Archives for July 2004

It’s 6:14 and I should have already been at Chris’s Wiffleball Tournament out in Concord for about 4 hours. My cell phone went dead, and I’ve lost all my numbers. My ride never called me. My mother is sick. I needed clean drawers. There was a sale at Penny’s.

I did get a little (OK, a lot) banged up last night (see photo) but that is NOT why I missed the tourney. If I hoot with the owls, I crow with the roosters.

You know you’re banged up when: a.) You’re drinking Heineken (yuck). b.) You’re drinking it at Sissy K’s (yucker). c.) Uncle Fester tries to give you a handjob in the bathroom.

Sorry dude. I must admit – I suck sometimes.

I don’t know who Kerry Edwards is. But I bet she’s wicked hot.

Johnny’s speech kicked ass. I’ll admit it. But the Saudi Royal Family reference ruined it for me – totally. You had me… and then you lost me.

Keep Mike Moore’s paper-thin horseshit on the sidelines if you want to stay in the running.

I watched it word for word from the bar at the Wyndham hotel. But I’m still confused about one point: Did John Kerry serve in Vietnam? Cause I’m still unclear. No really. Was he in that particular war – because I don’t think that was ever made abundantly clear at any point tonight. Southeast Asia, right?

“My name is John Kerry, and I’m reporting for duty.”

JESUS.

I sat next to a Georgia senator, a democratic party psychiatrist, and even clinked glasses with a nice woman who had actually gone on a date earlier that evening with Colin McNickle. You remember him – Teresa so eloquently told him to “shove it” a few days ago. I asked her if he’d gotten over it. She went to smoke a cigarette and never returned. Some dates go well. Some dates don’t. Most women find me repulsive.

“Bottom line – As long as none of the speeches tonight contain references to drowning hamsters, we should be alright.”

We’re into day four now, and the city of Boston awaits Kerry’s acceptance speech tonight with great eagerness and several effigerial burnings. The Democratic party is abuzz on the city’s crowded streets, waiting to crown their mighty war hero and great leader. It’s no picnic. It’s like ants on a discarded celery stick full of Cheez Whiz after the picnic. Forget I mentioned a picnic.

I made it in to the office finally, after having to traverse yet another Falun Gong protest, several “Friends of Hillary” campaigners who met with an expletive from yours truly when they attempted to block my path – and just general pedestrian congestion. Picture Pamploana’s Running of the Bulls held in the North End. Picture a romantic stroll through Calcutta.

I felt a need to mete out a degree of retribution during my mosey, and had my opportunity when stopped for directions near the Bell in Hand. “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me how to get to the Fleet Center please?” The inquisitor had so many press passes and credentials around his neck, I thought I was talking to Flava Flav for a second. Flav would have been a great commentator for MTV now that I think of it. A much better choice than Wonkette, anyway. They could have called the segment “Cold Lampin’ at the DNC” or something. Where was I?

Giving directions. “It’s at the end of the Freedom Trail. Just follow the red line on the pavement over that way.” at which point I pointed towards the North End. For those unfamiliar, you can get to the Fleet Center quite quickly from that area by walking in the opposite direction. I made a funny. Alright, so I was a dick. But I think everyone who visits Boston should get to visit the North End, even if it’s because they were given maliciously bad directions.

“Sorry I’m late. I got a little lost. I didn’t realize the Fleet Center was part of the Freedom Trail. Yeah, some 2nd round draft pick named Paul Revere hit a buzzer-beater there in 1776 to beat the Washington Redcoats in overtime. And apparently they all wore cornrows back then. I did not know that. Yeah, I met this really helpful local.”

Horse puckey! That’s not a personal comment on the state of our fair city at the moment, so much as an observation. There are road apples everywhere! There are Democrats everywhere! In fact, you can’t pick up and throw a road apple without hitting a Democrat (as I learned earlier today before a short visit to precinct 11). 

Horses are out in numbers in an equestrian show of force. Children love them and terrorists fear them. I once heard about an unreleased episode of Mr. Ed where Wilbur was accused of harboring a Taliban warlord. Mr. Ed took the term WMD (Wilbur Must Die) to heart and it nearly spelt the end of the series until the plot idea was scrapped in favor of Ed giving free rides at a birthday party instead. 

The boys in blue – and their long faced, saddled and very continent counterparts – are on the case. Even though I nearly ruined a new pair of shoes this afternoon, I’ll take dirty treads over a dirty bomb any day of the week. Here’s what I say to 80 million dollars worth of security: “Yes, please”. I didn’t ask that my backyard be invaded by this circus. I have one more thing to add: “Hi ho Silver – all you conventioners please go – away!”

I can set my watch by it. Sunday night rolls around, I’ve watched everything HBO has to offer (how the hell did they ever get Pat Buchanan on Ali G. by the way?) and I can’t fall asleep. I bought this stuff called Alluna a while back. It’s a herbal sleeping pill or something. There are as of yet undiscovered tribes, in the heart of the Peruvian jungle, who could have told me it wouldn’t work.

The dodgy marketing language should have been my first warning. “It works by helping you relax so you drift off to sleep naturally.” How about helping me to sleep so I can drift off to sleep naturally? How about a non perscription sleep aide called “Sledgehammer to the back of the skull”?

I’m sick of TV, I’ve read every book in the apartment and I’m just about ready to see how long playing Monopoly against myself might be interesting. I even read The DaVinci Code last month God forbid. The success of that book just astounds me. People who normally can be found reading… well… People, have told me proudly that they read it and loved it. And I usually just want to tell them to maybe keep that to themselves. To stop helping to deify the mundane.

I’m guilty of reading my fair share of trendy books-of-the-minute, but I realize that I shouldn’t run around singing their praises like I’ve just discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls – lest folks think I’m a moron. There’s a sample I’ve always loved from an old 3rd Bass record (file under white, Jewish 80’s hip-hop). I don’t know where they lifted it from. “He’s stupid, but he knows that he is stupid. And that almost makes him smart.”



And if you think what I wrote sounds a wee bit pompous, remember: I just admitted I still listen to 3rd Bass.

Who left the screen door unlocked? Atlanta’s own Boston Blogger gets inside the hornet’s nest for a podium’s-eye-view. Living proof that Dems will vote for anyone. As long as their last name has nothing to do with shrubbery.

“And I vow that the American family will have two chickens in every pot, two 40’s of Crazy Horse in every pantry – and the entire Brand Nubian discography in every CD player.”

We want Santa Claus back. Immediately. The Democratic National Convention has arrived.

My friend, The Boston Blogger, works for CNN and is in town from Atlanta for a week covering the convention. He will sit in a sweaty editing truck for 18 hours a day outside the Fleet Center before returning to the North End to haunt my couch. I’d forgotten all about the convention, and when he called last night to say he’d arrived in Boston I briefly panicked – it’s on.

I walk to work everyday, nearly clear across Boston proper from the North End to Copley and back again. During my pilrimage this morning, I saw a number of things that snapped me back into reality and reminded me what the next week is going to be like for urban dwellers. You know the DNC is in town when:



1. The Boston Globe has people giving away today’s edition for free all over the city as if it were The Metro. Fish markets everywhere rejoice.

2. There are college kids spreading 900 pairs of empty Army boots across the steps of Government Center, tagged with soldier names under the title “An artistic Representation of the Costs of the Iraq War”. Subtle, guys. I don’t suppose those boots would have been of more use to Boston’s homeless? Paging Dr. Shoals.

3. Boston’s homeless are surprisingly absent, while we’re on the subject. Usually converging on Boston Common near Park Street, none of my favorite characters were in residence this morning. Not Slow Motion Man, not Kris Kristofferson, not Stinkles – none of the folks I’ve come to know, give demeaning nicknames, and love were to be seen. This is amazing. Have they been bribed and shipped to Nahaunt? Will anyone in Nahaunt notice?

4. Hari Hari. Krishnas on the Common. Whacking drums and chanting about unconditional peace – straight out of Airplane. “Don’t you tell me which zone is for loading, and which zone is for unloading.” “Look Betty, don’t start up with your white zone shit again.”

5. The Freedom Trail gets a facelift. And has been extended to run the length of the Boston Common’s Tremont St. pavement. And is fuggin’ ugly. I tiptoed around the cones surrounding the wet paint on my way through and immediately thought of Jamaican beer. Attention Boston public works: “Jamaican me crazy!”

This topic isn’t deceased – not by a longshot. I am going to strive to keep this blog apolitical, but it’s going to be difficult for the next week. Great Kerry’s Botox, it’s going to be difficult.

Thanks to Linda for forwarding me this story:

“My sister-in law is from Oklahoma and has a slight accent. She has cats and when she lived in the south she would take them to the groomers and have what is called a Line Cut. To her a line cut is when all of the fur hanging down below the cat’s tummy is taken off (because it gets matted or snarled).



   

 

When she moved to Chicago with my brother, one of the cats fur got all tangled up during the move so she took it in for a line cut. She was quite surprised when she heard the price as it was twice as much as it was down south. She confirmed with the groomer that he understood what a line cut was and he said ‘yes, I know what a LION cut is’. 

 

It seems her accent came out sounding like LION not LINE and this is how her cat was returned to her. She cried for a week…but not as much as the cat. It was November in Chicago and the cat needed all the fur it had.”



Wow. That cat is PISSED. Please folks – No p*ssy trimming jokes. You’re better than that.

Few things give me more workplace joy than the occasional glimpse at Fark.com. It’s the best collection of news links from around the web – all done with a humorous twist. Every day they have several Photoshop contests, where site members are given a theme (Photoshop your favorite actor/actress into Star Trek in an effort to save the franchise, What the USA would look like if it had never left the British Empire, etc.) that they have to visualize in the form of an uploaded – and drastically altered – photograph.

There are several recurring popular elements – Christopher Walken, A squirrel with huge testicles, Michael Jackson, George Bush and Michael Moore being standards. Some of the “Farkers” as they call themselves come up with ideas that will have you rolling on the floor. And the prize for winning? Bragging rights among your fellow dorks. Or, “Forks” as I call them. But they’re a sharp bunch who make me giggle every day. Check it out.