As the GF and I like to drive around simply for the fun of it, at 4:30PM we went out for a quick drive. After winding our way aimlessly down route 3A, by 7PM we found ourselves in Hyannis. Go figure. For a good portion of the ride on cape, the GF kept thinking that we were in a mystical town called “Yalmouth.”

After a good bit of driving, and passing the same gas station 3 or 4 times, we figured that we’d better stop in somewhere for a bite to eat. We stopped into the British Beer Company only because it had the most obvious “We are a restaurant” style sign on Main Street. I had a pretty good meal consisting of chicken, mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes, served over spaghetti fried into a pancake. The GF ate pot roast. I have no idea why, and it seems neither did she. We noted that we should one day return for a good look around, and then headed home.

The aimlessness of it all made it seem almost like a mini-vacation. Whoa, that makes me seem lame.

Friday: While discussing whether Halo was too violent for her 11 year old son. When told that the game may be a little frightening for kids, but nothing to worry about, she pressed on with,

Well, is it scarier than say… Frogger?

Once the laughter subsided, we found that we really couldn’t name one game that wasn’t.

Saturday: With the aid of a personal computer, I transformed a card for a 7 year old into a birthday card for my Mom. We then went to dinner at a restaurant that a friend that I haven’t seen in 10 years now owns. The food was on par with my favorite restaurant, Tosca’s, and my Dad swore that it was actually better. We spent the entire dinner with a newspaper clipping of my friend when he was about four swimming on the table. We were told that it would be available on the table whenever we came back.

Sunday: Ate a good breakfast in the middle of which a very shaky guy ordered and quickly drank a White Russian, we moved my GF out of her apartment, walked 3 or so miles to the store to pick up a ham steak that I would later drown in ketchup and macs n’ cheese, laid in the grass listening to a free big band concert in the park where the singer didn’t have the faintest idea of the words to “Just a Giggolo”, and ate pumpkin ice cream.

The GF liked everything except the pumpkin ice cream, which she described as the way a candle would taste…if she ate candles. She also clued me in to the fact that when we Bostonians want to say “Shaw Ave,” we say, “Shawr Ave.”

Kids
As we were driving a load of stuff from my GF’s place to mine, a chubby young girl on the side of the road yelled the dirtiest word that she could muster at our passing car.

She yelled, “UNDER WAYER!” (which I spent the remainder of the day yelling from the car).

Adults
While shaking her head at me like there was something wrong with me, the GF’s sister in law looks at her and says, “You know, he’s funnier than most comedians that get paid for this stuff.”

Those are the best rewards.

Me
The strangeness of opening a menu and seeing “Gingerbread pancakes with cinnamon butter and real maple syrup” forced me to not only order it, but to push myself way past full in order to finish the last delicious bite.

The strange thing is, I don’t even like gingerbread cookies.

Love Defined
Love: You go to give your girlfriend a kiss. She stops you by gently holding your chin and staring lovingly into your eyes. Then, you kiss.

True Love: Later, you find out that her pause was less about romance, and more about wiping a booger off of your chin, but she didn’t want to ruin the moment.

My GF gets a Lillian Vernon catalog, and as there are no electronics or boobs in it, I don’t bother even cracking the cover. I never had an opinion on it before, but this month’s cover pushed Lillian Vernon into the dislike category.

Look at the expressions on these dogs. I can easily visualize the little one thinking, “Hey, remember that episode of I dream of Jeannie where Jeannie shits right in her costume? No? Well, I’m writing that episode right now. Adopt Children.”

As men, we like to consistently think and act like twelve year olds, but there are distinct stages that a man goes through in life. To easily ascertain what stage any particular 12 year old is in, one must simply observe his purchases at the local drugstore. Today, I hit stage four.

Stage 1: “They’ve sealed a tiny Spiderman in a cheap plastic case and it costs $1.99 to free him! I’ll free you, Spidey! (shake shake) You got no candy in there, Spidey? Sorry, Spidey. No candy, no savey. Now, where’s the candy and the Mad magazines?”

Stage 2: “Ahem. I would like to purchase some of your finest $1.99 cigars, my good man. You want an ID? From me? As my finely groomed moustache shows that I am clearly of age, I will not be providing ID today. Plus, my spouse has retained my ID at the local cocktail party, and I am currently unable to retrieve it.”

Stage 3: “I would like to purchase this package of gum, these mints, this magazine, these batteries, these sunglasses and oh perhaps a package of those con-doms behind you, please.”

Stage 4: “Ooh, now that is cool. I need to get me one of these babies. Excuse me, could you unlock the Rotary nose hair clipper case?”

Stage 5: “Whoa. These glasses make me look just like Arnold fucking Schwartzenegger. Hasta la vista you punk kids. Excuse me, how much are these? $4.99? Young man, in my day, for $4.99 you could take a young lady out for a night on the town including dinner, break dancing, and a round or two of Pac-Man, and still have money leftover to fill the coal bin. I’ll just take the Depends.”

Skepp
On a ride around hull, we came across a docked tall ship flying a Swedish flag. As this is pretty unusual to see, we pulled over to investigate.

We sat for a few minutes watching the captain fish off of the back, hooking little more than the pilings of the pier. Despite being uncomfortably thin, and wearing a pony tail and a thick black beard, he seemed to be as small and hard as any of the stones that littered the beach. He seemed rather annoyed not only about catching nothing but the pier, but by the Bud drinking, visor wearing boaters pulling their Bayliners along side to ask him astute questions like “Hey, man is that an old boat or something?”

As we got tired of watching the uneventful life of the angry captain, and were ready to take off, I decided that I needed to find out why there was a Swedish flag flying on the main topgallant mast. I walked over to a bearded member of the crew, who was working feverishly to repair a rope. He obviously had very little contact with humans, and had trouble formulating the answer that the ship was a replica modeled after one that had been owned by Sweden, Finland, and Holland. Even though I knew that he was involved in a conversation that he was clearly uncomfortable having, I asked him a few questions more.

He told me that a section of the 500 or so volunteers that ran the ship would spend from a week to a month on board, sailing the ship up and down the east coast giving tours and sunset cruises. According to him, the ship could sleep about thirty, but that could get a little crowded for his liking. He himself had been on the ship for a month, but this was his last day, as he had to get back to school.

I for one, thought it would be pretty cool to sail on a ship for a week, but after seeing the manner of the captain and the introverted personality of the crew, a lot of the romance was lost very quickly. But, it had a Swedish flag. And you don’t see that every day. Especially in Hull.

Note: My GF is irritated that I didn’t mention the Finnish or Dutch Flags flying on the other masts. She is of Dutch ancestry and thinks that I’m Sweden-centric.

Today was an average day.  I woke up, got in the shower, and in the 20 minutes that I was in there, guess how many songs I heard on the radio.  Give up?  Two.  The rest of it was all commercials.  Now if the average pop station plays its main songs up to 100 times per week (do the math, it’s 13 times a day), to jam them deep into your head, how is that I listened to 14 minutes of commercials?  I love music, but I was so fed up with the radio, that I actually contemplated paying the fee for satellite radio.  Then, I went paranoid and thought that they would somehow use my listening choices against me.  Then, I went anarchistic and decided that airwaves wanted to be free, man.  I thought I could set up some sort of pirate radio station and take down the man.  Then, I got distracted by something shiny in the kitchen and lost my train of thought.

I walked to through the kitchen to the living room, and found Fox News on the idiot box.  Usually, Fox is the most unbalanced, right wing, “news” that one can find on American television, but today, the fat, loudmouth “reporter” filling the screen was decrying the DNC’s ridiculous “Free Speech Zones” as razor wired internment camps for free speech.  I found this very surprising, even refreshing.  Fox news promoting free speech?  Was I dreaming?

As I walked away from the TV, I remembered that this was the Democratic National Convention, and of course a right wing “news” source is going to decry any attempts to protest it.  Republicans are going to be the ones in the protest zone, and they’re going to be sealed into the plastic coated, razor wired area with Anarchists and other lunatics.  So, Fox is not against “Free Speech Zones” in general (did you ever hear them point out Bush’s use of free speech zones?), but they are against this particular free speech zone because they’re party will be forced to use it this time.

I started thinking about not only what it means to have a free speech zone, but the sheer audacity of the individual(s) that suggested and built it.  I can’t understand how the idea even got past the suggestion stage without having some major outcry.  Growing up on Rocky fighting the Russians, The Wolverines fighting the Russians, and Rambo fighting the Russians, I for one can’t even comprehend a free speech zone.  When I was a kid if someone told you that you couldn’t say something, you shot back “Oh yea, buddy?  This is America and I can say any godamned thing I want.  If you don’t like it, move to Russia!”  And that was it.  America was for telling people off, and Russia was the place where the secret service would send your family to Siberia for reading the wrong book.  In America we said what we wanted, pissed where we wanted, and protested any place we pleased (until the cops or the goons moved in and cracked some skulls, of course).  We didn’t have “protest zones” or rules of free speech or political correctness.  I was an American child, and I thought that I was free to speak, free to act, and free to play kickball on whatever sewer cap that I could find.  The Russians were the ones that kept information on their people and suppressed them, not us.  Yet every year, more rules are made that favor fewer and fewer people in America, and we don’t seem to know how to stop it.

Then, I started thinking about a giant Free Speech Cage match…

Laaaaaaadiiiiiiiieeeees aaaaaaand Gennnntleeeemeeeeen.  In the anarchists corner, hailing from the city sewers, weighing in at 225 pounds, Butch “The razor” [Naaaamee Wittthhhhhheeelld].  And in the Republican corner, hailing from Hingham, Mass, weighing in with a net worth of $542,000, Thurston “The Director” Piiiiiieeeeerce the thiiiiird…

Then, I saw something shiny in the kitchen and remembered it was time for me to go to work.

Then, for 8 or so hours, I worked.

Then, I stopped working and went home.

Then, I tried to surprise my GF by taking her to the movies, but she didn’t want to go (which was good because I didn’t really want to go, either).

Then, for 20 minutes we just played the “No, what do you want to do?” game.

Finally, I formulated a quick plan, and threw the GF into the car.  I drove us to a sub shop, which, according to the hand-written sign on the counter, was closed for the evening.  Then, I drove to another sub shop which was so closed that there were ladders in the window.  I finally drove to a third that was open, but had an albino lobster and some fishing nets on the wall.  After grabbing couple of subs, we walked down to the beach and sat on the sand.  The breeze had picked up, making the lingering heat of the day much more bearable.

And we sat.  And we ate.  And we watched the surf.  And the tension of finding something to do vanished.  Once we found that we could fully relax, we accumulated a nice crowd of gulls around us waiting for hand outs.  Rule 1: Never feed the gulls before you are finished, because once you start feeding the gulls, you are finished.  Once we got to the point in our sub eating journey that the work outweighed the benefit, we began throwing the bits of leftover food to the gulls, aiming mostly for the weaker ones that got pushed out of the way by the mullet-wearing, jock asshole gulls.  As my GF likes birds almost as much as I like sharks, I was intentionally throwing some of the food waaaay inside, for which I was nervously chastised.

Then, we just walked.  And we laughed.  And we found that running shoes let in water as easily as they do air, and souls let in peace as easily as they do stress.

Picasa
Google bought a photo album tool called Picasa.  As the software that came with my digital camera sucks, I thought that I’d check it out.  I like it for its simplicity, although I did experience problems importing a couple of photos from my camera.  Also, the timeline function, while a neat idea, will not work with my piece of crap video card. 

The end is Nigh
I found this cartoon from the ACLU, and it made me want to re-up.  Then, the mood passed and I fell back into the role of the drone protecting the corporate hive.

worker bees can leave
even drones can fly away
the queen is their slave
-Jack

The Writers
Since no one I know really updates their blogs anymore, I have been on a tear to find new lives to peek into.  I put a couple that I’ve started reading daily onto the side bar, and I may add these two if I find that I keep up with them. 
 
The Sandal Wearing Adventurist and the Angel Headed Hipster

The Reader
Sometimes, I think that I can write.  And sometimes, I can.  When I read other people’s stuff, I think I’m delusional.  I think that I am not a needle in a haystack, but a merely a piece of hay.

The Lessons
When we made an offer on a house, the sellers were real pricks about signing the deal.  They made demand after demand and said that we weren’t to present a laundry list of corrections after the home inspection (as if I would waive that).  After we walked away from the deal due to the laundry list of items from the home inspection and the strange way the buyers had been acting, I was confused that the sellers were surprised that we didn’t negotiate with them.

Lesson 1: If you say that you will not negotiate and act like a hard ass, make sure the guy on the other side of the table won’t call your bluff.

Lesson 2: If you don’t lie well, make sure the guy on the other side of the table is not more thorough than you are.

Lesson 3: If you’re going to act like a prick and make people uncomfortable, don’t ask them to provide you with the results of a $400 inspection report for free after they walk away from the deal.  They might gently tell you to go fuck yourself.

Last week, we found a house with a big stone fireplace and a good number of bedrooms that is very close to the water.  The price was on the high end of our price range, but given that it had just about everything we wanted in a house, we went home and ran the numbers.  Within hours we put in an offer of 95% of the asking price.  The offer was valid until 6 PM the following night.

At 6 PM the following night, the broker called back and told us that the offer had been accepted by the buyer.  The only issue was that the realtor said that they did not have a pre-approval letter from us, and the buyer would not sign the offer until we were pre-approved for a loan.

I knew that the broker had a pre-approval on record for us that was merely a month old.  Even though the letter from the mortgage company clearly said “pre-approval” on line 1, the broker claimed that the letter that we had was considered a “pre-qualification” letter and not a “pre-approval” because our incomes and employment had not been verified.

As I couldn’t comprehend the gibberish that they were spewing, and three mortgage companies could only send me a what the broker would consider pre-qualification letter, I was getting not only irritated, but confused.  To the mortgage companies, ther was no such thing as a pre-qualification, and the broker’s notion of a pre-approval didn’t actually exist in the mortgage process.  So, even though the broker had no idea that processing a simple pre-approval had nothing to do with income verification, I went the extra mile and asked the mortgage company to go the extra step and verify our incomes, anyway.  They did.

So, after a half a day of running around and collecting documents, we returned what is commonly known as a “commitment letter” to the real estate broker because they hadn’t any idea about how the mortgage process works.  Within hours, the broker began calling the mortgage company asking them to write an amount into the “commitment letter” that covered the entire cost of the house rather than the amount that we asked the mortgage company to lend us.  The offer was already expired by over 2 days, but without this information, the seller would still not sign the already invalid offer. 

Given that we had been jumping through hoops and going way beyond what is required of a buyer, I put my foot down.  I called the broker and told her to stop calling the mortgage company (that is my business) and to work things out before we plunged deeper into the lunacy.  Half-way in to the call, the broker started a sentence with, “Well, when the seller bought his house he had to provide bla bla bla…”  Whoa, hold on there, Sparky. If the real estate broker was basing her visions of the way the house buying process works upon the experiences of the seller, there was a major problem with the real estate broker. Once I had her attention and was free from interruptions, I then spent the next 15 minutes explaining the process behind buying a house, including the difference between a pre-approval and a commitment letter.  Finally, the broker realized that she was in error, and apologized saying that the the seller was a very nervous man and that he had given her a “brain cramp.”

By the end of the day, the seller had signed the offer with no further hoops for us to jump through, allowing us to schedule the home inspection for this past Saturday.  While I was busy calling the lawyer to get the paperwork moving, we got a message that the seller had agreed to a lower than asking selling price and did not want a “laundry list” of items to fix after the home inspection.  As I was already informed of the seller’s nervous personality, and my personality was saying, “tough shit,” I wrote it off.

We attended the home inspection early on Saturday morning, not expecting to really find anything wrong.  I thought that even if I found some minor issues, I am handy enough to fix them.  If there were major issues, I could always hire someone to fix them correctly.  “Correctly” is a very important point for me.  I might throw my clothes on the floor, but if there is work to be done, I will either do it right myself, or hire someone to do it right if I can’t.  I won’t do a sloppy job, and I won’t let others. It is stupid and a little crazy, but I’m oddly offended by sloppy work on a house, and I don’t know why. When others have done sloppy work on a house, it actually makes me angry.

After the 2.5 hour inspection, I was pretty much entirely pissed off.  Plaster was coming off the walls, the 200 amp electrical service was actually 100 amps, the fist sized holes looked as if they let a blind guy with no arms do all the plaster patching.  His blind buddy did the painting.  Needless to say, I came up with the exact laundry list that the seller was worried about. 

The first floor had an electrical box actually screwed to the floor.  I’ve seen them sunken to the floor (which I don’t like), but never have I seen a six inch by six inch electrical box screwed to the dining room floor.  The entire second floor was a gut job. The price they were asking for the work they had cruelly inflicted on the house, the rehab wasn’t worth it to me.  If they had done no work, I would’ve been happier, as I would save the extra step of undoing their work before doing my own. 

I didn’t want to disappoint the GF because I know how much she liked the house, but I really don’t want to do any major work to a house if it falls on the high end of what I can afford.  And this house needed a lot of work.  So, for a day or so, I stewed.  I had a really tough time with it.  There was lots of staring out the window and trying to find a way to make both of us happy, but finally arrived at the opinion that the offer should be retracted.  The GF, as sweet as she is, put me at ease quite nicely.  She said, “We’re in this together.  We both have to live with this decision.  If you have serious reservations about this house, then we can’t go forward.”

And I think that was the nicest thing that she could’ve done.

When we retracted, the broker was very understanding, and the hassle was much less than I expected (I was prepping for war, and the GF was making tea.  Tea was in order.).  The broker wanted me to give a copy of the inspection to the seller, and I said I’d look for it, but given that a home inspection costs $400 and the sellers were a fat pain in the ass, I think I’m going to have a lot of trouble finding my copies.

You win some, you lose some.

Opinion 1
It seems that if I have to spend a full day explaining the difference between a pre-approval letter and a commitment letter to the manager of a real estate office, someone is not doing their job.

Opinion 2
If I ask you what I need to bring in for paperwork and then repeat what you say back to you, please don’t wait until you’re looking through the papers to say you forgot to tell me to bring some papers that are located 45 minutes away.

Opinion 4
Nice people can easily get me to jump through hoops like getting commitment letters and driving to get missing documents.

Opinion 5
I love it when a plan comes together.

Movie Review #682253
Matrix Revolutions: Good parts, but mostly laughably over-dramatic poo. The original Matrix: A. The third installment: C.

Last night, some friends and I went to dinner at a restaurant at the mall, and even though it was pretty muggy out, we decided to sit outside. The location of the restaurant is next to not only the mall entrance, but the bus stop. This is not the ideal place to have dinner for most people. Let me rephrase: This is probably a location that most normal people would ask to be moved from. For a people watcher though, it is as close to sitting in the audience of Jerry Springer that one can get without actually visiting Chicago.

There are the teens trying to look cool while their moms yell directions on when and where to meet them later, there are the suburban pseudo rap stars who’s only way to get they’re roll on, is to put it under their arms, and there are the Springer crew: The low class, heavy set, 15 Wal-Mart bag carrying, kid smacking sons of bitches that make bus rides pure bliss. Last time I sat there, a girl was yelling, “I’ll kill you, you fuckin’ bitch!” to another girl whose accent was as thick as her makeup.

This is what I look forward to: insane humanity separated from me by a railing. It’s like going to the zoo. The Human Zoo. With humans that are as close to throwing poop at each other as can be had in a modern suburban society.

Last night there weren’t really any major surprises until a tour bus pulled up to the bus stop. It sat there for 10 or 15 minutes with its engines on, and being a male, I completely tuned it out as a part of the landscape in the first 5. I don’t think the fat, gold chain wearing male at the table next to us had the same brain capacity as I do, as he began bitching and moaning about the bus, and the noise, and the imaginary fumes that were ruining his American pub style cuisine.

Within minutes, a thin little black guy with a scally cap and I think a tan members-only jacket got off the bus and walked toward the rail. Fat ass yelled at him, “Move the friggin’ bus! NOW!” Given the way he was talking down to the driver, I assumed fat ass worked as a supervisor for the bus company or something. The bus driver, very apologetically said that he was sorry and that he wasn’t thinking that people were eating here and… “Just get out of here, now!” fat ass yelled. At that point, I just shook my head and thought, What an asshole. And that’s when I witnessed a moment of beauty. The bus driver waited for a pause and calmly said, “There’s no need to talk to me that way. I’m treating you with respect, please do the same for me. I just wasn’t thinking. I’ll move the bus.”

Bus driver knocked fat ass right off of his high horse and everyone within earshot knew it. Even fat ass himself knew it. I love those moments when I’m reminded that none of us has to take anyone else’s shit, and we can achieve balance simply and elegantly without the use of a baseball bat.

The GF leaned in to me after the exchange and said, “I hope they’re not on a first date.”
“Oh, God. I hope they are.”

Upon arriving to our usual breakfast spot, we were, as usual greeted by the host. Today, he looked a bit confused and said, “But, you’re an hour early.”

Humans create patterns, and whether we think we notice or not, we integrate other people’s patterns into our own. We seem to do this on a vast scale, with minute patterns being brought to the conscious only when exceptions occur. If I could now only recognize the patterns without first having to see the exceptions.

Know what’s nice? Introducing my GF into a local joint where I’m somewhat of a regular and having the staff give me the thumbs up when she isn’t looking.

Onion Booty
For the last 5 months, “onion booty” has been in the top 5 search terms for dyers.org. What is an onion booty, you ask? An onion booty is a booty that is so good that it makes you cry.

How people are getting to my site with these search terms is beyond me.

Swedes
The Swedes are in the country. I played a little Need for Speed Hot Pursuit 2 with one of them for a couple of hours. I find it odd that after 2.5 years, they’ve only met my GF once, and it was before we were actually dating. Weird.

UNO
Played UNO with all cards dealt face up. Why this is noteworthy is beyond me. Nerd in trouble. Send Help.

Morning
We saw two houses in the morning, both crap holes, both overpriced. One had a really fat, nice dude in it. The other was on pilings, and was full of whisky and shamrock.

Afternoon
After seeing a half-hour commercial from Dollar Bill’s Discount World a couple of weeks ago, I have wanted to go up to New Hampshire to see it. It’s simply a dollar store, but the owner seems to be a corny nut. So, seeing as we had no plans on Saturday, I suggested that we spend the day in New Hampshire or Maine…And if we were going North, we might as well hit Dollar Bill’s on the way, right? Right.

It was as I expected: tons of cheap crap. As a bonus, the nutty owner kept making corny announcements on the P/A System. While I wasn’t smirking over the announcements, I was smirking over the crap.

Without spending more than $20, we got coloring books for the nieces, ping pong paddles for my parents, a pizza pan, two sets of “sports maracas”, a giant gift bag, and two plastic bees on sticks to shove in the GF’s sister’s garden. Oh, and I got a Coke. The items that I passed up included were: shirts with wolves on them, anything with a wizard or indian on it, and an umbrella hat.

Evening
For a couple of hours in the afternoon, we tooled along exploring a little bit of NH, ending up at the GF’s sister’s house. Children are not only fun for making chalk drawings and playing, but I learned that they are just heavy enough to fix any problems by walking on your back.

Trixters
As we were driving, a woman in a souped up Dodge Neon cut off my GF abruptly enough to get her to lean on the horn.

For nearly two miles on the highway, I aided her in boxing the woman in. I think she must’ve switched lanes 4 times before I let her past.

Afterward, I mentioned to my GF that the woman was probably not normally a nutty driver, but her husband was at the hospital dying. As this changed the tone of our fun, it was not well received.

Fuji
Went to dinner at Fuji with Palatzo. Even though I think that Fuji sushi is the best in the Boston area, the dinners end up being more of a social event than a simple sushi dinner. There is always import tuner talk, insults, and a good amount of fun between us, the owners, and the staff. As usual, the dinner took over two hours.

Before we left, we were standing with the staff shooting the bull. When asked what I was doing after dinner, I said I was going home to my GF. Then, some Chinese shot back and forth between two of the staff. When asked what was said, the embarrassed translation was that the woman couldn’t understand how I could have been married to “the mean one.”

I admit that I was amused.

Conversation
Mr. NYC:: “So, I’m low on money on the train to NY, I’m starving, and they only take cash at the snack bar. I walk up to the counter, and after trying to pay with every cash substitute I can think of, I fall back and try to strech the $10 cash I have as far as it will go. A lady overhears me and asks if I need money to get something to eat. I politely dcline, but she says it’s really no problem and whips out a wad of cash. I still declined, but weird for NY, huh?”
Mr Boston:: “Did you notice if she had an adams apple?”
Mr. NYC:: [laughter] “I don’t think so.”
Mr Boston:: “Hmm. I guess that is weird, then.”

Star Trak
I don’t think I’ve ever dated a woman who can happily sit through an episode of Star Trek. Wait, let me rephrase: I don’t think I’ve ever dated a woman who can simply sit through an episode of Star Trek. Hell, most of the women I’ve dated have called it “Star TRAK.” I’m not actually a big Star Trek fan, but it can be isolating to the geek to explain what an Andorian is, why it’s really cool that Kill Bill Vol. I started with a Klingon quote, or having to say, “[sigh] No. I’m a Medical officer. The captain would wear red or gold. Medical officers wear blue. God.”

Hold on. Maybe this is a very good thing. Yes. This is good. Keep me from taking electronics that do not belong to me, wearing Star Trek Uniforms to work (or anywhere for that matter), taping my glasses in the middle, or from playing any variation of “Magick: The Gathering.” In return, I will fix electronics for you and anyone you know, explain what an Andorian is (again), and not wince when you say Star Trak. Yes. It is a fair deal. He saweth the deal and proclaimed it was good.

Jam Master J
I love the phrase badunkadunk, but there is no real way to use it without sounding like an idiot, or dressing like a rapper. Damn you, rap words, get on up outa my grill, yo. Awwwwwww yea.

One Lesson
I watched a two year old pick up a toy that he had never seen and listen to the Spanish word for trumpet: “La trumpeta.” He would listen, look at me, smile, and say, “la tupeta.” He later growled “swoooooooorrrrdddd” and chopped away at my legs for a while. I don’t think I told him how amazed that I was, as I couldn’t remember the Spanish word for “amazing.” Plus, give me a break, the kid had a fuckin’ sword.

Two for Fighting
The GF and I had a little spat about weekend plans on Sunday. They happen very infrequently, but they do occur. We were going to see a dance recital, and she wanted to stay at her sister’s overnight. As her sister has two little ones that are up when children normally are, and I was exhausted from the virus hell of last week, I knew that there would be no chance of recovery if I stayed. I figured that I would follow her and her mom up for the day in my car, see the recital, hang out a bit, and drive back in the evening by myself. That way, I wouldn’t poop on anyone’s overnight plans, and would get in some much needed rest. Everyone wins.

As I don’t know women well, I had no idea that my compromise was not a compromise. Compromising would’ve been me staying at the sisters. I thought that was called a sacrifice, but I’m still not sure. All I know is that I obviously made the wrong decision. As I tried to point out that she was telling me that I sucked and was an a-hole for not staying, she pointed out that those were not her words. This was true. My statement was merely an exaggerated interpretation of the impression given as run through the Jon-Translator. Then, as time slowed, she dropped the bomb:

“I wonder how badly Jenn really treated you.

Ohhhh shiiiiiiiiit. The girlfriend had just sided with the ex-wife from hell. Pigs flew around chasing the monkeys that flew out of my butt back to a hell that had completely and utterly frozen over. The words hung in the air and time stopped. If someone jumped in the air, I know we could’ve done that cool matrix style fighting (I really should’ve thought of that…).

I had pondered this point many times on my own, but when coming from someone else, the possibility stung. I really almost left, although a bit dramatic even for me, but nothing should be taboo in an argument, and I felt the need to stay and finish the fight off.

At that point, I had decided that I wasn’t going at all, and got in my car to leave. Within seconds, I caved when I saw how unhappy the GF had become. Even though I’m not one to back down, I’m not one to hurt people, either. I decided to breathe, and just go back to the original plan where I thought everyone won and pretended the previous hour never happened.

On stage of the dance recital, what does one of the little girls say while waving? Hi, Auntie? Nope.

Hi, Jon.

Worth every penny. Children of the world: Take me as your king.

Three Times Wrong
At a Dunkin’ Donuts on the South Shore before leaving for said recital, I noticed a blonde girl in the car next to me. As her boyfriend came out of the DD, I noticed, as utterly gay as this sounds and shameful as it is to admit, that he had nice eyes (wrong to notice, and double wrong to comment on). Two hours from the DD and four hours later, the same kid and the blonde girl were in line at the dance recital.

Just an odd coincidence.

P.S. Never used the phrase “purdy mouth” in the above section. Still not gay. Thanks. Have a nice day.

Twenty Rounds
To parents: Please don’t put your eight year old boy in dance lessons unless you have been intentionally raising him as a girl since birth. And for god’s sake, don’t make him wear sequined vests or a sailors cap. I saw that kid this weekend, and by the look on his face, once he can legally access a rifle, he will. He barely looked up the entire time, and only smiled when he tapped this funny rhythm that went: -.- .. .-.. .-...

Soon, I will be 32. I have survived another year. Usually around this time, I just want to be left alone, and avoid celebrating like politicians avoid the truth. Inevitably, I’m lucky enough to have the following conversation a number of times:

What do you want for your birthday?
Nothing.
No, seriously.
No. Seriously. Nothing. I’m good. Thanks, though.
You have to pick something.

I do?

I’m grateful that people ask, but I never really want anything. Given my odd tastes, I have a hell of a time finding things that I like, nevermind asking other people to try to figure the puzzle out. People still try, which I appreciate and find unusually amusing at times (that’s you, Dad), but the results are usually bad. I always feel bad that they spent the money, and not to be ungrateful, but it’s never what I really want. I don’t really want things. I get uncomfortable getting gifts, and they weigh me down, albeit for a short time.

Usually, I will be directed to make a small list of CD’s and the like, but I never end up really wanting any of the marginally interesting things on there. Everything that I list is peripheral. Like my old friend, if I really wanted it, I would have bought it already. The list that I make is merely for the giver to give from, so that they don’t have to waste time running around.

Last night, as I was doing exactly this, I thought, I’m not doing this this year. I have everything that I need right now in terms of tangible items. If birthdays are really about the person having their way for a day, and not about just buying things to make the giver feel good, then my wish is to not have any tangible gifts this year. Maybe I should explore that as some sort of control issue. Maybe I get more out of a kick out of giving than getting. Maybe I’m just some freakin’ weirdo who makes mountains out of mole hills. I don’t know.

This year, I’m not writing the list.

So, if you want to give me a real gift, give me strength, laughter, kindness, empathy, wisdom, or anything that can fit on a page of a notebook. Tell me a story. Tell me a secret. Tell me a joke. Take the money that you would have spent, and buy spend it on some random act of kindness, or leave it where only a child can find it. Make me a list of songs that you can’t live without or a recipe that makes you proud. Or send me a picture that I can put up to prove to the burglars that I have friends (Please honor my strict “No nudes from Dudes” policy. This goes x100 if your name contains “Rico,” “Palatzo,” or “Rico Palatzo”). Then, tell me the story.

Or send some flowers to my parents and thank them that I’m here and not too damaged.

But don’t visit BestBuy. I’ve already been and it’s really, really empty.

PIP
Girls tend to leverage technology more if they find it useful. A useful example is showing your girlfriend how to use the Picture in Picture feature when “the Bachelorette” and “Friends” share a time slot. I think that this is the only woman that I’ve been involved with that can not only work all of the remote controls, but that is now using an advanced feature of the TV.

If I could only teach her to be a CounterStrike sniper…

CD Trade
I have 65 CDs sitting on my floor that I want to trade. If you want to trade a CD for any of them, e-mail me above. The photo is here.

VD
Given the number of days until Valentine’s Day, and subtracting the actual number of ideas that I have for said day, we can plainly deduce that I am screwed.

Originally (as with most of our holidays), February fourteenth was a pagan holiday honoring Juno, the goddess of women and marriage. The fifteenth was the first day of the Festival of Lupercalia. On the eve of the festival, Roman women would write love notes and put them in an urn. The Roman men would draw a note from the urn, with whom he would be coupled with for the entire Lupercalia festival.

Why have we screwed up EVERY FUN GODDAMNED ANCIENT TRADITION and turned it into something benign?

For those opposed: Anti-Valentine.

As I lay dreaming about frantically trying to rebuild house after house after they had each mysteriously blown up, a sprightly, barely-sleeping girlfriend had risen and was fiddling with my alarm clock to make sure that I had actually set the alarm. Not sensing any danger, and being way behind schedule on the house rebuilds, my brain slept on.

Until…

The brain sensed something moving from the window side of the room. It was, of course, the girlfriend, returning from an unsuccessful reconnaissance mission to from the Alarm Clock Delta, but given that the direction of the movement was from the windows rather than toward them, the brain tripped the intruder alert, vaulting me out of my nighttime contractor’s job right into the darkened room of Jon the Professional Dork.

As I have the brain of the absent-minded professor, checking alarm clock status, stove burner status, or car emergency brake status is a valid query at any time of day or night, so there wasn’t much for me to be angry about. Absent-minded people bring it on themselves. Still, given the woman’s nature, she was very apologetic for waking me straight through to the next day.

As I found her actions easily justifiable, all I could ask of her as I was leaving for work was,

If I’m not beating you up over this, why do you continue to beat yourself up?”

And that question has stuck with me all day:

Why do some of us beat ourselves up when even others refuse?

Tis the Season
The last few days have been spent burning my eyes out designing XMas gifts on the PC. The first design took four hours, while the second took a mere 3. The only reason for the 25% reduction in design time was that my production manager (read GF) deemed the design complete and future creative effort minuscule enough to be lost in the overall design.

So, given that these are coming from the Dyer Originals Collection, accounting for the time spent, and allowing me a $2000 per hour “Buy yourself a pony tail” bonus, I would estimate the value of these gifts to be in the neighborhood of $6017 to $8017!

So, if you receive one of these beauties, please remember that they are as valuable as diamonds, have similar resale, and should be treated as if they were an exquisite macaroni portrait created by a five year old.

So far today, I have listened to the latest round of rumors flying around about me, and they all seem to be coming from one person. Like the rumors that I was gay (oy), I requested that this round stop, too. There is a fine line with me that runs razor-like through two extremes: giving away all the information and shutting down that shop and putting up the walls in a paranoid frenzy. In recent history, I’ve expended a great amount of effort to tear down a lot of the walls and actually interact with my environment.

Unfortunately, one place that I still prefer to keep separate from my private life is my work life, if for purely financial reasons. I like to eat, and when one starts turning my preferred method of gaining access to food into a three ring circus or a High School rumor mill, I don’t appreciate it one bit. I get overly defensive, I get paranoid, and I shut down.

Then, the walls go up, the cannons get aimed, and a couple of warning shots are fired.

Some people need hobbies that don’t include me.

On a 74 degree day in November, walking from Lafayette Place through the homeless spotted Commons, through the tourist-filled Public Gardens, and down luxury laden Newbury Street ending on Mass Ave and back can be a phenomenal way to spend a Saturday. Midway through our walk, my girlfriend turned to me and said,

“You know what the best thing about this walk is? We don’t have anywhere to be.”

And she was partly right: Leisure without a planned end can be a very relaxing way to spend a warm fall day, but eating a dinner after a long walk consisting solely of nachos supreme and enough cheesecake to make one feel nauseas can be much, much more rewarding.

Elva Days Later
Sometimes, I have things to say. Sometimes, I had things to say. Sometimes, I opt not to write in favor of having things to say later. In the last 12 days I have had all three.

Tens
I have not been to a laser show in ten years, I was one of ten people in the planetarium, and I paid ten bucks for us to get in. The prices are the same, the technology is the same, and the laser antics have not evolved one iota. I think that anyone who knows how to put on a decent laser show is either doing new year’s celebrations or running raves.

They are not at Laser Led Zeppelin.

I must say that it was totally worth it if only to watch people playing on the musical stairs and to see a crow in the laser show screaming (from the Immigrant Song) Dum dada di dum, dadum dada di dum “Ahhhhhhh iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh AHHHH!”

It was hopelessly uncool.

Worthy Rental
The Italian Job (2003): A bunch of thieves steal stuff and drive minis while cracking jokes. I now want to see the original. Some parts were hypothermically far fetched, but I give it a thumbs up. B+

In Harvard Square, there are tables where the Chess Masters sit. They have rolled mats, their own chess sets, and those little clocks that keep the time of the match. For $2, you can get your ass whooped by one of these dorks. And they will whip your ass.

Now, as I was standing there, I thought of two worth while ways to spend my $2:

1. Have the girlfriend sit at the table, as I stood behind her dominantly calling out “KNIGHT TO ROOK 3!” As she knows nothing about Chess, I would chastise her on every move with “NO, ROOK THREE!” getting more frustrated by the minute.
2. I sit at the table asking questions like “what’s the horsey do, again?” and make two handed, two piece, completely incorrect moves, saying “Booyah!” every time I hit the clock. I do all of this with my eyebrows raised and a “Maybe I’m bluffing so well that he has no idea that this is an illegal move” expression on my face.

>No!
GF: What’s your favorite type of music?
Jon: I can’t.
GF: You have to.
Jon: Crap. Uh. Crap…
GF: C’mon.
Jon: I can’t uh metal. No. Crap. Uh. Too hard.
GF: C’mon
Jon: Okay, metal.
GF: Good. What’s your favorite band, then?
Jon: No. Can’t. Too much. No way.
GF: You have to.
Jon: Slayer. No, Tool. Slayer. Crap. Screw it. Slayer.
GF: Slayer?
Jon: Tool. Right now. This instant. Not forever.

Today was the second time that I had to scrape frost from my windshield this season. With the coming of fall, the cold air always makes my mind meander through the past. Yesterday, the air had me skimming across several feelings as they surfaced in my mind : running my hand through my too long, too black hair to get it out of my face and help me think. Having a pack of cigarettes, a small apartment, a 13 inch TV, and a guitar, and being satisfied. Wearing combat boots all year round. Chain smoking because I liked to. Having friends call and say “coming over” and hanging up. Hearing a knock at the door, and opening it while walking away without thinking of checking who it was. Paying for gas with change. Getting high and eating everything that wasn’t nailed down before anyone knew what had happened. Ordering a keg for 5 and wondering if it was enough. Getting to say that I was in a band. Knowing enough people to get myself into places for free. Never, ever, ever, ever, having to plan to go out with my friends. Going to Boston rock clubs on the premise that nine times out of ten I would meet someone I knew. Thinking that there was plenty of time to do whatever it is that I wanted; to become whatever I wanted…

And it was gone.

And I turned to my girlfriend and said, “Fall’s coming.”

And as if trying to convince myself said, “I think I’m excited about it.”

After I let the words escape into the air, they took on a life of their own, convincing me that I was excited about it. At that moment, I realized:

I am not who I was,
I’m barely who I think I am right now, and
what I imagine I will or won’t be in the future is illusory and wholly irrelevant.

All I knew was, in that moment, there was nowhere that I’d rather be. In that moment, I found a modicum of peace.

And a moment like that is what’s important.

Pre-ramle
Walked the nearly deserted beach for a couple of hours watching small birds run in and out of the surf. Saw birds raiding people’s food. Saw sneakers in the sand with a note saying that the owner would be back later. Saw some surfers trying to make the most of the hurricane leftovers. Saw the girlfriend’s aunts. Ate a super-dry Italian sub that they failed to put oil on. Came home and called Sweden, Oregon, and Quincy. Sat about. Went out to see a sunset that was long gone, Put on Mystical, and ended up in the beach parking lot unsure of what to do. Saw a bunch of interesting people walking by including an old guy wearing black pants, a black sleeveless T shirt, sideburns and a Pompadour hairpiece. Put on some music to get the girlfriend going. Declined the suggestion of doing the local thing and eating at Schooner’s. Headed to Hingham harbor only to be faced with an hour and a half wait. Had the feeling that like every other local non-biker in Hull, we would end up eating at Schooner’s. Decided to try the Liberty Grill next to Stars in Hingham harbor. Made a bad dinner choice…

Chapter I: The liberty Grill
Let me give the reader the executive Summary: I wouldn’t take a dump in the Liberty Grill, for fear that they might collect it from the toilet, fry it, and serve it, thus improving their food by 200%. And the service is among the worst that I have encountered.

We went in and happily found that there was only a five minute wait, and were told to sit at the bar until we were called. Upon sitting down, we realized that we had each had a maximum of $3, we ran next door to hit the ATM. Upon returning, we sat at the bar, which could hold no more than six people, without getting a little too cozy. The restaurant has low ceilings and seating upstairs, giving it the impression that it was once someone’s house. In a way it reminds me of Percy’s Place.

Within ten minutes we were seated upstairs by a six over six window pane overlooking Tosca’s restaurant. The waitress approached our table with the blank, angry expression usually reserved for junkies, inmates, and idiots. Seeing our full drinks on the table, she asked us if she could get us drinks. When we pointed out that we had just gotten drinks from the bar, she asked if we had paid for them (?). When we said that we had, she turned and walked away. Unbeknownst to us, this was going to be a recurring theme.

The girlfriend and I sat staring at each other with a sense of bemused shock. Within ten minutes, she was back with a quick “Whattyouwant?” I ordered a fried oyster plate, and the girlfriend ordered a Greek salad and a cup of chili. Within 2 minutes she came back, looked at us, and said “Who had the salad?”

When the girlfriend said, “That’s me,” smiled, and sat back, the waitress literally turned away, and dropped the bowl on the table. She didn’t even bother to drop it anywhere near the girlfriends placemat. The shocked bemusement that we shared earlier was beginning to turn a little sour.

Common sense tips Part I:

• Look it’s 5 minutes, and it’s your job. If you can’t retain facts for more than 2 minutes, jot a simple note, like “Girl: salad” on your notepad. You can even use secret shorthand like a little “G” with a circle in it next to where you wrote salad on your pad.
• Try not to throw the food at the patrons. They’ll resent it.
• If people order together, they usually would like to receive their meal together. It makes things less awkward by avoiding the “Go ahead and eat” battles.

In 15 or 20 minutes, I got about eight oysters on top of cold fries. Cost? $12.95. The “waitress” said, “forgot your tartar sauce,” and took off for another fifteen minutes. She then came back, shot me a blank yet menacing look, pulled a container out of her apron and threw it on the table as she was walking away. It think that the look was a dare, as the “tartar sauce” was so shiny that even I, a man who once ate wet dog food out of the dog’s food bowl for a dollar, was afraid to eat it. I began wolfing down the dinner hoping only to shorten my stay in restaurant hell.

Common sense tips Part II:

• If your service and food suck, at least give a lot of sucky food. Even though you and I know that shit times two is still shit, it makes the customer think that you are providing some value.
• If there are fries, Americans like Ketchup. It’s something waitresses should know in our country.
• Tartar sauce should not be stored in direct sunlight.
• Don’t pull anything out of your apron and expect me to eat it unless you are a grandma and it’s a wrapped piece of ribbon candy. If you are a waitress, you will be penalized for this move. Fines are doubled for creamy or runny foods.

The check was coming, and the waitress left twice to go add it up. The girlfriend shot me a look and said “I’ve got this one,” and I knew not to argue. She pulled out the $20 and I provided the $.65 that the bill called for. Tip? A whopping $0.00.

“I’ve never not left a tip,” said the girlfriend, “but I don’t feel bad about that at all.

Chapter II: The Beach
For a town closed for the season, Nantasket was absolutely jumping last night. There were people everywhere as if it were the first day of summer. The roof deck of the Red Parrot, which was closed for the season a couple of weeks ago, was packed last night. We went to sit at the table of some youths that had somehow taken it as their territory even though they were sitting at the bar. We apologetically offered to concede, but they graciously gave up their territory with a pat on the back, and a drunken sense of camaraderie.

It was ten minutes after we sat down before anyone even noticed that we were sitting at an uncleared table. After the horrendous service at the Liberty Grill, and given that we were only there for desert, the girlfriend started making the move to leave. I mentioned that it was a beautiful night, we had an unobstructed view of the ocean, and the key lime pie was worth waiting for. Her anxious expression melted into a smile as she sat back to enjoy the ocean air.

Within minutes a harried young waitress with a small pony tail on top of her head rushed to our table and quickly bussed it, all the while apologizing for the wait. “All the college kids are gone, leaving us at half staff,” she said exhaustedly. We encouraged her to take her time because we were in no rush. In another minute, she took our drink order as we started perusing the desert menu. The waitress suggested the fried cheesecake, virtually panicking the girlfriend. I though that it sounded very interesting, and said that I would gladly turn over my key lime pie to her if she didn’t like it.

Let me say this: When you’re up until One in the morning waiting for the sugar shock to subside, you will do so happily, remembering only the good times that you and that cheesecake had together.

Afterward
After a short walk, we sat on the sea wall listening to a really, really bad cover band playing in Emilio’s until I couldn’t take it anymore and needed to get away from their unique medley of 70’s party songs. From there, we went home, and I was literally up until 1 AM from all the sugar, bringing another Saturday night in Hull to a close.