Saude, Jacob

I meant to do this long ago, but I just remembered; so here goes. Congrats on your wedding, Jacob. You see, Jake is the first of all my closest friends from home to succumb to the lovely institution of marriage. Leah is awesome, dude. And she's righteously hot, so right on brother. Thanks for including me and letting me be a part of the ceremony. I think being a groomsman is one of the greatest things that can happen to a guy. You get a sweet gift, hopefully a tight bridesmaid (see Bridesmaids from an earlier entry) and a huge, delicious meal that includes all the booze you can consume in a 10 hour span. It's also my contention that you always have more fun if you're wearing a tux, but then again, I'm weird.

Oh yeah, I thought of another song that brings me to another place. Whenever I hear 'Machinehead' by Bush, it brings me to any Adam Vinatieri kickoff. I would hope that any true Pats fan would agree. However, I was watching some game this weekend--it may have even been college--and they also played this song as the kickoff was happening. It kind of ruined it for me, but hey, who says two kickers can't love the same song? Or maybe neither this dude, nor Vinatieri, actually chose that song at all. I don't know. Forget it.

And cheers to Tom Brady. He constantly reminds me why every other QB in the NFL can get on their respective knees and blow him. Case in point, Sunday's massacre of the Vikings. Viking defenders were quoted as saying that they had no chance in the game because of Brady. Yes, I saw P. Manning on Sunday as well, but as I told my good friend Josh this weekend when he asked me who I would take to start a franchise between the two, Tom Brady is the best in the league, period. He's one of the top 4 or 5 greatest QB's of all time along with Johnny U., Montana, Marino and Grogan. Oops, my bad. I meant Elway.

Uncle Mike

My general feeling about vagrants is that I could very easily end up as one someday. In fact, any of us could. Who's to say that we won't one day lose our job for some unknown reason, not be able to pay our bills, resort to binge drinking to dull our pain, get kicked out of our abode and end up on the street? Is it really that unlikely? No, not really. You just never know.

I used to live in Beacon Hill. which is an aesthetically pleasing section of Boston that borders the Common. Anyway, I would walk to work everyday and theretofore, walk home. There was this one vagrant in the park that stood out to me on a regular basis, because somehow this guy would receive frequent hugs from people and it looked like he did pretty well in the change department. He always had a coffee and a cruller from DD and a smile on his face. I started giving him my change regularly, and soon enough I was looking for loose change and small bills in my apartment to give to him. Eventually, it came to a point where I would give him $10 every payday and sure enough, I started receiving hugs from this man. It's not like I really felt like I was doing something good for the world, but just for him. There was no dejection about this man, no despair. It's like he knew his predicament and accepted it as reality. When you think about it, that's all it was; his reality. It still is his reality.

I don't live in Beacon Hill anymore, but a good friend of mine does and every time I'm down there at his place, I run into my friend from the Common. Only now, he makes his outpost on Cambridge St. in Beacon Hill; he's usually in front of the White Hen Pantry there. Well, I saw him last night and just like every other time I have seen him, I was genuinely happy to make his acquaintance. I gave him the only $5 dollar bill that I had and I told him that I wished it could be more. Truth be told, I can't spare five bucks. That's a pack of cigarettes, a beer, a sandwich...it's probably the same for him, too. In this irony, I assign the same value to that five bucks. With much naivety, I assume that he's not buying liquor with it, or worse than that, crack or some shit. Hey, facts are facts, man. Most vagrants buy booze and drugs with their spare change because it's a release from their given situation. I just don't have the same theory for my friend because he's happy and he remembers every face that graces his path each day. One of the last times I saw him, I was with my friend Rich-the one who lives on the Hill-and our friend was there at his post. He asked for any money we could spare so he could take his girl to the movies. I think we scraped together $10 or so and wished him luck with gathering enough to accomplish his goal.

We saw him the next day and no, he didn't get a chance to take his girl to the movies. We expressed our regrets and gave him another few dollars for whatever he was in the market for that day.

His name is Mike and he looks like a miniature Rasheed Wallace. He stands about 5' tall, carries a smile and usually coffee and a donut, as mentioned above. He's always referred to me as 'Uncle', and all of my friends who have met him, subsequently. Next time you're on the Hill, see if he's there. Pay him a visit. Give him change, coffee or nothing, I don't care. But say hello to him. In my opinion that's just as valuable to this man as your grubby money.

Same Old Song

Inspiration: Crazy Carl (thanks guy)

Riding home from dodgeball tonight, my roommate Carl and I were reminiscing about old songs. He brought me back to middle school by offering that there are still those certain songs that remind him of his past: girls, sports, college, girls, drugs...you get the point. Here are a few that popped into my small head as I began to ponder those poignant, poetic progressions of the past. ( French 1, Alliteration 0)

A real obvious one to me: Thunderkiss 65 by White Zombie. We used to listen to this in the lockeroom before kickoff at football games. It got me sort of pumped up, but then that one dude that I played with--clearly on 'roids--would grab my facemask and blast my helmet with his. Thanks, Tim. I needed a concussion before the game, you fuck. I miss high school football unrelentingly.

Long December, Counting Crows. My high school object of affection loved this song, and I bought the album it headlined as a Christmas gift for her. She called me Christmas night to go see a movie (no idea what movie); her calling me to do anything was rare enough, but on Christmas night? Anyway, she showed up drunk, drove us to the Revere 14 and we made out to Long December. She dumped me shortly thereafter because I wasn't enough of a challenge...and also because I wouldn't sleep with her. Nice work, Mom and Dad. Love that Catholic upbringing.

Flowing, 311. Taking myself back to a darker time, I fell in love with E in college. My buddy and I locked ourselves in a dormroom for nearly three months (except to play catch...we found this to be the best way to take our minds off of how FUCKING AWFUL we felt coming down). We would listed to 'Flowing' over and over, and play Mario Golf. It was glorious, until the night we went barreling through a very thick and heavy glass door on our balcony. YIKES. Lots of blood, lots of questions. The common answer? "Oh, uh...we were uh, oh fuck it. We were wicked fucked up."

Audioslave, Like A Stone. This one has a tight grip on my balls and my heart strings. (We French are romantics, so baisse mon derriere) After I broke up with my latest ex, I listened to this song so many fucking times, often drunk and depressed. It was tough, lay off. But it was kind of our song, as much as I hate that cliche. Imagine that as a wedding song? "Honey, look. No one's dancing. In fact, they're all doing heroin. I think we made a huge mistake picking this song..."


I may come back to this one at a later date because it's a sweet topic.

Road Rage and Such...

I'm so tired of asshead drivers who just don't understand proper road etiquette. Here are a few examples of what is UNACCEPTABLE when travelling America's roadways. Oh, before I go into it...had a burger at Fuddrucker's today; fucking awesome. I highly recommend 'The Works', 1/2 lb. patty, medium, with all the fixins.

Back to it, now. If you're on a ramp with a YIELD sign at the end of it, don't sit at the end of the ramp with your long-ass neck bent to the left, looking at the oncoming cars. FUCKING ACCELERATE, shitbag. It's a yield for a reason, and you are the sole reason that people rear-end others on these on-ramps. No one expects someone to be at a dead stop at the end of the ramp. If you can't read, fine. Learn the colors and shapes--it's not that hard. But stop being an asshole and making other people's lives miserable.

Another thing...if you want to pass me (on either side), enough with the premature wave. I didn't wave you on yet, you sack. If you wave at me before I let you in, all you're going to get is a bird, possibly a double bird, coming your way right quick. As if it's not enough that you're trying to get in front of me and impede my path to point B, now you want to motion towards me like I don't notice your K-car with its blinker on? I SEE YOU, jabroni. I just don't want to let you in. Should I let you in, it will be because you looked at me and gave a slight head nod in my direction. At that point, I give you the captain's aye-aye gesture and you move along. THEN YOU WAVE. Or point at me like I'm your boy, or mouth the words "You are God".

More later. I'm too pissed off to write more now.

Joke

What did Captain Ahab find on the underbelly of the whale?

Moby's Dick.

The Brighter Side of Things

I played dodgeball with my roommate last night; I was merely a fill-in for a game or two because they had a double-header. Just a few observations first:

1. Dodgeball is vastly underrated as a sport. It combines agility, strategy and strength all the while giving one the opportunity to throw an orb-like object at someone's face as HARD AS ONE CAN. Awesome.

2. Dodgeball spawns its share of hacks, and that was made infinitely clear last night. The 'commissioner' of the league wore a t-shirt with matching headband and he was fierce. You just knew from first glance that he was the kid that everyone picked on in high school. Now he's getting his revenge, dodgeball style. Good for him.

3. Girl in knee-highs and a sports bra nimbly jumping out of the ball's way = pretty hot.

3a. Girl in stirrup pants and over-sized tee squatting to duck from a ball and getting nailed in the face = pretty gross, but funny as hell.

4. I don't care how hard you hit someone or how pumped you are after catching another player's ball and thus eliminating him...under NO CIRCUMSTANCES are you to yell and point at the other team. This is dodgeball, not ultimate fighting or the NFL. I even saw some McEnroe-esque arguing with refs last night. Unacceptable.

I had intended on a brighter light to this story, so I digress. The first game I played in, I was told that the first guy we had to eliminate was this kid wearing a Portis jersey. Seemed simple enough, and he looked like an easy target. However, after several futile attempts and watching him take out my entire team, it came down to just me vs. his team. Naturally he had the go-ahead from his team to take aim first. And sure as shit, this first missile caught me in the leg and I was out. I started to question it and he approached me to demonstrate how it had glanced off of my leg before I had a chance to deflect it with the ball I was holding. He was right.

After a closer look at the subject in said Portis jersey, I realized that I knew him. I went to high school with him, co-existed with him and his group of friends but we never had the same interests. I was a three-sport athlete, he chose dark basements, hard drugs and patchouli...all of this by the age of 14. This kid, whom I'll call F, overdosed several times and flirted with death well before our 17th birthdays. He lost a few cohorts along the way, one of them being one of those rare links between social groups who everyone loves; this particular friend of his was also one of my best friends.

I hadn't seen F since graduation day of high school. There were many times where I was sure he was dead, or at least in rehab somewhere. The rehab part turned out to be true, but that was quite a while back. So after we caught up a bit, turns out F has been clean for 9 years...NINE YEARS. He plays dodgeball year round, makes a good, honest living as a craftsman and generally enjoys life. It was great to see him, and we promised to keep in touch and all that shit. I know we won't, but just knowing how far he's come and what he's made of his life is inspiring.

Don't worry, I'm not gonna get all 'let's make the world a better place' on you. But I'll be damned if I'm truly ever going to think my life sucks and is beyond repair. That's horseshit in most every case. Those cases that would fall under the 'beyond repair' category will be discussed at a later date.

Still don't got it

I have to start this post by thanking any guy who has ever paired up with his buddy as the 'wingman'. While overused and borderline annoying at this point-as far as cliched terms go-I still love employing the wingman when in the hunt for fatted game, or babies, or simply women.

I had a wingman not too long ago who approached the bar waitress that I had picked out for courtship and asked her a question on my behalf. Would she throw a plastic coin in my direction in an effort to recreate the scene from Swingers wherein Vince Vaughn's character gives the 'special lady' a 50-cent piece (only the opposite of that...I guess)? The waitress totally went for it, loved the idea and allegedly laughed heartily at the request. So my winger, whom I will refer to as Kane, beckons for me to join him in a precarious spot of the bar...right in front of the waitress stand. I ask him how it went with her and he says "just stand next to me". So I do. And wouldn't you know, the little dumpling ambles by me and flips a plastic coin in my direction (we were a part of a poker event, so they gave out these commemorative coins for souvenirs) and walks on. Naturally I completely botch the reception and knock the coin away from me, onto the floor next to the waitress stand. I don't bother to go pick it up.

Next thing I know, I'm standing with Kane and a few others and over she walks, looking up at me and smiling--clearly purporting her approval of the whole scene that just transpired. I freeze as always, and Kane interjects with "...ok, let me introduce him since he's clearly mute. This is French, French this is Kim." Hi Kim. Hi indeed. I tell her that she actually hit me in the eye with coin and she gasped. But I assured her that I was only kidding and thanked her for being a sport. She walked on to continue her job servicing patrons.

Some time passes...I make eye contact with her time and again and Kane assures me that she continually looks in my direction and looks me over. I'm pumped at this point because not only is this girl a waitress (excerpt from Richie's morning email about this event: the on the clock waitress pick up is one of the most dangerous and difficult moves in the land and you went after it with your french balls flying high), she's also very cute and just all-around pleasing. I feel like nothing can stop me and eventually the time approaches for me to inform her that I'm leaving but it was nice meeting her and I'd like to call her sometime...so after several minutes of useless pacing and wiping my forehead of collected sweat, I see her leaving the waitress stand. Here's what went down:

Me: "Kim?"

Kim: "Yeah, hi!"

Me: "Hey listen, I'm taking off but..."

Kim: "Oh me too...my shift is over."

Me: "Nice. Well, it was nice meeting you...this is pretty awkward, but can I take you out sometime?"

Kim: "Oh my gosh, I'm so flattered but I have a boyfriend."

Me (clutching stomach, holding in vomit): "You do? But you threw me the coin!"

Kim: "I know...but your friend asked me to!"

Me (beginning to disappear like Marty's brother and sister in the picture from Back to the Future): "Ok, well...have a good night. And thanks again."

Kim: "Good night."

Me: "Go fuck yourself. And why don't you walk into oncoming traffic on your way out." (under my breath of course. Come on now, I'm not that mean.)

Hindsight tells me that when she told me of her shift ending at that moment, I should have asked her if she wanted to grab a drink somewhere. Maybe that would have been a better idea, who knows. But was I duped here? Anyone who saw the glances she was giving me would have agreed with Kane...she was into me and wanted to play. So what gives? Can I maybe get a female opinion on this one?

Conclusion: women remain an inherent mystery to me and I hate life. No, no, not really. Life's cool. I just hate meeting women. Actually I love meeting them. But it's the next step that I suck at.

This statement is actually a question?

I'm pretty pissed off today. Sometimes I have these moments of clarity where I can clearly see all of the stressors in my life and I focus on them. Today is one of those days and every, little thing is angering me deeply. I had a Cheez-It a minute ago that had one granule of salt on it, and all the rest had at least two. I yelled at it, then chewed it extra hard. Boy, I bet I really hurt that Cheez-It. Betcha I did. Oh boy, oh boy. I am fucking losing it.

Here's what really irks me, and especially today: people who say everything as if it were a fucking question. Why do people do that? I really don't understand and it is so aggrevating. Listen pal, if you're telling me something, tell me. Don't ask me. Let me give you an example:

"Here's the packet you asked for." -to which I'd reply "Ok, thanks."

"Here the packet you asked for?" -to which I'd reply "Wait, are you asking me if this is it? You know what I asked for and quite frankly, if this is too confusing for you, maybe you should consider a career that requires zero intelligence as opposed to minimal intelligence."

You all know what I'm talking about. If it's not a question, there is a way to manipulate the pitch in your voice to denote that it is a statement. If you passed the 1st grade you'd probably be well aware of this.

Of course I have this gripe because I work with someone who has this disease; this malfunction. Most days I can handle it until 5pm rolls around. And then I get a little bothered but the thought of the end of the day nearing quells my anger. But not today. I've been incensed by the whole thing since 7:50am, the exact second I sat down and heard "Good morning?" Maybe I should have answered that as if said co-worker was asking me if it was a good morning. Perhaps I wouldn't be in this predicament. Could be that I'd have opened said co-workers eyes to the sheer idiocy the this person purports on a regular basis. But most preferably, perhaps I would have lost all control of my bodily movements and therefore thrown said co-worker through the large window we look through every day.

Ouch?

Does a bear shit in the woods?

This statement never leaves me straight-faced upon hearing it, because it always gets me thinking about if a bear does shit in the woods.

1. That Charmin commercial pops into my head where you see the bears coming over to the tree to retrieve a fresh roll of toilet paper. This would suggest a less primitive latrine for the bears; maybe an outhouse? I can picture the big bear, the head of the bunch, taking his time in the outhouse. Up walks one of the younger, smaller cubs. He knocks, gives a "...hey, wouldja hurry up in there? I really gotta go", and the big bear just freaks out and reminds the cub who's boss. The cub walks away dejected, suggesting that the big bear at least light a match before departing the outhouse.

2. Bears hibernate for months on end during the winter season. I'm assuming they don't relieve themselves during this seasonal siesta, so wouldn't the average bear wake up and immediately head for the john? Given this assumption, if I were a bear I wouldn't run out into the woods from my cave to take the inaugural dump. You never know who's out there. What if that special lady bear from summer last is bathing in the brook nearby? Surely you don't want her first Spring impression of you to be one of squatting and wincing one out. You can bet that her jar of honey is going to be OFF LIMITS to you if she sees this colonic display as she bathes.

3. Privacy has got to be taken into consideration here, folks. You're a bear, you probably produce a sizeable load...if there's a struggle, do you really want to chance that anyone/thing is going to happen upon you, mid-grunt? Holy embarrassing. You're no longer big, scary bear. You're now funny, pooping bear. And no one's afraid of funny, pooping bear.

So the next time I ask my father something that he believes to be a question leading to an obvious affirmation and he offers, "Does a bear shit in the woods?", I will offer these suggestions, therefore showing him that perhaps a bear does not shit in the woods in the literal sense. It's highly plausible that said bear is cultured, polite and prone to embarrassment and therefore shits in private.

Apples and Oranges

"Come on, that's like comparing apples and oranges."

Have you ever truly thought about this cliche? I got to thinking this afternoon, and here's what I came up with--as far as a true comparison.

1. These are both fruits, are they not? Indeed. So why not compare apples to lettuce? Or maybe the beet? Wait, is the beet a fruit or a legume? Legume, right? Grows from the ground?

2. They are both round, or orb-like. I was thinking something more like, oranges and bananas, or apples and grapes. There are many possibilities here that would be far less comparable. Go ahead, try a few out. Apples and pears? Sure. Oranges and pineapples? Now you're thinking! You show 'em.

3. There are juices that are derived from both fruits, are there not? Refer to a few of the aforementioned pairs for better comparisons...I don't recall pear juice being readily available for purchase. Banana juice? I know that banana is often paired with orange and pineapple, but it never appears on its own.

4. You can peel both of these fruits. This one goes no further.

5. Both grow on trees. You can't go orange picking up here, but that would be kinda sick if you could. I'd prefer to go orange picking if given the option between that or apple picking. Although, there may not be as many options after the picking ceases...like orange juice donuts? Orange pie? All you'd see is a bunch of families sitting around eating oranges and drinking orange juice. It would be kind of like halftime at a U-12 soccer game.

I don't feel like coming up with any more, but you get my point on this one. But please, don't ty to compare this post to any of my prior posts. That would be like comparing sandwiches to hoagies.

Nonsense

I was going to use today's blog to write about Deval Patrick, but then I realized that I'm not very well-versed in politics--nor do I want to be. So instead, I am going to write about my camel hair blazer.

This particular blazer offers the comforts of Grandma's knitted blanket that sits at the foot of my bed, while at the same time providing a most appealing business-casual look that when perfected can really seal the deal. Soft to the touch, pleasing on the old eyes, this pick of the litter is a true classic. Some comments I've received thusfar:

"Where's your pipe, asshole? It's jeans day and you show up in a blazer."

"Is that camel hair? Dude, you say you're not gay but how the fuck am I supposed to believe you?"

"Wow, the camel hair? Look at this fuckin' guy." (of course, this one came from the Uncle, aka my roommate. Always good for a solid compliment at 7am)

That's a tasty little mix of the endured verbal assault of the morning that was. If you ask me, this blazer is pretty sweet. I got it for $7 at Savers Consignment in Dedham and it's pretty much brand new. I do, however, have the urge to pour a nice glass of Oban and throw on some old Neil Diamond. Add that very pipe that was mentioned earlier and I'm set for a nice night of solitude. Of course, I can't afford Oban, I don't own any Neil Diamond and the only pipe I own is glass and caked with resin. I'm pretty sure it would ruin the taste of tobacco at this point.

Enjoy your Friday. Asshole.

More pork pie, please.

When's the last time you had a slice of pork pie? Anyone? I had a slice at 11 o'clock this morning and it will undoubtedly remain the highlight of my day. Not only was it incredibly tasty and well-made, it brought back memories of cold, wintry afternoons spent with my late grandmother. She used to make the most incredible pork pies, man. I mean, buttery crust, fatty pork center and served with a glass of whole milk. I can't tell you the last time I even saw whole milk.

Thanks Gilbert. You've inspired me to make pork pies this winter as well as invoked some very fond memories. Who knew, all that from a slice of pork pie?

Junk Berries

I just want to talk about Crunch Berries for a minute. I had a huge bowl before work this morning, hoping I would feel totally ready for the day following this former childhood treat. My results were less than satisfying.

1) I used milk that was expired, so the taste was a little off. I didn't puke but I came damn close. Maybe I should have.

2) They used to be simply red berries and Cap'n Crunch...now the berries are all colors so instead of creating pink milk, it turns a light brownish color. Fucking gross.

3) They sent me right to the bathroom upon completion of the heaping bowl. CERTAINLY NOT the outcome I desired.

Now this formerly delicious and mood-enhancing treat is merely a blackmark on my Monday morning. As if I needed another reason to be depressed about today being Monday...but who know that Crunch Berries would be that reason?? Damn that Cap'n. DAMN HIM.