section 4. Again. You seemed to really rock it yesterday with the entire section to yourself. OK girls remember to push the crab cakes. Chef Paul just got 20 pounds delivered accidentally and needs to make room in the walk-in. And remember to hit the "mod" key for any special orders. If you find yourself in the weeds please let me know and I will have Bonnie float to your section again. OK, that's it. Have a great shift and push the crab!

And because I am the victim of hostess profiling I wind up ordering crab cakes from my table in Section 4. Conveniently located by the restrooms and kitchen door. It's cool.

My word is my bond

2009-03-18T09:09:00.003-04:00

I am sitting here in my towel staring at my computer wondering how I am going to make it into Boston in negative 3 minutes for a meeting I am supposed to be attending. It's not going to happen. I can't believe I just typed that sentence out. Really? Why can't you make it? Like I can manufacture time. I can manufacture farts, but that doesn't make me special. What makes me special is my unique scent. I happen to love it, but others aren't big fans. Well, Opie is and I think if he could high-five me he would. Now that I think about it he can give paw so I don't know what his problem is the selfish fuck.

I am operating on a remedial fourth grader's level right now so please forgive me. We're pitching a big client and I've been working around the clock.

I certainly won't make my 9am meeting, and I might be late for my 10:30. Not because it will take me 87 minutes to get in town (it has before) but because I operate under the principal that if you are going to be late, make it count.

It all started back in middle school. I lived 3 minutes from my school. In fact, you can see the school from my front steps and there is no reason why I should have been late. Ever. But I was because I am an idiot. I remember sprinting to school and arriving to the front office out of breath explaining to the vice-principle that I was late. He would give me a detention and write out a hall pass. It didn't matter if I was 30 seconds late or 15 minutes late. Either way I was getting a detention. So where's the incentive? No need to start the day off with a frantic rush. You never recover from those mornings. Instead, a pleasant leisurely stroll is more appropriate.

One morning, I was sitting on my couch eating a bowl of Fruit Loops and flipping through the channels when I came across the best movie ever made—Remo Williams.

It was before cable had the scrolling menu bar, but I knew the movie had just started because I had seen it more than 30 times. I poured myself another bowl if Fruit Loops and kicked back and watched the entire movie. Afterward, I sauntered down to school. Stopped into the front office. Filled out the proper forms. Collected my detention and made my way to Algebra.

Not a bad day. So for anyone interested in unlocking the warrior within I give you this mandatory screening:

Even Chiun had his guilty pleasures.

Gay Canine Bachelor

2009-03-16T22:34:00.004-04:00

(Sorry I am recycling this one from Facebook.)

Gentleman, there is but one rose left. Matt, you have a decision to make.

Grommet. You mean the world to me. We've spent an amazing 30 days together. Our private date was just so special. You are an amazing dog. You come when I call. You sit. And you don't bark that much. Your farts, are well, disgusting. And you have fleas. You will make someone very happy one day.

But I am going with Opie.

Opie, you are the biggest pain in the balls imaginable. You are disobedient. You're obnoxious. You eat my shit. You eat your shit. You snore. You hump my girlfriend. You aren't trustworthy. But you do have a nice package, and that's what I am looking for. So I choose you for the next 11-13 years.

Jump in, vamanos!

2009-03-12T22:14:00.002-04:00

My girlfriend and I took my niece to a production of Dora the Explorer at the newly restored Opera House. Uncle Matt splurged and got some pretty good seats. On the way into the theater, vendors were hawking toys by selling directly to the kids.

Hiya kid! Do you want a cra cra crazzzzy flashlight? How about a fu fu funnny hat?! ZOINKS!

Beat it crack head, with your dirty pool selling tactics. She doesn't want a cheap $19 Malaysian-built spinning flashlight.

Do you like your flashlight? It's pretty cool isn't it? Look at how it spins when you turn it on. Wow! You are quite welcome. It's my pleasure. Can I try it? No? Oh OK. No, that's cool.

We were running a little late, and the production was already in progress, so the usher wouldn't let us proceed to our seats until after the opening act. Hey I understand. No worries. I didn't want to create a distraction for those who spent good money and had the decency to show up on time. Who am I to spoil the show? So we waited patiently in the hallway behind the thick red velvet curtain.

It was my first time to the Opera House—ever—so I was checking the place out while my niece was busy playing with her flashlight. I was really impressed with the level of detail in the architecture, and thought about how much of a pain in the balls it must have been to paint. Tons of ornate detail. And they did a really nice job too. The place was stunning.

Finally, the usher stepped aside to let us pass, and that's when it hit me. A wall of shit. 3,000 dirty diapers crammed into a stuffy and noisy room. It smelled like the opening scenes of Slumdog Millionaire. Hundreds of parents were disciplining their children while babies cried. Yeah, now I can see why we weren't allowed to disrupt anyone's experience.

Stephen, no! Stop it. Stephen sit down. Caitlin—don't hit your brother. Sit quietly. Sit QUIETLY DAMN IT!!!

Nice acoustics in this place, I thought. I wondered what it must have been like to see some of the historic performances like West Side Story, Phantom, The King and I, or Camelot. Or an Opera, maybe? I would have had to look up those names so I didn't list them because I don't think it's fair to my readers to Google>Wiki something and pretend like I know what I am talking about.

(that would be dishonest: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Show_tunes)

I looked over at my niece who was still grappling with the fact that Dora, Boots, and Swiper weren't in cartoon form. That must have been a weird thing to digest for her undeveloped little mind. My girlfriend was smiling at me lovingly. No doubt fantasizing about how I would make a great father someday. She's wrong. I will be a terrible father. I am a good uncle. Not great, but good. I think. But I am not to be trusted. I hear stories on the news about neglectful parents leaving their children in cars, or forgetting them at daycare, or worse leaving the car seat on top of their car roof, ala Johnny Knoxville, and pulling away into traffic completely oblivious to the ensuing chaos. I would be one of those guys.

People would blog about my awfulness. Even this guy. Talking heads would slam me as the photo of me, from Facebook, was projected over their right shoulder. Radio shows would field a stream of callers who were out for blood.

My thoughts drifted, and I started calculating how much dough this production was probably raking in as I do with every event I attend. I estimated that there were probably over 1,500 people in attendance at $50 a pop. Factor in the $19 flashlights, snacks and juice boxes, and these guys were making a fortune. I wondered how I could break into this industry. I would be rich, rich, rich!

Dora began skipping from one part of the stage to the other, in search of a map or something, and I don't know if it was the double-strapped backpack but this Dora looked a lot different from the cartoon character—she was STACKED. I am a boob guy. I will watch anything, including horrificly sad A&E Intervention shows if the heroin addicted girl has bombs.

I know it's sad and depressing, but I want to see if she pulls through. We aren't out of the woods yet. Look at how crushed her family is! Her poor grandmother. I can't believe she stole her dead grandfathers war medals and pawned them off. Jeez, this is devastating.

I was suddenly fascinated with the performance, or more accurately, obsessed with the lead. I leaned over and made a gesture to my girlfriend about my findings, and she just rolled her eyes realizing that, even here, at this family orientated event, I was consumed with breasts. But I couldn't leave it at that.

How about that Dora, huh? Quite the actor, eh? I mean wow. Wow wee.

So thank you Mr. or Mrs. Casting Director for giving the men in the audience something to root for. I mean talk about seeing the bigger picture. It was almost as much a stroke of genius as the people who greenlit Blue Crush. Everyone wins. Female audience members feel empowered by the completely inaccurate portrayal that women can shred just as good, if not better, than men. Talk about suspension of disbelief! And the men can comfortably ogle the women in bikinis pretending to be just as moved by the inspiring albeit fictitious storyline.

That is what they call a win-win in the MBA programs.

Early childhood cognitive development

2009-03-10T20:52:00.005-04:00

I was painting the new apartment, and I offered to paint my room mate's room as a sign of gratitude for offering me the spot. He protested, arguing that it would be too much work for me, and that he was a pretty low maintenance guy who could live with the current paint job. I insisted that it really wasn't a big deal and would only take a few hours of extra work. It was the least I could do.

He acquiesced, and thanked me profusely for the kind deed.

I called him later on in the day while at the paint store inquiring about his desired color palette. I reminded him that we had bone white in the parlor and hallways, and it might be nice to continue the flow with a nice Storm Cloud Gray. Or maybe a Soft Fern? That could be nice.

Hey Matty, I really don't care. How about you pick the colors for me. Surprise me.

OK.

Nothing I see can be taken from me

2009-03-09T22:11:00.003-04:00

To a small percentage of the population, the universe has been restored to normalcy. Well, abnormal normalcy. On Friday night Phish took the stage after a seemingly endless four year hiatus at The Mothership in Hampton, Virginia. This was a statement show, and from listening to the free downloads the band has graciously given its fans, the boys blew the roof off the joint with a historical, old school set surely to go down as one of their greatest performances ever.

And boy does it feel great listening to new material from, in my opinion, the greatest rock and roll band of our time.

(Are you done? Seriously, what the fuck? This is rude. Moving along.)

I have been holed up all weekend listening to the first two shows over and over again. Thanks to the internet, I was checking the setlists as soon as they became available, which made me me feel like a little kid back in the 50s, without the luxury of ESPN 8, waiting for the sports section to find out if his team won the out-of-town game.

A flood of wonderful memories came crashing back to me, and I realized how much this band and my friends who shared in so many special moments, mean to me.

I know, and expect, many of you will break my balls about Phish, but honestly I don't care.

Some people like seafood. Others don't. Some people like spicy food while others enjoy a more bland variety. Some people look at a big set of hairy balls, and think, yes, I want those in my mouth. Hey, who am I to tell you how to have fun? Whatever floats your boat. Knock yourself out. Be my guest.

Who am I to judge?

And to me, going to a Phish show is like no other experience. I feel badly that you haven't, or won't, get the opportunity to see them live. Each show is special and unique because, unlike most bands, Phish doesn't play the same songs on tour, and the anticipation of catching a mind blowing performance with one of your favorites is unparalleled. Music aside, the atmosphere and energy is like a playoff game between the Red Sox and Yankees. A palpable cloud hangs in the air creating anxious smiles on the faces of those in attendance. I haven't found that buzz at any other concert since their breakup, and now thankfully, I won't have to keep searching for something that doesn't exist.

My Larry Bird is back, and the future is bright. Treydog is the 43 year old Larry Bird running out onto the parquet—except he's playing like the 22 year old hick from French Lick. Honey, cancel plans for the month of June, we're going on tour! Please, for the love of God, I hope I get laid off. Please. Please. Please.

I've never actually been lucky enough to go on tour from start to finish (I'm not a Trustafarian,) but I have been to a number of shows across the country and the world, and had a boner at each one.

Some of the best shows were at the 3-day camping events held up in Limestone, Maine—a snowball's throw from Canada. The band would play six sets, and would pull out all the stops both on and off the stage. Hundreds of thousands of fans descended upon the rural town and established a self-contained city.

It was mayhem.

One year, a large group of us from college made the trek, and set up the most amazing campsite in the entire venue. Unlike in years passed, plagued with poor planning, we went all out with our campground. One of my friends, a handyman who knows his way around a Leatherman, orchestrated the whole project. Similar to Tom Cruise in Far and Away, the plots were available on a first come first serve basis. We sprinted from the parking lot and staked out a decent size lot right on the main drag—affectionately known as Shakedown Street.

We basically spread out all the tents in a tight perimeter, all facing inward to a large opening in the middle. We quickly put up the tents and made sure there wasn't any room in between, which could tragically become a thoroughfare for wandering hippies. Before long we had a tight horseshoe of tents that looked as densely packed as a cul de sac of row homes. Not a chance anyone was going to break into our space.

My friend closed off the horseshoe with ridiculously large white tent that served as yet another physical deterrent from outsiders. One that you would find at a carnival. Just way over the top big. Once we had the physical boundaries established we went back to the cars to retrieve the food, beer, tables, chairs, generators, radios, coolers and other necessities of modern-day camping.

From a logistical standpoint, being on Shakedown street was an enormous benefit. We were close to the port-o-potties, but not too close. We could people watch from a safe vantage point and still feel connected to all the shenanigans outside. We could also hop right on the main drag and walk straight into, and back from, the venue with ease. We didn't have to meander through tents and campgrounds like most of the other concert goers.

As you can imagine, in a sea of tents, that span for as far as the eye can see, it is not uncommon after a long day of partying, that one can find himself utterly lost. As such, most people fly flags to mark their campgrounds. Naturally, we took our flag flying duties a step further. We didn't have the typical PVC pipe tied to a tent trick going. Nope. My friend started digging a hole in the ground to support the 5 gallon bucket/cement/lumber base of our 30 foot flagpole. Once the base was secured, he started drilling all sorts of shit together. Then he tied everything down with support ropes, and in no time, we basically had a setup as sturdy as something you would find outside of an elementary school. Atop the 30 foot mast was a huge Swiss flag. I don't know the meaning behind it, but it was big and red, and we could spot it from a mile away.

At that point, we were dialed-in, and ready to get down to business.

As night fell, we casually hung out around the campfire secluded from the madness lurking beyond our perimeter. It was great. We were able to hang out together without any disturbances and catch up on old times. We were laughing our asses off and having a grand old time. I excused myself and wandered out to the port-o-potties to take a leak. At this point in the weekend, people were still pretty civilized and you could still see blue water in the bottom of the toilets.

On my way back, I found a kid standing in the middle of our white tent. He was the poster child of a Phish fan sporting dreadlocks, patched corduroy pants, and skate shoes. He was clearly tripping his balls off so I wanted to be polite and make sure I didn't spook him. He told me that he was having a really hard time at the moment, and wondered if he could just come in and chill out. I reassured him that he was fine, and the chemicals in his body were making him temporarily paranoid. Just hang out. Chill. And in no time you'll be fine.

Hey guys, this is Travis. He's going to be hanging with us for a little while until he can sort things out. Travis, this is everyone. Grab yourself a seat by the fire. You want a beer? Have a beer. You should have a beer. Are you hungry? Brett, get Travis some steak tips and some macaroni salad. Who has the forks? And a napkin.

Everyone welcomed Travis with open arms. We had all been in his shoes at one point our lives, and could empathize with his fragile state of mind. We wanted to do anything we could to get him back on track.

Trav didn't really say much for a while, but he did eat which was good. He quietly drank his beer, and even took a turn as the bowl was passed around.

I felt bad that he couldn't understand all the inside jokes and was compelled to explain all the nuances and back stories.

You see Caitlin is Amy's freshman year roommate and also Brett's ex-girlfriend. And they broke up, and neither Amy nor Caitlin…you know what? Probably too much? Too much. OK, no worries Trav, I am probably confusing you. Oh OK, this is a good one. You'll like this one. This is funny. We all went whitewater rafting and Mike's sister's friend from college came up from Connecticut. Ah, never mind, you need a beer. Have a beer. You should have a beer.

I realized before long, that this wasn't helping. He just looked at me all wide-eyed and confused. So I backed off, and just let him chill.

About an hour later a couple walked into our campground, and asked if we had any band-aids. The girl stepped on some glass and her foot was badly cut. We all agreed that it was pretty deep, and she probably needed stitches. Dave retreated to his tent, and returned with a small first-aid kit. He had some alcohol wipes, gauze, and a few small band-aids. We patched her up and offered the boyfriend a beer, which he gladly accepted. We assured him that his girlfriend would be fine. They hung out for a little while which was pretty cool.

I introduced them to Travis, and fortunately, they began talking. No longer did I have to babysit this complete stranger who was tripping balls. What a relief.

I decided to talk about Phish, the common ground for us all, and Travis suddenly chirped up and began talking about the shows that he had been to recently. We speculated on what the band would open with, and argued about the ideal setlist for the weekend. Now, everyone was suddenly on the same wavelength. Travis had another beer, and the couple packed our bowl with their nugs and sent it around the circle.

About twenty minutes later, a disheveled kid, looking eerily similar to our boy Trav, stumbled into our campground through the white tent.

Broseph: Is this the First Aid Tent?
Us: Nope.
Me: What do you need, pal? Are you all right?

Travis stood up like a bolt of electricity jolted through his body.

Travis: This isn't the FIRST AID TENT?!
Me: No Trav, why?
The couple: This isn't the First Aid Tent? Holy SHIT!
Travis: Oh my god. Oh my god.
Broseph: Hey man, I just need some assistance.
Me: Come on in dude. Travis, don't freak out. You're good buddy.
Travis: I am fucking freaked the fuck out. Holy shit.
The couple: Wow, we totally thought this was the First Aid Tent too.

Broseph: So this isn't the First Aid Tent?

Anyone of sound mind would have made the connection, but we were just as confused as our new guests and couldn't offer any answers.

The couple: You guys are flying a huge Red Cross flag.
Me: No, this is just our campground.
Brett: That's a SWISS flag! Not a Red Cross flag.
The couple: And you have a huge white tent!.
Travis: No fucking way, I was freaked the fuck out because I thought I was getting strapped to a gurney, and you mother fuckers start handing me beers. And then you smoked me out. My head was about to explode. And I'm all, these are the coolest paramedics around.

(Insert hippie laugh here. Repeat 5x)

This was me way up front during the second set of Day 1. One of the happiest memories of my life. I'm not sure where Travis is, but I'm sure he's in there somewhere having fun.

Ada Boise!

2009-03-05T18:49:00.009-05:00

I use Google Analytics to track the amount of visitors who come to the site. Sometimes, this tool is awesome and can make your day. Other times, it's like talking to an older brother who doesn't sugarcoat anything while giving you bad news. This is all hypothetical of course. *cough*

Listen Matt, you've asked me a question, and I want to know if you are prepared to handle the truth however difficult it may be to hear. To be honest with you the numbers are terrible. They stink. And why would expect them to be any different? You haven't done anything. In fact, you've sat on your ass for the last couple of months and the numbers dwindled. Did you expect a different outcome? Do you think people want to read Dorchester Shrimp again? No. No they don't, and the numbers prove it.

Older brothers are always right too, and sometimes a good kick in the ass is what someone *cough* needs.

One fascinating detail Google Analytics provides its users with is a graphical snapshot of where the traffic is drawing from. As you can see below, I have the green states nailed. I am the blogger equivalent to Ralph Nader.

And my plan is to draw some folks out from the beige states who are slipping through the cracks. I want to be an approachable blog for all of America, and the world for that matter. So I am asking you, my readers, for help.

My objective is twofold. Firstly, I want to turn Idaho green. I want someone from Idaho, maybe someone from Boise which is located in Ada County, not Boise County surprisingly enough, to stumble upon this thing. I am not really concerned about the amount of time spent on the site, but just a click. However, if they enjoy self-deprecating humor bereft of any redeeming or valuable information than they may just be Insufficient Funds material after all. Secondly, my plan is to absolutely hammer the comments section with facts, references or "what have you" of the great state of Idaho also known as the Gem state.

I know. I am pathetic. But I am pushing you guys to trial. I want you to get comfortable with the comments section. That way, you are more likely to make a comment in the future which is exactly what I want. I am begging you.

Some things to think about:

Contrary to popular belief I don't know everyone who reads this thing. It's not an inner circle group. It's open to everyone. So Jake and Ben I am looking at you guys. I heard through friends that you read this thing occasionally. I love it.
You can comment Anonymously.
You can make up names which is fun. See Mitt Romney.
I don't give a flying fuck if the comment is negative. Please see John Herrol.
It would be great if my posts were a launching pad for more discussion.
Or if you take it in a completely different direction. Please see John Herrol, again.
Smartphone is going to drop me from his blog roll.
I just put this here so it looks like a bigger, more important, list than it actually is.
I really like #9 subs at d'Angelos. Delicious. I get more emails/Facebook messages (sorry Hoffy guy) from friends that say they read this thing, but you would never know it.
Writing posts without comments feels like telling a joke in an empty broom closet.
This list goes to eleven.

Again, we're trying to draw people from Bingham, Idaho who are big Boise State Bronco fans who voted for CL "Butch" Otter for governor, but not Mike Crappo, because his signs on Highway 12 were cluttering the landscape of the Snake River.

Do it.

Save our Sisters!

2009-03-04T20:55:00.005-05:00

We're living in troubled times. Not since the late 80s have we experienced anything so pervasive and damaging to our society than what is happening to our friends, family and loved ones every single day. It is effecting us all. It doesn't know race, creed, sexual orientation, political affiliation or social status. It does, however, know gender. Our girlfriends, sisters, mothers and co-workers are all victims of this worrisome trend.

Yes, I am talking about ending every sarcastic sentence with the word really. And we have Seth Meyers and Amy Poehler to blame.

This is the modern day not joke. Remember how fun that was? Let's band together and save our sisters, and ourselves. Really.

Two steps forward two steps back

2009-03-03T03:13:00.002-05:00

These younger generations have it made. No I don't mean amazing video games, unsubstantiated confidence, falsely boosted egos, SEXting, low-cut jeans, the mind-blowing proclivity toward oral sex, or better and readily available THC.

No, I don't mean any of that.

At the risk of sounding like Eugene Morris Jerome from Brighton Beach Memoirs, incidentally Jonathan Silverman's second best role behind his brave performance in Weekend at Bernies, it wasn't easy growing up in our generation. On balance, I'd say we arguably had it better off than these kids today, but one undeniable advantage is their vast resources from which to masturbate. I am talking about internet porn.

In contrast, we didn't have much, but we worked with what little we had. The Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition meant something to our generation. We would search out air brushed camel toe (it didn't have a name attached to it yet, but it existed) protected by a large puffy layer of bush wondering what was behind the sexy fluorescent pink and green one-piece bathing suit.

Occasionally, someone in the neighborhood would score a nudey mag from under their old man's mattress, but that magazine was on borrowed time. It had to make the rounds, and be returned before he got home from work at 5:30. On Sundays we were treated to the Filene's Basement bra and panty insert, but cranking one out to black and white thumbnails on newsprint wasn't easy. Most of the time we didn't have any material at all, and were left to our own devices. This forced us to use our imaginations, and as such, we we developed a surgical swat-like skill for rubbing one out under extreme circumstances.

Then MTV arrived and we saw the world through a different lens. I am sure most of you young whipper snappers can't possibly relate, but this new music television network provided us with a bounty of material. It was our Gold Rush.

I clearly remember spanking one out to this Paula Abdul video. I watch it now, as an adult spoiled by the internet, and I can't even imagine the parts I found to be erotic. But I do remember trying to block out the fucking cartoon cat. That took extra focus and determination.

I was in my living room without the protection of a Snuggie™ and could have been picked off by any number of my masturbation enemies. My sister was upstairs listening to New Kids on the Block while studying for her French exam. My mother was in the kitchen, about 15 feet from the epicenter of raging hormones, making Rice a Roni, again, while talking on the phone with one of my aunts still tethered to the long coil attached to the yellow dial telephone base from across the room. My brother was probably off somewhere cranking one out too, with a stolen Playboy he had hidden away, but never shared with me—the selfish cocksucker. And my old man was bound to walk in the door at any minute after a long day at the coal mine. The steel mill. OK, the office.

So there I was, completely exposed, yet determined to make love to Paula Abdul from the relative comforts of my couch. All of this in under 3:34. No small feat, especially when you factor in the cat.

One day my world changed when we scored a really shitty VHS tape with a porn movie from 1977. It had been taped, and re-taped, by several hundred people and by the time it was in our possession it was all fucked up. Not even an aggressive dial of tracking could fix the registration. It flickered and jumped in just about every scene. It was borderline unwatchable by today's standards.

But the beauty of that tape came from the genius of my brother who labeled it (perhaps his greatest achievement) Wrestle Mania II. Who was going to watch that? Not my father who thought wrestling was "gay." Not My mother who thought it was too violent. Or my sister who thought it was stupid. So we left it comfortably in our family stash of VHS tapes. Wrestle Mania II sat on the shelf for everyone to see alongside Every Which Way But Loose, Terms of Endearment, 100 Greatest Hockey Fights, Stealing Home, ET, and Star Wars. I'd say I watched Wrestle Mania II no less than 17,000 times from 1986-1989 when it mysteriously disappeared from the collection. Joey? Jackie? Stevie? Ralphie? You are all suspects!

At that point it was back to MTV and the dark ages. But that was short-lived because someone in my neighborhood discovered that if you click past the Spice channel you can get a fraction of a second of the movie before the device on the cable scrambled your television. It took a great amount of skill to click from channel 49-50-51-50-49-50-51-50-49 several times in succession to get a few nipple shots, or if you were lucky, full frontal bush. Most of the time you wound up with some hairy guy's ass, but again, we could see past all of that and accomplish our goal.

Nowadays, kids have their own laptops which they can bring into the dark corners of their house and tap into the vast back alleys of the internet. After a few clicks they can satisfy any whim and desire they may have. If they have a fetish, even, they can not only look at images, but watch actual video clips. Sometimes in hi-def. They can choose between high production value porn stars, or girls next door shot on camera phone videos. They like big girls? No problem. Pregnant Hispanic chicks with small nipples? No problem. Amputee Erotica? OK, that's a problem.

The range and depth of porn is seemingly endless.

Some categories frighten me. Yet you click on the links, out of morbid curiosity, and soon learn that there are thousands of options for this insane niche. It's truly mind boggling and scary. There are some weird people out there.

What's most surprising is that despite the untold hours I've spent lurking on these sites I haven't run into some of the classy gals I grew up with. I mean the odds are in my favor that I know someone. Let's say, conservatively, there are 5 billion images or videos on the internet. Over my career, that is like 1 in 5 odds that I have seen somebody I know. But I haven't yet.

Sometimes, I'll see a link titled Busty Meghan rides the Sybian and realize something is wrong.

That's not Meghan! That's Erin. I remember her from 2 weeks ago! This is bullshit. Is she really Erin or Meghan. Who is lying here?

You can't trust anyone these days.

Nothing in life is free, and if you live by the sword you die by the sword. The other side of this blade, are sites like Juicy Campus, now thankfully defunct, which was a community of people who ranked, and ranked on, lovers they had been with at various colleges and universities. Thank GOD this thing wasn't around when I was in college.

To preempt any mockery, however deserved it may be, about my sex life back in college let me inform my 12 readers that I have a small cock, pre-ejaculate, and have been known to experience post coitus weeping from time to time.

I used to keep my escapades on the super down low. Given all the cards stacked against me I had to play to my strengths if I wanted any shot at repeat visitors. If you hooked up with me I didn't tell a soul. I never gave away any secrets. As such, I didn't have many unsatisfied women, performance in the bedroom aside, whose reputations were sullied by mere association with me. I was the friend you hooked up with, but are still totally good friends with despite that weird incident back in sophomore year. And I played the role well. I skated my lane.

Can you imagine the pressure these kids are under today? Knowing that a site like Juicy Campus exists, and any hook-up they have may be eternally documented for the world to see? Wow. Or worse, the poor girls who sleep with the wrong guy and he turns out to be a complete douche bag by revealing all the sordid details of the night? Eek. Transfer rates must be through the roof.

No dad, this school is lame. I don't like the cafe, and the classes aren't challenging at all. I think I need a new perspective next semester. And I'll totally get a part-time job to make up for the scholarship. Plus, I'll be closer to home and can come home on weekends. I've thought about this a lot and it makes sense. I know this is the right decision. I've already checked with the dean of admissions and all my credits can be transferred.

I suppose the silver lining in all of this is each student must live their life like a contemporary politician ever vigilant of their public persona. Long gone are the days of JFK, and perhaps this is a good thing. One will think twice about mailing in a sexual performance. Like a Greek deli suddenly aware of Yelp! they begin to focus on their quality and service. The world is watching.

And god forbid I lose my job or get dumped because after this post I am pretty much shit out of luck in both categories. Thankfully there aren't many readers.

Oh hey Saddam, Adolph, and Mao!

2009-03-02T20:15:00.006-05:00

Note: I realize I am exactly 42 days late with this one, but I am cleaning out the drafts and figured a late post is better (maybe?) than no post at all. Plus, I don't want to break my post-everyday-or-hang-it-up pledge within the first week. Oh, and this was already written.

Because I am an immature buffoon, I couldn't appreciate the historical significance of the Barack Obama Inaugural Celebration as most of you probably did tonight. The cameras kept cutting to the President-Elect, but all I could focus on was the poor retarded girl who was sound asleep (read: tranquilized by the Secret Service/Michelle Obama so she wouldn't have any retarded outbursts) behind him. The HBO producers, desperately trying to bring Hollywood to The Capitol, must have had their hands full in the truck trying to cut her out of the shots.

OK camera 2 stay on Hanks. Camera 5 pull back from trumpet player. Cut to 4! God damn it! Cut to 6. 5 do you have anything? Cut to 3. Cut to 9? Can somebody wake up that fucking kid. OK camera 2 pan left to crowd. Good. Hold the old lady. Camera 9 close-up on young woman with hand on heart. Cut to 9. Anyone have a shot of the Obamas without the little girl? OK 7 stay there and pull back. Camera 9 slow pan right. Why does she have to be in pink? Pink?! Fucking pink. Everyone is in black and the only person I don't wan't in the shot is wearing fucking pink. Where are my cigarettes?!?

Again, I know I am complete dick, but I am consumed by these things. I look for extras on just about every movie and television show I watch. I try to find the over-actors trying to parlay the gig into a role with lines, or read the lips on fake conversations people are having in the background.

That is the FUNNIEST thing I've ever heard in my life. OK, here they come so don't fuck this up for me. I want my SAG card and I am smiling because I want them to keep me in this shot. Keep smiling asshole. Like this. Look at me. Not the camera. They are just going to walk by now and I am going to point over your left shoulder as if I see something interesting.

So you could imagine my reaction when I saw this poor little girl zonked out on her mommy's lap? Everyone was stoically poised and in the moment. Yet I was laughing like a hyena completely missing the point.

And not because she was retarded, or asleep, but rather because she was a wrench in the system. The HBO production required hours of careful planning, and nothing could have prepared them for this situation.

Again, I am a complete dick, but admittedly I love it when overly sensational things go awry. Or strike the wrong tone. Like a bad eulogy, or a terrible wedding toast. Sorry Marty and Pauline. And while I'm at it, John and Allyson.

Because my man Martin Sheen didn't get elected I am a little bitter, and will go out on a limb declaring Barack Obama to be the Ryan Leaf of Presidents. There, I said it. Sure, we just had 8 years of Jake Plummer (The Arizona years,) but Obama is the most overrated human being to-date and cannot possibly accomplish everything we wish he could. I hope he does.

Oh, and ML Carr is probably the better analogy too, but I hope, truly, he is the Danny Ainge.

Larry, Moe and Al Kaprielian

2009-02-26T22:48:00.007-05:00

I have a lot of regrets in my life, and I consider not finding out about legendary weatherman Al Kaprielian until last night pretty high on the list. I was channel surfing and stumbled across myTv for the first time. I stopped dead in my tracks, sat upright, and started doing the Arsenio Hall fist pump as I witnessed my first broadcast. Initially, I figured Al was filling in at the station because a bizarre set of circumstances transpired and all the weather guys were out sick or had been laid off forcing the station manager to go deep, really deep, on his call sheet. Sadly, the economy is really hitting everyone, I thought, as Al kicked off the segment with his Jerry Lewis-like delivery. As if his personality weren't enough Al began using technology from the early 80s as he described a snowstorm hitting northern New England. The high and low fronts were drawn out in cheesy yet beautifully archaic form. I was hooked. Unlike, all the graduates from Connecticut School of Broadcasting whose local dialect have been stripped clean, Al is proudly rocking his New England charm.

Thanks to the internet, I soon learned that Al is a legend. And without an ounce of irony, I salute you Mr. Al Kaprielian. You my friend are a breath of fresh air (sorry) and I will continue to watch your broadcast until the day they eventually albeit sadly pull the plug.

I have a dentist appointment from 1-4pm

2009-02-26T11:19:00.005-05:00

Last week we played a trick on our beloved creative director. Morale is pretty low because it seems like any day some, if not most, of our group will get the hammer dropped on us. We decided to break the tension by dressing up in our best interview attire and fuck with his head a little bit. Instead of the typical advertising uniform of skate shoes, dirty jeans, and ironic graphic tees we would all look like we were going in for our second interview. At Fidelity. You know, to iron out the details and talk about vacation time and compare benefit packages.

It worked. He came into the office and saw one of his minions dressed to the nines. He had a visceral reaction, but pretended like he didn't notice. I am sure he was thinking about the last time that person was up for promotion. Then he saw another guy who normally looks like a bike messenger sporting a sleek double breasted suit topped off with a distinguished Windsor knot. His head exploded. Then he saw our resident rock & roll chick dressed up like she was a portfolio manager at a hedge fund. He started mumbling incoherently, but nobody would bite. We all played it off like everything was normal.

Good morning Thomas. How are you?

He made the rounds and realized that most of his group was dressed up, and that's when he finally snapped and wanted to know what the fuck was going on? We didn't budge.

Does anyone know what the Nikkei closed at this morning?

Eventually, someone told him what was going on, and he admitted that the hair on the back of his neck was standing straight up. He was losing his shit. But he loved it, and thought it was a pretty cool way to bring everyone together during these tumultuous times. I don't think it will impact the bottom line, but at least we're going out in style.

Everyone take cover. Shit is going to hit the fan. What's the job code for this one?

Danga da danga da DANG

2009-02-26T01:47:00.009-05:00

I know a few of you have been interested in the follow-up to the red carpet story. It's taken me a while to digest the whole experience, and was further delayed, by something I saw while driving over the Neponset River Bridge one morning. It doesn't take much these days, but what I saw put me into a tailspin of depression.

This photograph really says it all.

Atop Ups'n Downs, a dive bar among dive bars located in the shadows of the Neponset River Bridge in Dorchester, is a tattered billboard for High School Musical 3: Senior Year.

I can't think of two worlds more diametrically opposed. On one hand you have the saccharine world of Disney in which every problem gets resolved with impromptu singing and dancing. And on the other hand, well, let's just say the problems usually don't get resolved. There are more downs than ups.

You can walk into The Pony Room, as we locals/townies call it, in the middle of the summer and it's like a winter wonderland. Johnny Mathis greets you at the front door. Just a blizzard. You'll find a bunch of yay'ed up thugs from Quincy and Dorchester standing around talking about their neck tattoos, Dedham MCI, and structured settlement attorneys.

And then there's the women. Oooh boy. A bunch of haggard seagulls ripping butts and farting out Doritos while they spew expletives like longshoremen. A complete horror show.

This place should be avoided at all costs. Just read the reviews.

Except some idiot in our group will inevitably throw out a Let's go to The Pony Room! at last call. In Quincy, last call is at 1AM (if you don't close the blinds) and 2AM in Boston. On any given weekend night at 1:01AM you will find a parade of cars racing over the bridge into Boston to get those last couple of drinks. Very safe. This fun little law makes about as much sense as the MBTA shutting down service an hour before the bars close. It's just the way it works here in the Commonwealth. Don't try to understand it, or search for any rational logic. Just accept it, and move on.

Most of the time, better judgment prevails and my Let's go to The Pony Room! proclamation gets overruled by a level-headed adult in our group. But every now and again, when the planets align (in a bad way) you can find yourself at the doorstep of hell.

A few months ago, we were those people.

We parked under the poorly lit bridge and made our way to the front door where, if you can believe it, we paid the cover. The dude checking IDs was a big intimidating oaf holding onto a Marlboro Red as if it were his eleventh finger. He's the type of guy who has been smoking since he was 6 years old and could gracefully handle a cigarette while tying knots. He can fix a running engine, hold babies, play pool, swim, jackhammer, give directions, and cook all while dangling a smoke precariously from his lower lip.

Needless to say we were all intimidated by his presence and expected him to be a complete hard-ass. Instead, he welcomed us like a doorman at the Ritz. He politely checked our IDs while harmlessly flirting with the girls. He held the door open and wished us all a good night.

We stepped inside and were relieved to see that the bar wasn't too packed. The downstairs is pretty tame compared to the upstairs. I guess the old timers don't have the energy to climb the stairs, or maybe they don't like the music. Either way, anyone with a shred of street smarts has their antennae up trying to avoid trouble. Old timer or not, these guys are tougher than we ever were and could probably kick our asses.

Out of respect, or fear, we tried to blend into the crowd. We lingered awkwardly outside of the bathroom trying to avoid eye contact, or worse, bumping into anyone. We hung in a tight circle and drank our beers. We even ordered some shots, in colorful test tubes, from the shot girl. As soon as we began to relax, some dude walked out of the bathroom, and in the process of giving him a wide-berth I accidentally backed into the cigarette machine. Like a scared kitten I yelled:

MY BAD BRO!

But I was relieved to see that the only danger I faced was lung cancer. Phew.

Being accustomed to frequent public displays of emasculation, I gracefully rolled with the cigarette machine incident, and carried on with the conversation. The alcohol from the shots must have kicked in because someone in the group (not me this time) lobbied to go upstairs. I don't know what we thought we'd find up there, but it seemed like a terrific idea at the time.

As soon as we hit the top landing (literally the second our feet hit the top step) a guy wearing a straight brim white Kangol baseball hat, rocked to the right, asked one of the ladies:

This FAGGOT your boyfriend?

He was pointing to my friend Marc, who in our circle is known as the de-clawed house cat. He proudly lives a nice, soft, lifestyle. He enjoys the finer things in life, and avoids confrontation, physical labor, and uncomfortable situations with admirable dexterity. He's the last guy in the world who would start a fight. You couldn't find a nicer guy, or someone more passive in the entire (617) area code. You just couldn't. Among other things, he's blessed with a terrific golf swing, good fashion sense, fast hair (I mean really fast hair) and the ability to make friends with anyone he meets. The kid has charm to spare. Mothers love him and grandmothers simply adore him. All of our wives and girlfriends secretly want to bang him—the bastard. Admit it gals, it's OK. We understand. But what makes Marc tolerable is that he is refreshingly genuine and completely self-effacing. If not, he'd be a complete dick.

As you could imagine, when the rest of us saw Marc in the middle of a brewing maelstrom we were quick to respond.

Nope, he's my husband his wife responded.

We sized up the situation and decided to stand our ground and protect the honor of our good friend and his lovely wife. I don't know if it was the booze talking, but without regard for our safety, instantly and without hesitation, we pulled a complete 180˙and bravely ran down the stairs like little kids running away from their uncle pretending to be a monster.

Run away! Run away! Run away!

Nearly knocking over the enormous bouncer, we piled out the front door. Safely outside, realizing we narrowly escaped a visit to Carney Hospital, we all started laughing. Head for zee hills. Adios amigos.

The same bouncer who, just minutes before, warmly took our cover charge told us that we were making a smart decision by leaving early. Last call, he said, wasn't a good time for people like us. We shouldn't be hanging around at this hour. He'd seen a lot of trouble in his time, especially under the bridge, when the crowd spills out. Where the fuck was this sage advice when we walked into this place Marlboro Man? By his greeting, you'd think we were walking into Jordan's Furniture, and not Fallujah, as he later described it.

We got into our cars, and because I never want the night to end, I offered up our house for an after hours party. People refused so I threw pancakes and wine into the package. Who could resist that? I promised to "overwhelm" my guests with wine. And pancakes. Whatever that means. But I kept repeating it.

Guys, I will overwhelm you with wine. Just come in for a little bit. It'll be great. When do we ever get to see each other? C'mon? Not even for a drink? After what we just went through? Let's celebrate! Let's celebrate, life! We made it. I will overwhelm you with wine. And pancakes.

It turns out we didn't have any pancake mix nor did we have much wine. Certainly not enough to overwhelm a crowd, so it was probably a good thing they politely declined. More importantly however, is that we got out of that place without getting our faces kicked in. It could have turned out much differently. In a split second, one's life can forever be altered. And those drunken nights tend to be the game changers.

I don't drive by that place without thinking about that night, or many others like it, when things could have gone awry, but thankfully by the grace of God didn't.

And it's not like we grew up completely soft or anything, and couldn't recognize danger when we saw it coming. I wasn't tough by any stretch of the imagination, but my friends were, so I quickly developed some street smarts. I think the first time you see someone get their face peeled back by some mental case you go in one of two directions. You either think, yes this fighting thing is for me, and use any opportunity to get into a scrap. Or you take the other route, the one I took, and avoid fights at all costs.

In middle school our principal had a sign with two numbers hanging outside of his office door. It represented the number of days the student body could last without a fistfight. I don't think it ever reached double-digits, and was usually set back to double zeros each week. There were some epic brawls at that school including one that I will never forget between two of the biggest heavyweights in my class, Sean and Lakrisha. Those two squared off one morning, and my life has never been the same since.

Lakrisha had a metal lunchbox, probably filled with a sandwhich, an apple, and a juice box which she was swinging wildly at Sean. He must have said or done something really offensive because she was as angry as a hornet. He was using some fancy footwork trying to avoid her hay makers, but eventually, she connected with a bomb. Right across his face. Metal on nose.

TING!

He stumbled backwards, but miraculously stayed on his feet. He responded with a viscious uppercut, the force of which, caused her to drop the lunchbox.

SMACK!

They grabbed onto each other like Jay Miller and Chris Nilan at center ice, and exchanged about 40 rights apiece. It was ugly. Finally, a faculty member broke it up. And Lakrisha began to cry. I don't think out of pain necessarily, but rather because she was getting into trouble. She was still pretty young and was probably afraid of being suspended or getting grounded.

The male teacher, I will never forget, had such a troubled look on his face. He was shaken to his core. The poor guy was just trying to do his job and maybe, just maybe, have an impact on some unfortunate kid's life. Instead, he probably developed a drinking problem that very evening.

How was work honey? Hey there's no reason for you to snap at me? Jeez. I was just asking. Are you drunk?

And who could blame him? It was bad. Everyone knew it was bad. Even the crazy kids.

Experiences like that made me realize, with absolute certainty, that I don't have the stomach or physical constitution to withstand a legit, no holds barred street fight. I'll stand over in the corner and tell jokes, thank you very much. When I go out with my friends I want to have a couple of laughs, but wind up at work on Monday morning. I have zero interest of getting into it with anybody.

One of my biggest fears is running into one of these lunatic bull sharks at a bar:

And I'm pretty certain, that the kid in the white Kangol hat, was probably just as crazy as this nutzo in the video. Pussies or not, he had no problem calling out an entire group of guys, and there is a compelling reason for that unbridled confidence which none of us had any business challenging.

Meanwhile, a mere 3,000 miles away from The Pony Room, but a world apart, I was about to walk the Red Carpet and didn't have a thing to wear. I was on my way to West Hollywood to find a thrift store. I figured I could easily cobble something together for the event. No big deal.

Upon the advice of an old college friend who lives in LA, he told me that I would be able to pick up some decent clothes in West Hollywood. I took a cab, and realized $70 later, how different things are in LA and why the cabbie was more than happy to take me all the way out to West Hollywood from my Downtown hotel.

Because we had a shitload of time to get to know each other, the cab driver and I wound up in a deep discussion. He was from Africa and was planning on going home for Christmas for the first time in twenty years. He was probably looking for a big tip, which he received, but his story was heart-wrenching and I couldn't help myself from being overly generous. In stark contrast to the surreal glitz of LA, he was a working stiff, fueled by the desire to provide upward mobility for his children, and truly living the American Dream. I was touched by his tenacity. Inspired by his dedication. And humbled by his work ethic.

Here you go Jabali. Please. Please. It is my pleasure, my friend. I insist. I wish you and your family a Merry Christmas, you gentle soul, you.

I ended up wandering around Sunset Boulevard, and realized I was way out of my league. Poor Jabali must have mistaken me for someone wealthy. I should have told him explicitly, that I was looking for cheap, preferably clean, used clothing. Not a high-end boutique.

If I were shopping for $190 t-shirts than this was, without question, the place to be. But I was hoping to get the whole kit and caboodle for about $150. Tops. So I walked, and walked, and walked for miles without any luck. Nobody walks in LA, and now I know. I was sweating my balls off and started developing unsightly pit stains. I walked into one boutique after another and was met with the same judgmental eyes from the fashionable clerks who didn't waste their breath on me. I swear I could hear them say something about the GAP under their breath. Fuck 'em.

At my wits end, I called another friend back in Boston, and told him to Google Maps thrift stores in West Hollywood and get me pointed in the right direction. He sent me to an address. I arrived at Out of the Closet Thrift Store (very funny Andy) which is exactly what the sign says it is. As you could imagine I didn't have any luck there. Most respectable gay guys don't have my build so I was shit out of luck. If you are in the market for size 32's and Medium shirts then this place is a gold mine. A complete gold mine.

He gave me a few more addresses, and I basically ran into the same problem. The XL rack had about 3 items hanging on it, but the store was chalk-full of clothes suited for men with eating disorders who weigh 160 lbs. or less.

I wound up, fortunately, at a place called Sharp Image Resale which carried very decent designer suits. I told the clerk, who turned out to be the owner, that I was in a jam. I was going to my first-ever red carpet premiere and needed to dress the part. I told him I was clueless and needed his expertise. He was all too accommodating until I dropped the "it's a red and white theme" on him. He was foreign, and as such, had very foreign (read: sophisticated) tastes. He made no effort to hide the fact that the color scheme was revolting. He kept asking, as if I were playing a joke on him:

Ahh, red and white? RED? Red. And WHITE?

Yes, red and white I assured him. He shook his head in disgust and told me to try on a pair of slacks. For fit. He then came back with a dozen suits and told me to try them on. None of them were red. Or thankfully white. He told me we'd work around that. Again, I was sweating my balls off at this point because a) I am a fat fuck who is wildly out of shape b) I just walked several miles in the sunny streets c) the clock was ticking and I needed to be back downtown shortly and I was beginning to stress out.

My sweating only intensified as I tried on one ill-fitted suit after another. He told me that my husky frame put me "in between sizes," but he would do his best to find something that looked OK. We were no longer in search of something stunning. Or decent. Instead we resorted to finding something OK. Something passable. And even that didn't look like it was about to happen. We struck out one suit after another. Too big. Too small. Too "foreign" for my personality. And time was ticking. I didn't have any other options. I didn't have time to hit the GAP or a chain store. It was this place or nothing at all.

I decided I needed to be more efficient so I took advantage of being the only customer in the store and I tried shit on right by the rack. One point of clarification, I don't wear underwear which made it incredibly awkward for the kind gentleman who had no choice but to watch me and my sweaty cock soiling and wrinkling his fine worsted suits. What a savage. He just wanted me out of the store.

Suddenly, he found a suit that fit perfectly, but I wasn't entirely convinced it was either perfect or a suit I hadn't already tried on before. Not having a choice, at this point, I went with it and told him to ring it up. And I'll take these black shoes as well. He wrung me up, and I was on my way with an Armani Suit and Italian leather shoes for just over a $150. Not bad.

I had just over an hour to get back to the hotel. I didn't want to take a cab back because I figured traffic would be a complete nightmare. I began asking strangers for directions to the subway, but nobody knew. I kept getting vague responses.

I think it's on Vermont? I'm not sure though. I've never taken the subway here. Do you know where the subway is? No? OK, yeah man, I don't know. Sorry.

I finally found my way to the subway after asking no less than 50 strangers for directions, and I thought it only fitting, that even out in LA I would be stuck on the Red Line. Fucking perfect.

Unlike the MBTA though, this Red Line was from the space age. It was clean. It was fast. And it was nearly empty. There weren't a million stops, and we seemed to go 100 mph through the tunnel. In no time, I was back in downtown. I can't believe more people don't use the subway, but then again, this is LA and a subway card doesn't have the same status symbol as a BMW. I could just imagine a bunch of East Coasters, green as hell, bombing around the city and thinking they are pulling one over on the locals.

This is fucking pissah, guy. No traffic whatsoever. Yeah, we bee lined it over to West Hollywood in no time flat. I could even bring my fucking bike on the train too. All those retards can have the freeways.

I made it back to the hotel without a minute to spare. My colleagues were waiting for me in the lobby. I was still soaking wet from the 11 second shower. I didn't have time to completely dry off so I showed up, like the train wreck that I am, in a Talking Heads suit. I realized by looking in the elevator mirror that I was dressed up in a clown suit. Fuck it. Too late now.

I expected that we would wind up taking a cab to the red carpet, and in between a sea of limos, we would class it up at the entrance in a yellow cab. We'd be waiting for change from the driver as people in headsets and the paparazzi would try to figure out who we were.

Can I just get a Five back? And a receipt? Excellent. Thanks pal. Have a great night. You too.

Instead, and this must be a special VIP thing, we hopped on a large bus. They dropped us off at a Radisson Hotel. That must be the hip drop-off area for all the stars I was thinking. The pre-party, maybe.

Not exactly.

We ended up walking a couple of blocks to the entrance where all the celebrities' limos were lined up. There were loads of fans cordoned off behind jersey barriers looking eagerly for any celebrity sightings, but were openly disappointed as we walked by. As I got to the entrance, a middle-aged woman with absolutely no sign of kids by her side kept yelling at me. I made the mistake of making eye-contact and hearing what she said.

I've been waiting out here all night. I slept here. On the concrete. I hope you enjoy yourself.

She said it real cunty as if I was the reason she weren't getting into the premiere. How pathetic I thought. For a High School Musical premiere? Without any kids. Sorry lady, you are a coo koo bird and you will receive no sympathy from me. I am a high-roller. I am about to walk the red fucking carpet. I was a Hollywood insider now.

As I turned the corner I saw the sea of people. There were hundreds of photographers lined up for what seemed like an entire length of a football field. End zones and all. Holy crap! This is awesome. At that point, I started to recognize some celebrities. I didn't know their names exactly, but I recognized their faces. That's the guy from Heroes. And I think she is on MTV. Oh and look, that's what's his name!

We got wanded by security gaurds in black suits, and were lead into a tent where we needed to check-in. I walked up to the M-P section, and told the nice young lady my first and last name. I was praying to God that I was on the list and there wasn't a mix up. I didn't want to have to go back to that pathetic women holding the hand painted Zach Efron sign. Please God. Please be on the list.

Yup. Here you go sir. Enjoy the film.

Film? Come on? I know that's probably the lingo, but HSM3, a film?

We were then hustled onto the red carpet. And when I say red carpet I mean a sliver of the red carpet where the poor people walk. Not the red carpet on the left where all the celebrities walk. Motherfuckers. This is an outrage! I deserve to be with them. Over there. I want E! to ask me what I am wearing. I want to do a quick interview, if I have time, with Joan Rivers' daughter. This is horseshit. Nobody can ask me questions from way over here. I would even stoop so low as to grant Telemundo an interview.

Me gustaría decir hola a mis fans en Mexico. ¡Te quiero mucho!

Nevertheless, I walked that sliver of red carpet as slowly as humanly possible. Maybe, just maybe, there was a talent scout looking for the next big bloated white guy to star in a feature. Yeah, a feature. I said it.

The dudes in the black suits kept hustling me forward, but I wasn't budging. I was going to take this whole thing in, and I'll be damned if they rushed me. Don't they know who I am? I sit in a cubicle, damn it. In Boston. I am something. I am big-time.

After twenty-five yards I was completely out of stall tactics. I pulled the old tying my shoes, that don't have laces, trick. Twice. Then, the I'm looking for someone move. But the men in black were onto me, and kept asking me to move it along. I was going into the theater whether I liked it or not.

At the next security check-point we got searched again and were asked to forfeit our cameras. That's when I saw my old pal Andy Garcia. I wanted to ask him if he remembered almost bumping into me back in Boston a few months ago.

No? Doesn't ring a bell? On Tremont Street? No? OK, that's weird because I thought we made a connection. Hey, no big deal. I am sure you meet a lot of people every day. No big deal. Just drop it Andy, OK. No, there isn't a problem. Hey get your fucking hands off me. What did I do? I hope you're happy Andy. Enjoy the film.

We found our seats, which were surprisingly, pretty good. We sat next to Mickey Dolans from the Monkeys of all people. He was a really nice guy, and absolutely thrilled we recognized him. I saw Barry Bonds walk past my row and was excited that I had better seats than him. Fucking maggot. He must be on the South Beach or something because he wasn't a monster anymore. Just a big, athletic dude. My ADD set in and I couldn't sit still anymore. So I walked back into the lobby to do some more celebrity gawking.

There weren't too many A-listers which was a dissappointment, but it was still fun to watch everyone. I saw Kevin Smith who is gigantic, Paula Abdul, and a shitload of B-listers I fail to remember. What was interesting though, was the gaggle of teeny bopper kids that were hanging out in the lobby. They were obviously part of the movie because they were being interviewed by people and signing autographs. I speculated that they were the new crop of Disney stars, and it was clear, the executives know what they're doing. It's all about quantity. Some of these faces won't survive puberty, and well, others won't survive nagging cocaine addictions.

I found myself in a group of pathetic middle-aged autograph seekers. The men in black tried desperately to get us into our seats, but we kept ignoring them like the assholes we were. As the time drew near, the main characters of the movie began entering the theater. They were surrounded by enormous bodyguards. From my creepy vantage point, I was but a few feet from where they walked by, so I was able to get a good look at the stars. Overall, I was pretty impressed by their presence. Most notably, you could tell that Zach Efron really has charisma and will probably be the only one who remains a true Hollywood star in the long-run. Vanessa Hudgens is a complete knock-out. Corbin Bleu, who looked fifty, seemed to be a good shit. Hey this is pretty cool.

Then, I suddenly became bitter.

I don't know if it's my cultural heritage or what, but the cynical Bostonian mentality kept creeping up in me as I watched these young stars interact with each other. The Jonas Brothers and their ilk really got under my skin. Unlike me, they had perfectly tailored outfits. $500 haircuts. They probably got manis and pedis too. I started thinking about how much they probably make in a year, and the support system of agents, publicists, and executives who kiss their ass on a daily basis. They were privileged and entitled. They wore it on their sleeves, and I was resentful.

In reality, what have these child prodigies really accomplished? Do they know the value of a dollar, and would they ever know the plight of the working man? I kept thinking back to the working stiffs in the trades who break their balls every day to put food on the table. These kids wouldn't know what a hard days work was all about, and they never will. And here we are celebrating them like they are gods.

Then I started thinking about me. Fuck the hard hats. What about me damn it?! What about the 100 hour work weeks that ruined my summer and nearly my relationship? Did these kids work 36 hours straight because the approved photographs of the talent weren't actually approved? Or the constant legal battle of how we represent their likeness in our ads? No way, these pricks had no idea what we went through. We are just below the line grunts only there to serve them.

And sadly, they are right. Everything, the lights, the cameras, the limos, the millions in ad dollars were all there for them. And I was a fool to think otherwise.

I worked myself into a tizzy as I often do, and finally acquiesced to the black suits' final request for me to please find my seat. I sat next to our client and tried to put on a happy face. And for the next 90 minutes I was tortured with a horribly mediocre film.

I realize that I am not in the target audience, but good god, this movie like the previous two, was abysmal. I couldn't wrap my head around the magnitude of this production and how many millions of dollars in revenue it would generate. What a sad commentary on our society.

My thoughts moved onto that poor woman out in the parking lot who slept overnight in hopes of catching a glimpse into the lives of those she adores. Who am I to pass judgment? Who am I to take a seat from a worthy fan and not appreciate the moment for what it's worth? I was one of the lucky ones. I was part of the buzz, and the adrenaline rush, if I am honest with myself, was pretty powerful.

I resigned myself to sit back and take it all in. Let this experience wash over me and to live in the moment. Stop being a dick and just enjoy, the film. It was fun. If you think about it I was watching a movie with all the cast members. We were all laughed (yes I laughed) and cried (are you fucking serious? not a chance) at the same parts. It was cool.

Then, because I am a mental patient, started thinking about the penis game. The object of the game is to yell penis as loudly as possible in the most inappropriate of places. It's basically the best game in the world, but sadly only played by teenagers and the mentally ill.

I wondered how many points I would score if I belted it out here. I would be a legend. I would be unemployed certainly. Most likely arrested. But I would be a legend. Andy Garcia would hear me. Paula Abdul would hear me. Kevin Smith would laugh his ass off. For the rest of the film I wrestled with the strong, psychotic urge to yell PENIS!

Fortunately, I made it through the night without any life-altering look at me look at me Dad Sirhan Sirhan moments. Thank god! With this economy?

The movie ended, and the cast and crew came out on-stage for a curtain call. They all but announced another sequel, and the crowd went bananas. Hey, go for it. America obviously has an insatiable appetite for mediocrity, and I am not talking about Applebees. Don't get me started on Applebees.

I high-fived Mickey on the way out, and ducked in line before Barry Bonds. Fuck him. We walked out the theater past all the fans who were still lingering outside. I handed a little girl a red and white pom pom, and her eyes lit up like a Christmas Tree. She was psyched. And it made me realize, again, that I wasn't here to watch the premiere of a Quentin Tarantino film, and needed to check myself.

I made a promise that I would be back here someday on the red carpet. Legitimately. (Not as an actor. You can never get over the porn stigma. Especially, the male films. And the male German ones are nearly insurmountable. I can't think of anyone who has broken into the mainstream from that background. So it must be writing for me.) But next time, I would be walking on the left side of the carpet with a writing credit.

There, I said it. Fuck you. That's my dream. I know, go easy. I just accepted that I will not be the next Red Sox 3rd baseman so let me enjoy this lofty pursuit. They have editors out there you know?

And that is why the tattered billboard in Neponset had such a profound effect on my psyche. It represented my decision, or indecision, to follow my dream. It taunted me as I slipped back into my comfortable routine. Will I end up a loser talking about what could have been from the sidelines, or will I have the balls to go for broke?

Either way, the self-pity bullshit won't help me get anywhere. And until I prove myself, I don't have any right to pass judgment on anyone. Not the poor souls, who probably had a fraction of opportunities I've been afforded, stuck on the bar stools at The Pony Room, Jabali in the cab, nor the cocksuckers who are responsible for HSM3.

Now it's time for me to find out if I am the genuine article, or just as disillusioned as these American Idol contestants:

So that explains my hiatus from this thing. (I hate the word blog. It's the second worst word in modern times only behind blogger so I'll refer to this thing as the thing from now on.) This thing, including all of your comments, means the world to me, and I am going to stop pretending like it doesn't. I'll be posting more, and please do comment. It is like oxygen to me. Even the ones that bust my balls which I am fully expecting for this one. But ask yourself this, when was the last time you told 53 readers your deepest held secret?

(I can't believe I am going to hit the "Publish Post" button now. Fuck it.)

Dorchester Shrimp

2009-02-01T21:00:00.011-05:00

I know, it's a cheap jab at our friends across the bridge, but I think we've grown far too comfortable with each other over the years. We need to make it interesting again like the good old days.

And last night was the final straw for me.

I was sitting pretty with a 0-7 Superbowl square with just seconds to go. At the end of the quarter, if the score remained, I would walk away with $330. Cash.

Ben got picked off and the Cards were marching down the field. With the Steelers Defense I figured they would stop Arizona and kill the clock. Instead, the Cards brought it all the way down to the goal line, and my only hope was a turnover. At that point, Warner threw a pass directly to the Steelers defender and my prayer was answered.

I was going crazy. I was jumping up and down in my living room. Yes! I will use this money for something good. I will pay my electric bill. Or maybe I'll pay those cocksuckers at Comcast. Yes. Yes. Yes!

But he kept…on…running.

GET HIM. GET HIM! TACKLE THAT FUCK! NOOOOOOO! WHYYYYYY?!

James Harrison had a record-breaking 100 yard return. He was eventually tackled at the .025" line, but his knee landed on Larry Fitzgerald's leg and wasn't officially down until he crossed the plane. It went up to the booth for official review, but it was clearly a touchdown.

John Madden using Cambridge Youth Soccer logic argued that after an effort like that Harrison should be granted the TD regardless of whether he was down or not.

And that's when my head exploded.

AAAAAARGHHHHH!!! C-BOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBBB! (repeat 5x)

My girlfriend and Opie were cowering away from me on the couch. The dish told me to relax because it was only a game and the Patriots weren't even playing. I told her we just lost $330 and she suddenly became aware of the dire situation. She joined in the tirade. It was bullshit, she agreed. Madden sucks. And he's fat. And ugly. And stupid.

To make matters worse, moments later, I was wearing ridiculous 3D glasses so I could watch the new fangled TV spots. How pathetic. And boy, was that a disappointment. I don't know if I have a shitty television, but I couldn't see a thing. The picture was all fuzzy. I kept flipping my glasses up like an outfielder tracking a flyball in the sun.

Do you see anything? I don't see anything? Do we have bum glasses? This is bullshit. Are we supposed to be closer. Did you see anything. I don't think I saw anything. Opie, you see anything pal? No?

If that weren't depressing enough Bruce Springsteen came out for the halftime show, and wow, I wish he hadn't. I am a fan. I saw him recently and thought he put on a terrific show. I think he's a legend, but holy hell, he was awful last night. He kept panting for Stevie to join him which I think was a ploy to hide his gasping. He sounded like me after a minute on the stationary bike. And I think if I were his manager, I would advise him against extensive calisthenics during a set. Bruce, we love ya pal, but please stand still and save your energy. You had the right idea in DC a couple of weeks ago. That's the model for your concerts moving forward. Stand still. Sing your songs. Get off the stage and enjoy your grandchildren. Back in the day you could run around the stage for 5 hours and belt out the classics, but those days are behind us. Long gone. The glory days.

I decided the only thing to make me feel better was getting to the 10,000 calorie mark for the day. I was futzing around the kitchen when I came across the printout of the squares. I wanted to know who hit the 2nd quarter number. So I followed my thumb across the appropriate rows and columns and came across his name:

Newman! JOE Newman!

A friend of mine. A solid guy. I should have been happy for him. But I wasn't. I am an ugly person. The recession has made me angry. And selfish.

So it's back on. It's war.

We will be strengthening troops on the West Bank of the Neponset River, and trade between our borders has now closed. Have a hankering for some Chinese food? Have a court date? Plan on picking up one of our sisters to bang in the backseat of your Mercury Grand Marquis? No mas. It's over. We will turn the asylum seekers and their rafts away. No more Clam Box for you.

And yes, Pat's Pizza delivers to Quincy. I checked.

till I see marianne walk away

2009-01-29T17:43:00.022-05:00

Sometimes (every day) I wonder why I still live in Boston. The weather sucks. People can be dicks. Complete dicks. The government is corrupt. The infrastructure is awful. It's segregated. It's worldly yet insufferably provincial. It's expensive. It's overrated. It suffers an inferiority complex to other cities—chiefly it's neighbor to the south—yes, Hartford. We're jealous of their terrific high school soccer teams, insurance companies and those god damned Whalers.

Boston is a tough nut to crack, and I have a love/hate relationship with her more profound than any ex-girlfriend I've ever dated. She drives me crazy, but I can't help but love her despite all the flaws. But somehow a break-up seems imminent. We can't go on. I can't live like this. We're two different, ah, people. We want different things. You have baggage. I have baggage. We're not meant to be. There are other cities out there. Who knows, maybe San Diego, LA, or Chicago is my soul city. I don't know. Maybe some dude from Milwaukee will make you happy. We just don't have a future together.

But then the Spring rolls around. Spring training, the flowers bloom, the skirts come out, the days are longer, the air is fresh, and we agree to stick it out. It will be different this time. I swear. I will try. You will try. For another 6 months. It's like a short-term lease. We'll see how it goes. We're no committing to anything. We're just going to see how this goes. And it always goes well. Right through September. But then she becomes a raging bitch again and I want to end it. I am right back to where we started a year earlier and can't believe how foolish I was to think she would change. Maybe it's me? I don't know, but what I do know is that this isn't working.

Right now I am in the throes of self-doubt and misery.

Today, was a tough day. We were in bumper-to-bumper traffic on Lincoln Street. Anyone from Boston knows my pain and is suddenly recanting one of their awful experiences on this little 3-block piece of shit street. Basically, it's a main thoroughfare through the edge of Chinatown. A few years ago, before the Big Dig, it was scarcely used, but now it's one of the main arteries into downtown. It makes sense from a geography standpoint. It's a straight shot from 93. Bang. Right in town from off the highway. So someone in the planning department actually used their fucking brain for once. However, and this is so Boston, the traffic department treats it as if it is still an obscure side street. They overlook the double and triple parking that occurs, daily, because people are shopping in the Chinese supermarkets. It's a nightmare. Trust me.

Today was no different. It was clogged. Lots of honking horns. Angry gestures. Pedestrians flipping off drivers. Drivers flipping off pedestrians. It's just an angry little gauntlet and perhaps why I didn't pay much attention to the truck in front of me. The driver was punching the passenger seat. Really hammering away at it like whack-a-mole. If figured he was releasing steam because he was late for work, and this little 3rd world country shit was driving him mental. Chalk it up to road rage. Hey we've all been there. I'm with ya pal. Put some muscle into it. Let it rip. Whatever gets you through this.

Then, I saw a guy on the corner (outside old Weggies, no less) yelling at the guy in the truck. This dude looked weathered. He was probably in his 30s, but appeared to be in his late 40s because of hard-livin'. He wore clothes much too youthful for his age bracket. White scally cap. Running pants. Bright white sneakers. Basically Ben Affleck's character in Southie's own Good Will Hunting. But most remarkable about his presence were the crutches he was using.

He was yelling at the truck and angrily pointing a crutch at him in sync with every syllable.

I figured he was nuts. Hopped up on junk and totally out of sorts. We rolled through the intersection, but were soon jammed up at the next choke-point a few car lengths ahead.

Then, I saw the dude in the crutches hobbling down the street. He was yelling at the truck. I rolled down my widow to get a front row seat on the drama unfolding. He was definitely strung out, I thought, while he wildly yelled like a maniac.

Hey tough guy. Why don't you come out here and pull that shit? Yeah, I'm talking to you tough guy. Big tough prick, huh. Why'nt you try that shit with me, fuckface. Come on out. Right here. Get outta the fuckin' truck.

Then I looked in the truckin front of us and saw a head pop-up from the passenger seat. Oh shit. That dude was punching, a woman?! Oh my God. What the fuck.

The guy in the truck hopped out to make good on the good samaritan's offer. He started fighting the dude in the CRUTCHES. I was going to jump out, but then I remembered I was a complete pussy and didn't want to get shot, stabbed, or worse, punched in the nose. Seriously, what's worse than that? You can't help but cry. I would rather get two dozen shots to the head than one in the nose. That's a game changer. Done. I'm done. Throw in the towel. We're good. You win.

All of that aside, the guy in the crutches held his own. He shoved him back and stood his ground. The dude in the truck retreated. Jumped in his truck and sped off, but was forced to jam on his brakes because we were still stuck in traffic, of course. Donkey.

Admirably, the brave citizen in the crutches kept at it with the coward in the truck. He was peppering comments until the light turned green and we were released from the clutches of awful fucking Lincoln St. It was awesome. I was proud of the guy. But in contrast, what a douche was I, for making a judgment on him in the first place. He showed more decency by standing up for what was right than I did from the comforts of my car.

Naturally, the self-loathing set in and I was depressed for a couple of hours.

But then I saw this Pulitzer-worthy sequence and felt much better:

I hope I didn't get a ticket. There's no where to park around here. No meters. Fuck it. I was only in there for like 5 minutes. I should be safe.

Whoa, whoa, whoa!

Oh you fuckin' prick. I'm goin' down.

Fuck, I'm gonna spill my coffee.

Oh sweet Jesu…ZZZZZZZZZZ

This is about as close to perfection as one can get. The only thing missing are the next three photographs.

He smashes his head on the pavement.
Completely out cold on the sidewalk.
He wakes up and looks around all confused and is greeted with nothing but apathy. Just as cold and icy as the pavement he just slipped on.

Welcome to The Hub of the Universe. I hate you. I love you.

Sophie's choice

2009-01-18T11:26:00.003-05:00

Royal Blue, Sage Green or Burgundy?

Falling ice

2009-01-16T10:43:00.007-05:00

You guys probably don't know this, but a plane had to make an emergency landing in the Hudson River yesterday after it struck a flock of Canadian Geese shortly after takeoff. The pilot Chelsea "Sully" Sullenberger (the only Sully I know named Chelsea), having the largest set of balls this world has seen in a long time, had the presence of mind to ditch the plane in the river rather than making a risky landing at a nearby landing strip. Miraculously everyone on board survived. Not so much for the birds.

As I watched the footage of the survivors recanting their experience I wondered what my reaction would have been if I were on the plane. In my head, I would have calmly taken hold of the situation like Jack on LOST. Because of my worldly experience, grit, and superior intellect I would have instructed the mere mortals on how to safely exit the plane. I would essentially tell them how to survive. I fantasized about the passengers on the nightly news talking about the unknown and mysterious passenger sitting in 17B (yeah even in my fantasies I am stuck in the fucking middle seat in coach) who took hold of the dire situation.

I was beginning to panic, but then this man appeared out of nowhere and told us what to do. No. No I don't think he was an airline official. He may have been the air marshall because he appeared to have a military special ops air about him.

Then, I was suddenly brought back to a recent experience, in real life, that I am not too proud of.

My friend and I, a female colleague, were heading out to Starbucks. As we were walking out of the lobby, ice, as the helpful sign indicated, began falling to the sidewalk from 33 floors above. I shrieked like a woman. And then (again this is something I am not proud of) cowered behind this girl, and may or may not have used her like a human shield.

We took inventory, and realized we had survived what could have been a lethal accident. Then it dawned on me that I behaved like a complete pussy.

Me: I'm not proud of that.
Her: Yeah, that was pretty bad.
Me: Wow. I wish I had responded more manly than that.
Her: Yeah, I don't know what to say.
Me:Did I use you as a shield?
Her: Yes. Yes, you did.
Me:Wow. Ok, I'll buy you coffee then.
Her: Ok, that sounds fair.

On the commute into work the self-loathing began. My heroic fantasies from the night before were replaced with images of me shrieking, again like a woman, in seat 17B. The news clips of me wrapped in a blanket sobbing about the near fatal emergency landing a little bit more passionately than the other passengers.

Basically this:

But then, I remembered back to the time when I was an actual hero. Or so everyone thought. I was a bus driver. Yes, a bus driver and this warrants another post altogether, but for now let's try to disregard the absurd chain of events which led someone to actually allowing me to drive the vehicle below.

I worked the 5pm-3am shift. The drunk bus. Again, this could fill a series of posts, but for now we'll just stick to one stormy night back in 1998. I had been up on the hill all day. The valley got a ton of snow and I caught first chair that morning to get into some freshy fresh pow pow.

YOOOOOWWWWW!

Sorry.

Even though I got home at 3:30 and couldn't fall asleep until 4:45, because I was wound up like a top after dealing with all the drunks, I was still up and at 'em for first chair. I wasn't going to miss a powder day. After all, that is the reason I signed up for this shift in the first place. I could ski/ride any day I wanted. Which was awesome.

The problem with this approach, and I am sure it is documented somewhere in the Department of Transportation handbook, is you shouldn't drive, let alone drive a bus filled with passengers, without being properly rested. Throw in icy mountainous roads and it's a recipe for disaster.

Around 8pm that night I really started to feel the drag. The adrenaline from the apres-ski rush was beginning to fade. Outside, the snow was DUMPING and it was cold as a bastard. Inside the bus, I had the heat cranked and Miles Davis playing on the radio. It couldn't have been a more pleasant environment for a passenger. Not safe, but pleasant. Like this-was-on-the-brochure pleasant.

I was driving the West Vail Red route, a long loop that meandered through the neighborhoods where most of the locals could afford to live, and just minutes away from the transportation center, the terminus of my trip, where I would be allowed a 15 minute break. I had plans to grab a coffee and stand out in the cold to wake myself up.

As I came down the hill toward a roundabout (A rotary here in America, but Vail has a wicked European complex) I began to slow down to a crawl. I tapped the brakes as gently as a feather, but hit an ice patch and we began to fishtail. Suddenly the ass end of my bus was completely sideways and we were careening into the roundabout out of control. We did a complete 360, and as we came back around I saw two cars.

FUCK!

It was inevitable that we were going to hit one of them. Somehow. Not with the help of training or good reflexes (thank God they didn't have bus cameras like they do now because you would have seen me white knuckling the steering wheel with my eyes completely shut) did we avoid disaster, but out of sheer shitluck the bus somehow corrected itself and merged into the roundabout in between the two cars like an Austin Powers move.

The bus erupted! And in unison, they started chanting:

HAIL TO THE BUS DRIVER, BUS DRIVER! HAIL TO THE BUS DRIVER, BUS DRIVER, BUS DRIVER!

Without exaggeration I had about 5 feet of clearance in between both cars. It was a miracle we didn't collide. Let's put it this way, had I not done a 360 I would have waited for the second car to exit before I even considered entering the roundabout. My entire body was shaking. I was in honest to goodness shock. Meanwhile, the passengers were all coming up to me and slapping me high fives. When we finally pulled into the transportation center I stood up turned the back of the bus like a rock and roll star with my hands raised in the air. Then I ran off and literally kissed the rock salt ground.

I am not a hero. I was just doing my job. Poorly.

Hot coals

2009-01-09T15:17:00.002-05:00

So basically this is the best thing I've come across in a long time. I found it because one of my newest best friends* whom I've never met, The Kid McChunk, but shares my first and last name, started posting these to his YouTube page. He is a genius and I love him.

Basically, the creator can choose the look and feel, the characters, and the setting for the scene. You can then type in the dialogue and control the camera angles, the expressions, and cadence of the delivery. All of this is drag and drop and really easy to do.

The possibilities are endless. I am as excited about this technology as the Speak n' Spell like voice on the Mac a decade ago. You could type in a paragraph of copy and the computer would read it back, which was probably designed for communicating with deaf people, but the better use was primarily for making prank phone calls.

This technology will be like crack for me. If you don't hear for me for another 7 weeks I will be locked away in my basement making these videos. In fact, I may do all of my future posts in this format.

Below is my first foray into this realm. It was written and edited in under 2 minutes, and I am sure it must feel that way too.

*Rocco, you are still the one.

Also, I have about 12 posts lined up, but I have the yips something fierce and just can't get myself to hit the "publish" button. My 4th New Year's Resolution is to post more.

The sniffles

2008-12-12T10:24:00.006-05:00

A day after the first "Day without a Gay" protest, which people call in gay for work, the advertising agency I work for had massive layoffs.

Those are the facts. We report it. You decide.

In my industry calling in gay for work is no big deal because chances are your boss would have his OOTO message set too.

I just feel bad for people in other industries who aren't so understanding.

T: Hey Frankie, this is Tony.
F: Hey Tony, how's it goin' buddy?
T: Listen, I'm not coming in today.
F: You mother fucker. OK my man. What's up? We have a big day today. What do you have the shits or something?
T: Nope.
F: A cold? Can you suck it up? We're short and we're gonna need everyone on today.
T: Nope. I feel fine.
F: What the fuck Tony? Get your ass in here.
T: Nah, I'm heading over to the outlets. Then over to Daltile.
F: WHAT?!
T: Yeah, then we're going to meet up with some friends at the Cheesecake Factory for some appetizers and sangria.

I hate long weekends

2008-12-11T12:59:00.007-05:00

They are having layoffs at my agency right now. Every time my phone rings or my email chimes my heart skips a beat. So my plan of attack is to man-up and treat this like any other major crisis in my life—ignore it.

Right now I am going to hide. They can't break up with me if they can't find me. The conference rooms on the 20th floor are pretty sweet.

Wish me luck everyone. This is bad.

Back to my mantra:

I don't make enough money to make a dent in the bottom line, I don't make enough money to make a dent in the bottom line, I don't make enough money to make a dent in the bottom line, I don't make enough money to make a dent in the bottom line, I don't make enough money to make a dent in the bottom line.

But then, I sprinkle in a little:

I'm such an overpaid hack, I'm such an overpaid hack,I'm such an overpaid hack, I'm such an overpaid hack, I'm such an overpaid hack, I'm such an overpaid hack.

Movember into Mocember

2008-12-04T09:08:00.005-05:00

I was growing a mustache in November to raise money for prostate cancer. But then I ran into my filthy friends from Dorchester who said they would give me money if I wore it straight through December. So I made the whiskey-fueled Thanksgiving Eve promise to keep the dirty upper lip into 2009. You can see the status of the mustache below:

I'm the fat one. On the right.
I'm the creep. On the left.

You can donate here

Cat litter

2008-12-01T13:36:00.004-05:00

A couple of months ago a colleague came into my cubi…corner office, and asked me to shoot a quick video to seed a contest they were promoting.

Meow!

They handed me a toothpaste package, told me to come up with a new catchphrase for Emeril's BAM! Oh, and be weird.

That's it.

It was Monday morning. I was miserable. The last thing I wanted to do was get on camera and "be weird." But with this economy if someone at work led me to a gloryhole, and it somehow helped me stay off "the list," I would probably put it in my mouth. Not my bum though. I need to draw the line somewhere.

So there I was standing in front of the fake graffiti (because we're so fucking hip, man) and before I knew it the red light went on and BAM! I was meowing into the camera.

I nailed it on one take. That's it. It was a wrap. It was in the can. I felt so demoralized. Like a whore I made the walk of shame back to my corner office and just felt dirty. Abused. Violated.

Thankfully I forgot about this terrific experience, but today I logged onto the site and was astonished to learn that 1,637 intelligent people took the time out of their incredibly busy and productive day to watch me meoww. I felt sick to my stomach. I was praying I didn't win this fucking contest. God almighty.

Then I saw all of the comments and realized, phew, that they hated me. They REALLY hated me.

My favorite is from NoveltyMop:

Learn to jump

then practice

off of a cliff, that is

Creep in Aisle 3

2008-11-11T17:21:00.007-05:00

I always think I am under surveillance. I mean I am. Who isn't nowadays? But this is different. I am so self-centered that I think the Eyes in the Sky are always interested in what I am doing. I change my behavior accordingly to appease those faceless watchful eyes. I am constantly trying to show my hands like a dealer at the tables. Clean. All clear. No shoplifting here.

Nobody gives a fuck about what I am doing. Plus, I'm not black. I kid, I kid.

But sometimes I think they really are watching me. And tonight in Borders Books the Eyes in the Sky, had they been doing their jobs properly, should have been following my every creepy move. I spent about 45 minutes in the childrens section while I had Artie Lange's Too Fat to Fish tucked under my arm. I was thumbing through books doing research for work. Honestly. We're doing a pop-up book motiff for a website and I needed to check out some real books for reference. I know, that's what they all say. It was research.

So there I was in the childrens section poring over the inventory like, it was my job, as mothers were tightening their clutch on little Jimmy and Alice. I would put down my venti iced coffee and Artie's masterpiece right next to a cloth book on owls and marvel, sometimes aloud, at the cool intricacies of a particular pop-up book. For the execution. Not the content. It was then that I realized what I was doing, and how I must appear to the frightened mothers on the second floor of Borders.

So I bolted out of the section, but not before getting my hands on season 3 of Arrested Development. Then, I paid in cash. For anonymity, of course.

Also, I have a mustache.

Yes we can

2008-11-05T10:36:00.000-05:00

This is the last shot to get it right

2008-10-16T13:43:00.006-04:00

I am out in LA right now for the High School Musical 3 Premiere. Yeah HSM3 to all you gay dudes and teenage girls in my audience. For the rest of you who haven't been exposed to the Disney campaign of terror, think Grease meets Saved By The Bell meets Ned Flanders meets a Say No To Drugs commercial. Yeah, follow that logic chain. It makes sense though, doesn't it? In short, these movies are indescribably bad. They are awful. Just downright awful. Yet the kids, and a lot of gay dudes, just can't get enough of this nonsense. But who am I to judge?

Score another one for Disney. I've stopped trying to figure it out. I just accept it now. This movie is sort of a big deal and even though this isn't exactly what I had in my mind as a kid (last week) fantasizing about being on the red carpet it should still be fun.

The problem right now is the invitation I have in my hand says "Attire: Business Casual. Wear your red and white East High spirit!" I am sort of freaking out. Aren't these two directions largely at odds with each other? I know business casual. I know that look down-pat. Every day, I see a ton of 20-something guys walking around the Financial District with crisp wrinkle-free button downs and no-pleat Dockers slacks. Yes, I said slacks. That look I know, but I can't recall ever being behind a dude at the deli who was wearing a splashy red and white number. Not once.

The only image that conjures up in my head when I think of a red button down is a guest on Montel. You know, the dude who is sleeping with his girlfriend's sister and is waiting backstage for a paternity test. His name is Nathan. He has a sweet scumstache, a shaved head, and doesn't give a fuck y'all. His mother, 14 years older than him, implored him to wear something nice on television. She pulled out the shirt he wears to weddings and funerals. You know, the red button down.

I was thinking of going with the standard Art Director uniform. The designer jeans, ironic graphic tee, a blazer, and skate shoes. The "I wish I were out in LA doing what I want to do, but I am stuck in Boston" look. Then at the last minute I was told that jeans were out of the question. I am back to square one.

So I am off to West Hollywood. I should find some sympathetic HSM3 fans there. Stay tuned.

Now wait a minute. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, yeah!

2008-10-14T19:44:00.009-04:00

The other night at the Adams Inn in Quincy, Jim Plunkett entertained the the QHS Homecoming guests out on the gazebo. It was a great time. As usual Jim worked his magic and had the crowd, including grown men, out on the dance floor singing and dancing like, well, like drunk women. It's amazing. The man has David Koresh-like abilities and can manipulate reasonable people into acting like complete buffoons. The good news, however, is at the end of the night you won't wind up in a standoff with the FBI, but you may have some spilled beer on your shirt.

Provided you keep your shirt on.

A couple of hours into the set Jim reached into his bag of tricks by playing Shout, a crowd favorite, and the place went nuts. Everybody was getting into the song including two very special guests Tommy and Lindsey. Like everyone else they were kicking back their heels and throwing their hands in the air. Yay, ya, ya, Yeah!

Then Plunkett brought the frantic crowd back down to a quiet whisper.

A little bit softer now
A little bit softer now
A little bit softer now

Tommy, now shimmied down into a full crouch noticed a bright sparkling item on the floor. He reached down and picked it up. He held the item up to the light with his thumb and forefinger. As he was examining the item, now at eye level, he realized it was a diamond earring. He looked up and saw his wide-eyed girlfriend Lindsey standing above him. The world stopped.

No! NO, NO, NO, NO, NOOOOO!

Congratulations Lindsey and Tommy! We were all thrilled to share in this special moment with you.

Good Morning

2008-10-06T08:37:00.001-04:00

Get out the Vote!

2008-10-02T13:26:00.004-04:00

No, not for president. For my friend Aida who is running/ran the NYC marathon.

Click on the "View Gallery" button and she is the 4th (now she's the 5th thumbnail) thumbnail from the left. The chick on the fire escape. Which sounds like a good porn name.

Vote for Aida!

If you vote I promise to write more stories about shitting myself.

Turner & Hooch: Part II

2008-10-01T07:37:00.005-04:00

So Opie the dog almost bit the dust. He ate an entire chicken carcass, bones and all, the other day. We had to take him to the animal hospital. Twice. One of the x-rays shows the wishbone lodged in his lower intestine. Fortunately, he's going to make it, and he won't require surgery. He does, however, need to shit out chicken bones which can't be fun.

Other things of note that Opie has eaten: 3 remote controls, 4 AAA batteries, an assortment of rocks, 3 dozen shoes, a couple dozen hats, a Jordan's furniture sectional couch, a wall, the hardwood floor, the pottery barn bench, the back porch, the entire inside of the JEEP and the JETTA (electric blue Fratt…I wish it were turquoise because I would get more respect on the road), a painting, 7 DVDs, 2 of his beds, a down comforter, 4 down pillows, and a brand new Coach pocketbook.

So far, this dog has cost me roughly $65,000. And counting.

Sorry folks—park's closed

2008-09-25T08:00:00.001-04:00

I need to race back to Washington to save the economy. Be back soon. Probably in Q3.

Good mohnin'

2008-09-22T05:24:00.003-04:00

I had to come in extra early this morning because we have a meeting with the big cheese today, and I haven't even begun my part of the project. After a fitful sleep I looked and felt like crap this morning. I needed a coffee, but my baristas are still asleep or in the shower, listening to NPR, at this time of the morning. I was forced to hit up Dunkies instead.

I can't stand the smell of the place. In my brain, Dunkies sends the same message to my gag reflex as an emergency room full of senior citizens and peach schnapps.

Only 1 car was in the parking lot. The quiet night sky still hung over the city. My car, the blue dumpster, the yellow poles protecting the entrance from old people who think the gas and brake pedals are the same thing, and the filthy pay phone were covered in morning dew. It was peaceful.

I opened the door and Barry Manilow was cranking on the stereo. Not a radio, but a stereo system. An expensive one at that. It sounded like last call at the Man Hole.

Medium iced coffee, black. MEDIUM ICED COFFEE, BLACK!

It's going to be a bad week.

Meoooowwwww!!!

2008-09-18T11:13:00.004-04:00

A couple of months ago a colleague came into my cubi…corner office, and asked me to shoot a quick video
to seed a contest they were promoting. They handed me a toothpaste package, told me to come up with a new catchphrase for Emmeril's BAM! Oh, and be weird.

That's it.

It was Monday morning. I was miserable. The last thing I wanted to do was get on camera and "be weird." But with this economy if someone at work led me to a gloryhole, and it somehow helped me stay off "the list," I would probably put it in my mouth. Not my bum though. I need to draw the line somewhere.

So there I was standing in front of the fake graffiti (because we're so fucking hip, man) and before I knew it the red light went on and BAM! I was meowing into the camera.

Thankfully I forgot about this terrific experience, but today I logged onto the site and was astonished to learn that 1,637 people watched me meoww. I felt sick to my stomach. I was praying I didn't win this fucking thing. God almighty. Then I saw all the comments. All of the glorious comments, and phew, they hated me. They REALLY hated me.

My favorite is from NoveltyMop:

Learn to jump

then practice

off of a cliff, that is

Lumber liquidators

2008-09-17T13:48:00.003-04:00

I'm going out on a limb here, but I bet you there isn't a shaved pussy in this whole group. Not a one.

Sammy Hagar, Pierce Brosnan, Matt Cassell

2008-09-08T08:07:00.006-04:00

For those of you who live beyond 495, please enjoy the rest of the season.