Ups…
Today, I went to the barber that I have been going to every three weeks or so for the past sixteen years. As is normal in a barbershop, appointments are loose, so I shot the shit while I waited. The guy in the chair didn’t seem very talkative, and in my humble opinion, someone should be talking in a barber shop.

“So, what’s new Bob?
‘Eh, nothin’. Same old thing. What’s new with you?”
“Still working on that divorce.”
“Yup. Yup.”

Just then, Suzy finished cutting an old lady’s hair.

“I can’t believe how white it’s getting.
“It looks good, sister. Enjoy your retirement.”
“Heh hey, you’re retiring sister?”
“Retired two weeks ago.”

I don’t think that nuns are into the whole idea of divorce, but I didn’t get any dirty looks or raps on the knuckles. For some strange reason, I still felt as though I put my foot in my mouth.

Within 5 minutes, I was in the chair.

“You see the Bo sox?”
“Not since I was a kid. They’ll just break your heart, Bob.”
“That’s right. We talked about this. You don’t watch ‘em.”
“Nope. Not since I was a kid.”
“Hey, you wanna split a sandwich with me?”
“Nah. But thanks, Bob. I really appreciate it.”
“C’mon I can’t eat the whole thing. Eat half.
“Come on, Bob. I can’t take half your sandwich.”
“Take it.”
“No.”
“C’mon”
“Really, Bob. Thanks. If you want to eat lunch, I can run next door and grab a sub, but I’m not going to take half your lunch away from you.”
“Take it. Go on. I can’t eat the whole thing. I get heartburn. It’s awful.”
“Bob. Thanks, really. I can’t take it.”
“Come on. Take it. Make me happy.”

And that was it. I couldn’t get past “Make me happy,” and I thankfully accepted the sandwich.

“Ok, Bob. Thanks. Can I at least run next door and get you a drink or something?”
“No, no. I’ll drink water. It’s better for me.”

While I sat in the barber chair, and Suzy sat quietly watching this sandwich battle, Bob gave me half his sandwich, and brought me a glass of water. So there we sat, the three of us, eating lunch in a barber shop: Bob and I sitting in the barber chairs, and Suzy sitting in a regular chair by the phone. Even though I have cut hair on an amateur basis, I’m no barber.

But there I was, sitting in the barber shop having lunch like I belonged there.

See, the thing is: I have this complex that people don’t really like me that much. I mean people like me in a “Jon is a funny and entertaining weirdo” sort of way, but not in a “Take several of my concubines for yourself” kind of way. People like me at a distance, which is where I keep most people, anyway. But, when people go out of their way to be nice to me, I have no idea what to do with it, and I really, really enjoy it.

It’s like getting an unexpected gift.

So, we all ate our lunches and I talked to Suzy about her life until it was time for my haircut and the familiar buzz of clippers filled the room.

“You know. You almost had a blind date.”
“What?”
“You almost had a blind date today.”
“Say again?”
“We know this girl Melissa, 32, keeps fit, you know, a nice girl. But, she’s but painfully shy. We were trying to fix her up with someone and Suzy says, ‘How about Jon Dyer?’”

I just looked at Suzy with a look of shock and confusion.

“She won’t go on blind dates, though. We tried to get her in here to check you out.”
“You did?”
“Yup. But, she wouldn’t come. Says she won’t do blind dates.”

I just sat there grinning. I know that I’ve told Bob that I had a girlfriend before, but maybe he forgot. I changed the subject to the tried and true Italian topic of conversation: food.

“You eat anywhere good lately?”
“Eh, nothing special.”
“Ever eat at the Red Sauce?”
“Eh, I had an average meal, and a bad meal there, so… You know.”
“I agree. See, I hated it, and my girlfriend loved it, and I finally figured out why. My mother makes her sauce with a pork base. The Red Sauce makes it with a lamb base, which is unusual taste if you’re not expecting it. See, my girlfriend and her mother make their sauce with lamb.”
“She does. Ah, right. Right.”

I dropped two girlfriend hints in there. Two.

“Suzy, what about Mary Bagodoughnuts?”
“No way. He does not want to get mixed up with her.”

I just shook my head and chuckled to myself.

“I should give you my address. You’re right up the street. You could come over for a beer or something.”
“Ok, Bob. Sure. That’s really nice of you.”
“They [his son-in-law and daughter] would probably like him, right Suzy? I mean, I like him. He’s a nice guy, right?”
“Sure, Dad. Sure.”

Then, I paid for my haircut and walked out of there grinning ear to ear.

…And Downs
In a very elated state, I related this story to the girlfriend. Needless to say, I mustn’t have expressed the story very well, as she missed the entire point. She, insted, focused solely on the fact that my barber seemed unaware that I even had a girlfriend.

I tried to do some damage control, but once my elation turned, it took a while to explain to her the point of the story. First, the story was not about her. It was about me. Secondly, not all the homemade chicken Marsala in the world will cure insecurities of the American woman.

And that’s the way it is.

Coastal Living
Even though the summer warmth still casually hangs in the air, the summer crowds have taken their leave of Hull for another year. Walking along the shore tonight, we neither had to weave through crowds nor their conversations, making the town seem less like a destination and more like a weigh station on the road to somewhere else.

The arcade and the local pizza shop are closed, and the roads are vacant of their clientele: Gone are the skateboarders and crowds of teenagers, gone are the walkers and joggers, and gone are the peacocks, male and female, strutting up and down the beach, built solely to attract.

The summer crowds have abated once again, relinquishing their control of this small town for another year.

As a city boy, I am much more comfortable in a crowd, and with the isolation of being one of five people walking the beach, I sometimes feel that the isolation provides a certain uneasiness. And sometimes in those moments I think to myself that this is not the town for me. Coastal or not, my skin prickles, and I think, “I don’t belong here.”

But at other times, when hearing the gentle crash of the waves on the shore, feeling the sea breeze against my skin, or being peppered with salty kisses, I think that coast is the only place to be.

Sea Life
During our walk, a guy in a black coat leaped up from the beach, grabbed the sea wall, and pulled himself up onto the road, making my girlfriend nearly leap out of her skin. I didn’t get any sort of danger signal from the situation, so I asked her what caused her reaction. Her answer?

She thought it was a giant seal leaping out of the ocean.

The Beast
She missed the date again. I am officially 2 years into a divorce, and she has missed four court dates.

Four.

What good is the law if you can’t simply and legally compel someone to get the fuck out of your life?

The Beauty
Her: Should I ask?
Me: The court date is a no-go.
Her: I’m sorry. How are you doing?
Me: I’m ok. No biggie. Kind of expected this.
Her: Let me get you dinner to celebrate.
Me: But, I don’t have a court date.
Her: Still.

This is the kind of woman who gets flowers because she really, really deserves it.

The Demon
I have another PC on the way. I’m ashamed. The total will be soon be twelve. The total actually plugged in? Three. Oy. I need to get the Linux boxes/clusters going. If anyone has a recommendation on a distribution that will run comfortably on a PII-450, please let me know. Currently, I am looking at Debian and Slackware, but RedHat is so sweetly stable.

Movie 1
Looks like Tarantino’s got a new movie coming out in October entitled Kill Bill (Trailer). I like Tarantino’s movies, but this one looks borderline. Could be Pulp Fiction good, or Jackie Brown bad.

Movie 2
When your non-geek girlfriend will sit down and watch all three hours of the The Lord of the Rings: The Two towers with you, and not complain about the characters speaking in Elvish, the propensity for cape wearing and bad British-like accents, nor the pure length of the movie…

It’s got to be love.

Either that, or I won’t be seeing the outside of BlockBuster’s chick flick department this winter.

During Christmas 2002, my sister, my girlfriend, and I watched “I Love the 80’s” on VH1 from sun up to sundown. Currently, VH1 is airing “I love the 70’s” which has put me square in front of the tube for 4 hours at a time reminiscing about Stretch Armstrong, Starsky and Hutch, Smokey and the Bandit, the Bad News Bears, and Battle of the Network Stars.

I certainly liked the 70’s better than the 80’s, and given my complete lack of motivation and Turrets like language pattern after this seemingly endless workweek, I believe that I may just spend 6-10 PM on the couch tonight riding out the decade.

P.S. fuck shit ass bitch bullshit bullshit

Internet Fun I
From the ol’ bladeblogger. It’s Matrix Ping Pong.

Internet Fun II
youmustchoose.com.

Internal Fun I
Tonight was the first night this summer that I had to force myself to leave the windows open in the car. Usually, this end of summer coolness triggers a “back to school” sadness that has followed me from youth to adulthood. Today, it tiggered nothing but a smile. Given some of the small connections that I have made with old friends, and the wonder of the realtionship with my woman, everything seems to be continually looking up.

Plus, I’ve been watching a lot of porno.

Made the girlfriend happy. She better be a good girlfriend, and not that skank that you picked up at the 99’s “All you can eat rib night.” This task is involved, takes a shitload of time, and takes a whole lot of will power on your part. For the most part, you’re not going to get a damn thing out of it except a good feeling. Therein lies the key to this process: This is not a give and take. It is purely give. There can be no reciprocation, nor expectation of it.

Don’t let her reciprocate. Got me?

If you go for the reciprocation angle, which I guarantee that any man will be amazingly tempted by within five fucking minutes of seeing their girlfriends with wet hair, you will fuck this entire process up. It takes a long time, but it’s worth it. They will appreciate it. And they will remember it.

1. Make a chair bed (chairs side by side, facing opposite ways) in the bathroom that allows her to hang her head just over the edge of the tub.
2. This is simple: Wash her hair better than any foreign salon guy could.
3. Condition her hair better than any salon guy could.
4. Gently towel dry her hair better than any salon guy would for a member of the opposite sex.
5. Rub her shoulders with no foreseeable end while she reads those stupid articles like “10 Things he wants you to do in bed” and “What sex really feels like for him!”
6. Raid her medicine cabinet for some fruity stinky girly cream (they all have like 50 bottles of it), and rub it on her feet for a while.
7. Rub her head.
8. Brush her hair.
9. Feed her a sundae.

By now you’ve been at this project for hours. If you have done this right, you will be just about going mental from touching her so much, and she will be going mental from you touching her so much. I can just about guarantee that no matter how hard you try to play the no reciprocation angle, she is going to actively overrule you and reciprocate.

on the couch…
and on the floor…
and in the kitchen…
and in the dining room…
and on the counter…
and on the table…

Saturday Night
Joe the New Yorker, the GF, and I all went to Dick’s last resort on Sagadee night. The waitstaff are intentionally rude, typically throwing silverware, place mats, and cups at you. Tables are long, encouraging small groups to form larger and more rowdy groups. Tables are given cloth napkins to wipe hands on and paper napkins to throw. You are also given bread for the same purpose. It’s a hell of a fun place for a guy like me. See, the waitstaff expect you to be shocked by their rude attitudes, but rarely expect annoying and/or rude behavior back. And I am the king of annoying behavior. The king. I threw three waitstaff so far off that they couldn’t continue their rude act.

When the waiter asked whether he could take my plate away, I said, “Sure.” When he actually tried to take them away, I asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing taking my fries before I was done. I did it so angrily, that he got really thrown off and apologetic, rather than being the typical rude bastards that they’re supposed to be. Then, I took back the fries from his pile of dishes, and started barking at him like a dog on crack. A big dog on crack.

Our regular waiter was just was too nice for the Dick’s waitstaff game. We actually knew him from another restaurant that he used to work at, and being as nice as he was, he was easy to throw off, so it wasn’t all that fun. He really tried to slam the silverware down on the table. He did. It just wasn’t in his nature.

The third waitstaffer actually slapped me in the ass with a check booklet and started yelling at me for bumping into her. I rubbed my six foot body down her heavy set four and a half feet, looked at her like a piece of meat, grunted, and chased her around the restaurant looking crazy and making honk honk motions with my hands. Ahh, the role reversal. It’s such a beautiful thing.

Other points of note: There were four bachelorette parties, and a band with three horns and a gift or Stevie Wonder, James Brown, and Earth Wind and Fire. There was also a waiter judiciously doling out Redi-Whip to and on drunken young women. That place is a trip. If anyone wants to go…

d’Artagnan
Conan O’ Brien put all the Triumph The Sock Dog videos online. Finally. No more hunting. Bon Jovi. Star Wars. Hollywood Squares. If you haven’t seen these, I feel bad for you, but at least the poop is now in one handy location for you to enjoy.

Porthos
It seems the Japanese are getting into doing it in public. A friend of mine is always walking his dog around town and enjoying conversations with other dog owners. According to the article:

“We’ve got a dog and it’s my job to take it for a walk in a park near our home. There’s a hunk of a university student who walks his dog there, too. Our dogs became buddies, so we exchanged e-mail addresses. I sent him a message one night saying that I would be taking my dog for a walk at 10 and asked him to join me. When he said he would, I knew that I’d get him in my clutches,” a 36-year-old housewife tells Shukan Taishu, adding that she has always liked younger men but the presence of her small children prevents her from going out on the town at nights. “We had our first liaison behind a shed in the park. We didn’t go all the way…I just serviced him orally. It’s become so much fun taking the dog for a walk recently.”

Maybe Palatzo should be walking his in Japan. Yea, baby. Grrrrr.

Aramis
Two in one day. I found this other article about an Albanian couple making whoopie during rush hour. My buddy Aramis left for New York City to be with his dream girl. She’s well educated, tall, quite nice, and rather easy on the eyes. She also happens to be Albanian. I thought I understood before, but now I get it. Double Yea, baby. Grrrr (in the most respectful way, of course).

Athos
If you happen to have a wild night of sex, be sure to ask your partner how much you owe them when you wake up. Women appreciate when a man appreciates them.

If they say jokingly, “Just leave it on the table,” then leave some. Women appreciate a man that listens to them.

When determining how much to leave, don’t leave too much. You don’t want her to think that you think that she really is a hooker. Women appreciate not being made to feel like hookers.

Leave an amount that has significance in some way or another. You could leave $52: one dollar for every week of the year that you love her. Or maybe you could leave $12.25, which says to her, “Baby, last night was like Christmas!” Or, you could just leave $3.16. Women love this. It’s not too much, it’s not too little, and it makes them think of that whimsical guy in the crowd at football games that paints his body blue and holds up the John 3:16 card. That guy’s passionate. Women love that guy. You’ll be a hit.

Remember though, you will not be a hit if you talk to her the next day and ask her how much is left on your tab. Women do not like this.

I guess women prefer to talk about more interesting topics than math. Triple Grrrr, baby!

Being adored by children
and hearing them laugh.
Being loved by a woman
and seeing her smile.
Having someone you can trust
and listen to.
Who listens to what you say
and fights to put you first.
She grounds you
and yet lifts you beyond where anyone could possibly
bring you down.
And if they be havin’
some junk in the trunk,
or some fine ass titties,
that’s a good feeling too.
(You knew I had to ruin it.)

If you decide to make popcorn the old fashioned way, using a pan and some oil, please attempt to read and follow the directions. If it says a couple of tablespoons of oil, don’t dump oil willy-nilly into the pan. If it says a third of a cup of popcorn, don’t be a macho ass and go for the gold with a full cup. Your pan will overflow three times, and you will be eating popcorn off of every surface in the kitchen.

On the bright side, your lovely assistant will laugh her ass off at you.

Some friends and I had an extended dinner at a tavern in Taunton. They were giving away Budweiser T-shirts or something in a raffle, and you got one ticket for every beer. One friend had 3 tickets, and sent me off when my eagle ears heard some sort of announcements coming from the bar. I went in and stood there for a bit observing the locals exchange pleasantries over who would win…”No fahkin’ wey, buddy. Ahm gunna be the winnah f’ shoah. The fahkin’ ticket is right heah!” was about the gist of it from one of the stringier-haired, tattoo on the back, short too short ladies.

I got nothing. Until the end. When the guy called one of my numbers. Well, it wasn’t technically one of my numbers, but, well, minor detail. When I went to collect my T-shirt, the guy pointed behind me and said, “There you go. All yours.”

A Bud Light snowboard.

The best part was walking back to the table and leaning a five foot snowboard against a table for the five foot girl who won it, and watching her trying to figure out how I could pull off such an elaborate joke.

I’m good, but not that good.

#1GF!’s Mom has a standing request for canolis from Mike’s Pastry in the North End for special occasions. I prefer anything from Montilio’s to Mike’s, but as she lives pretty far from town and that’s what she prefers, I try to go and get them whenever possible. It’s a small deal to me, but a big deal to her. It’s a win-win situation.

Every time I go to Mike’s, the place is mobbed. This time, there must’ve been 75 people jammed in there waiting for pastry. One thing that I’ve learned in my short lifetime is that if you are in a crowded amorphous line and the counter help asks, “Who’s next?” even if you are 4 people back, if no one answers within 15 seconds, you are free to cut the morons. They should’ve been paying better attention.

I did just that. Maybe they were all from the Midwest, and were trying to be polite, or maybe they were all a little afraid of Bostonians and were too busy guarding their “Boston” sweatshirts lest someone whip them off of their back while they ordered a canoli, but that was not my problem.

As I was ordering there was a definite non-tourist next to me. It was very likely that I had spotted a member of the new breed of North End residents. Now, I have to check my Encyclopedia, but I think he was of the genus Yuppyus, class Assholus. Wearing a black wool coat, pudgy face, slick hair, leather gloves, and accessorizing with a cell phone, Yuppyus Assholus was not only barely paying attention to the girl asking who’s next, but was talking so loudly that he must’ve thought the rest of us wanted to hear his play by play of what he thought was going on around him…

Huh? Yea. Huh? Yea. What? Yea. I dunno. Huh? Yea. Hahahaha. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. Yea. Huh?

This went on until the counter lady looked directly at him and said, “Who’s next?” To which he replied, phone still to ear…

“Huh? Yea. Um. Yea. No not you. Huh? She’s trying to help me. Huh? Sure. I know. I know, really. Hold on. Uh, give me six canolis. Whatever. Yea, uh… (pointing with a gloved pinky vaguely at some pastry) Three of those and um three of those. Yea. Huh? Whatever. What? Yea right. She’ll probably spit in my canolis or something.

The look on the girl’s face summed up what I was feeling. It was a mixture of disbelief, hatred, and a little “if I only had a cake knife, I would slowly saw your head off while these kind people applauded.”

I was helped at about the same time as Yuppyus Assholus, and right as I got my order he hung up his phone, turned to me as if I gave a fuck and said, “It was my brother. He wanted to know if I wanted beer.” No way. No way are these people going to think that I am with you, Assholus. He was right next to me, and I didn’t even fire the neurons to turn my head to acknowledge. You’ll hang alone when this canoli starved crowd decides to turn on someone. 15 minutes and 18 canolis (they call me “Big Brownie”) later, I jumped into the getaway car and sped off…

Ok, I didn’t actually leap into the car like Starsky or Jim Rockford, but I was would’ve. Like a bad getaway driver in a good movie, my driver had unfortunately locked the doors, and was on the phone (possibly with 911) just in case someone tried to steal her from the car as she waited. In the North End. In broad daylight. So, I stood there dumbly for a few seconds, avoiding looking cool yet again while she did a fingerprint scan to make sure it was me before letting me in.

Old School
Then, not twelve feet from Mike’s, I saw the old breed of the North end standing on a corner looking like he wanted to cross the street. Like the new school North Ender, he also had a top coat, but he also had a black hat, scarf, and big glasses on. Unlike the New Schooler, the Old Schooler was either hard into his seventies, or gently into his eighties. We waved him across. He waved us on. We waved him across. He waved us on. We waved him across, and he smiled, gave up, walked over to my window, and motioned for me to roll it down.

He reached in the window, shook my hand, and in a thick Italian accent said, How are you a doing today?” I said that I was great, while remaining thoroughly amused by the situation. “Ah, I see a you went to visit a my friend a Mike. You see a him inna there?” I replied that I didn’t think so, but I really wasn’t sure what he looked like. “I just a kidding you. He’s in a the Florida.” Then we talked about the weather in Florida for a bit, and how cold it was here. Then he looks over at my driver and squints a little and looks at my a little funny. In a lower voice he said, “How come a you let a her drive?” I then assured him that it was ok, because she was a very good driver. He looked at me, looked at her, and after a pause said, “You a very lucky a man,” Then we shook hands once again and he was off.

He has no idea how right he is. I am a the very a lucky a man.

Usually, the days leading up to the Dreaded day are spent wondering, “What is she going to want that I should be telepathically aware of,” or writing mental essays such as “Why Valentine’s day is better than a horrible traffic accident,” or pondering “The joys of being single.”

This was the first year in a long time, if ever, that I looked forward to Valentine’s Day. It’s a holiday for women. Ladies can rally against this however they want, but it is. It’s true. We men dress up, get flowers, and try to impress you. This year, I was actually inspired, proud of my gift (which contained no flowers or flower based additives), and worked pretty hard on (Ha. I said “hard on.” Did I mention that I will forever remain a teenager?) not only the contents, but the delivery.

Knowing that chocolate contains phenylethylamine, which supposedly releases dopamine into the bloodstream, I thought that some form of chocolate would be part of the gift. I figured that I’d whip up a batch of hot chocolate from scratch, and start with that. Although it’s a simple recipe, chopping semisweet chocolate into a powder can be a time consuming pain in the ass. I thought it would be one of those “I care enough about your dopamine levels to waste my time foolishly on you” starters. Maybe it was the opera, but midway through the chopping I had the idea of making chocolate covered strawberries from scratch. I had never done this before, and thought that I could find the directions on the net. How hard could it be?

The first site told me to throw 8 oz. of chocolate morsels in a bowl and microwave them on high for 8 minutes, stirring at the halfway mark. This is where the net breaks down. Not everything out there is reliable. There are idiots who read, but there are also idiots who write. Let me say this from experience: You cannot microwave chocolate to melt it. Looking in on my half melted morsels at the four minute mark, I watched a small geyser of black smoke shooting out of the chocolate like a tiny version of “Old Faitful.” errupting on a tiny, brown lunar lanscape. As I rushed the bowl to the sink, I was well aware that I was not only a member of the second group, but I was officially inducted into the first.

Once bitten, twice shy, I resumed my search for directions, leading me to a site that said to melt 8 oz. of semi-sweet chocolate morsels and some vegetable shortening in a double boiler (dude translation: fill pan with water, jam a pan on top of it containing the morsels, and boil the water), being careful not to get any water in the chocolate lest it seize. As I was going to use my judgement this time, I omitted the funky idea of the vegetable shortening. As a dude, I was unaware that anything but a big block Chevy engine could seize, but I guess the term can apply to anything. Who knew? Having decided on a melting method, there was still the question of how I was going to get strawberries in February. This was beyond me, but I left my smoking mess behind, and headed out to the market.

Every package of strawberries I found was rotted. Grossly rotted. No mater how much chocolate I put on them they would still be rotted rotted. Then I started looking at other fruits like pineapple, raspberries, mangos, or anything that would be a suitable substitute. When I got to the onions, I returned to the original plan of hunting down the strawberries and left the store. I headed to the second market, which didn’t seem to have any strawberries at all. I gave up, and grabbed a bag of pretzels. Nothing like a romantic bag of chocolate covered pretzels to wash down that beer in the doublewide with your old lady, eh, baby? Yeeeeeee haw! I threw them back and made one last sweep of the fruit section before trying to find another store.

Right in front of my face were package after package of big, fat summer strawberries. Kick ass strawberries right in front of, and bigger than, my big guinea nose. I bought them and some waxed paper, and took them home. The double boiler thing went well, and once the chocolate is melted, you really just twirl the strawberries in the pan until they’re half covered in chocolate, set them on waxed paper, and stick them in the fridge to cool.

So, I have the hot chocolate and the chocolate covered strawberries to cover the “I’m creative” and the “raise your dopamine” part of the gift. To cover the “I listen to you” part, I bought her expensive sheets, which she mentioned that she liked a few times. To cover the “I’m one sneaky bastard” part of the gift, I bought red satin sheets, washed them, folded them, and stuck them in a plastic supermarket bag. I’m not writing about the “I’m am one perverted mother f’r” part of the gift, but trust me when I say that it was included.

Anyway, I actually laid awake the night before planning delivery. I was actually having fun on this holiday for women, because for once, I had come across a woman who deserved, not demanded, this much effort. It was executed thusly: When I went to her house, I brushed by the unsuspecting young thing at the door with a bagful of crap, immediately dropping the hot chocolate mix and strawberries on her as a distraction. I then said that I was sorry, but I didn’t have time after going to the gym to wrap her presents, so I asked if I could wrap them in her room. I then asked her to crank the music so she wouldn’t have a clue as to what I was wrapping. I then quietly stripped her bed, and put on the red satin sheets, remaking it exactly as I found it, with the exception of the new sheets being in place, and her regular ones hidden under her bed. While executing all of this, I made sure to crinkle a bag, which I thought would further mask some of the noise.

Ok, she didn’t suspect the bed, but she did ask me what the hell I had been doing with the bag.

Let me say 3 things: There is nothing like the moment when someone discovers that you have pulled one over on them, there is nothing like being appreciated, and there is nothing like listening to a grown woman giggle like a teenage girl.

As a result, today, the day after, I watched war movies, ate cookies for lunch, scratched myself, and have yet to shower. Ah, balance. Ain’t life grand?

Look, Valentine’s is Friday. You don’t have to be that guy walking with that girl that’s holding the single rose that the rest of the world really, really wants to kick in the nuts, nor do you have to be that guy wearing black and protesting Valentine’s, that well, yea, we also want to kick in the nuts.

It doesn’t have to be a Cataluna crap fest, and it doesn’t have to go as far as a submission to daretosing.com, (E.g. Rocket Man on Drugs). It doesn’t have to be expensive. It doesn’t have to be fancy. You don’t have to get rooked by the doubled prices for dinner, flowers, cards and candy. No. You can get creative somehow, and give a thoughtful gift. Maybe you make the candy. Maybe you plan naked burrito night, or plan an indoor picnic. Maybe you grab some cheap tickets to Iceland for the price you would’ve paid for dinner. Maybe you hit up the local porn store and buy out the leather rack. It’s up to you. Just don’t do the rose thing. It’s been done.

Over…
And over…
And over…

Save the flower thing for a normal day. Dropping a bunch of flowers on her on a Thursday will be more appreciated than a dozen roses on Valentine’s. It’s not hard, either. There are probably 2 flower stores on your way home (if you live together) and 4 on the way to her house (if you live apart). At minimum, there are supermarkets everywhere, and sometimes the flowers are damned good. Dropping flowers on her unexpectedly at regular intervals, might even get her to buy out the leather rack. Meow, catwoman. Me-ow.

The best courtship rule of thumb that I have heard comes from the movie, Finding Forrester, which simply states, “Give unexpected gifts at unexpected times.”

Or, if you happen to be alone this year, you can put all of her shit in a big pile, imitate the Catalunans, and then set it ablaze. You can warm your body and your heart all at once. Ahhh. Then, you spend your joint account here, here, or here.

Look, I really don’t know where this is going. I just wanted to feature the poop statues and the singing junkie, so sue me. The end.

I’m a jeans and T-shirt guy. If there’s a wedding, an interview, or someone dies, I’ll throw on a suit, but I generally don’t get past jeans on weekends. Sometimes I worry that it may exclude me from certain restaurants, but really, if the rule is, “gentlemen must wear jackets,” you can be virtually assured that I will not be there. I’m not comfortable in a suit, and I’m not trying to impress. I go to restaurants to eat.

I can eat nearly anywhere, and I won’t even think about sending the food back, because I’m not really picky. On the other hand, it’s rare that I’ll give a restaurant anything above an “Ok” rating. That’s the price you pay for growing up with some Italian blood. You are cursed to walk the earth in search of good food, and nothing will ever be as good as a you mama’s a sauce. If a restaurant can impress me with a plate of food, I have no qualms about paying their asking price, whatever it may be. I also don’t mind dropping a chunk of change on the wait staff if they know how to wait a table. I was immensely impressed and paid for it at Tosca’s in Hingham.

Upon walking through Tosca’s doors, I scanned the place quickly to see how much of the crowd was hoity, and how much was toity. Given that it is located in Hingham, Tosca’s seemed to be following town appointed rules of no more than 53% in either direction. Most men were in jackets, and most women looked as if they had stepped out of a Talbot’s catalog. I stood before the host for a minute while he looked at his various plans and charts doing his best to either ignore me in the hopes that I would wander off, or he was truly trying to perfect some very complex seating algorithms.

Upon recognizing me, he smiled pretty genuinely, apologized for not noticing me, and then said that there would be nothing available until 9 PM. He then suggested that I see if there was seating in the “Wine Room.” Ooooh, the wine room. How fancy. I guess the Hingham rule of no jeans while dining applied, which was fine. At least he was nice about it.

I walked back to the wine room (which most people refer to as “the bar”) and took a peek in before asking for a table. Despite the short height of the tables, the room looked quite comfortable for dining. It was dimly lit, and decorated with rich, dark wood. There was a giant wine rack on one wall possibly high enough that it might need a ladder, but a ladder was added, just the same, producing a nice effect. There were murals on the walls, painted in such a way to add to the “Wine Room’s” old world feel.

The only thing that I didn’t like was the fact that there was a TV on above the bar. It seemed totally out of place in this setting, and served solely as a distraction, adding nothing to an otherwise comfortable atmosphere. Otherwise, it was the kind of room that an expensive hotel might use as its bar, and as long as I had cash to pay the bill, I felt right at home, even in my jeans.

I’m not going to lie about it. The menu was pricey. Drinks were $8, starting salads were $9+ and entrees were $20 at a minimum, and soared only as high as $29, with potatoes being extra…$8 extra to be exact. I’ll tell you though, Tosca’s is one of those places that fully backs the credo, “you get what you pay for.”

I ordered the pork chop, and man if it wasn’t the best looking, fattest, most tasty god damned pork chop that I ever ate. I really don’t know what the hell was on the top of it, but it was leafy with some red wormy things on it that might have been peppers, but weren’t. Then came the pork chop, which was 4″x4″. And under the pork chop was a foundation of mashed potatoes, but they weren’t your average mashed potatoes. Noooo, sir. It was as if they mashed them, breaded them, and then fried them. Surrounded by a moat of tangy sauce, the whole thing appeared almost as if it were a tiny tropical island jutting out of the sea to feed me.

As with most high priced foo foo places, the meal appeared to be rather small. It didn’t look as small as other foo foo dinners that I’ve eaten, but the presentation lent itself to thinking that you should be ordering a minimum of a couple of dinners. Looks can be deceiving, because after I had finished it, I was much more full than I would’ve imagined. To aid my digestion, I had a cup of coffee with dinner, which was amazingly smooth. I’m not a fan of the smooth coffees, but I was impressed with this batch which flowed like water thanks to an amazingly astute waitress.

I always have thought that a general measure of a good waitress is whether I can see the bottom of my coffee cup. The waitress let me hit bottom but once in four to five cups, and only because the over-anxious Tosca’s bus boys tend to whisk away plates and cups before you even put your fork down from the last bite of your meal. She was exactly what a waitress should be: friendly, courteous, there when needed, and unobtrusive when not, and seemed to almost have a sixth sense about the job, approaching just as drinks were emptied or courses had enough time to settle in and take hold. She seemed to approach the job not as if she were stuck waitressing on her way to something else, but as if she were a waitress. And that is service that has to be experienced to be believed.

Just after the meal, I couldn’t have been more surprised when a tuxedoed jazz duo set up and started playing as if on cue. They consisted of a keyboard player with a bobbling head and steady hands, and a horn player that not only held a flute, clarinet, and three types of saxophones in his arsenal, but had such a mane of white hair that it looked as if every breath he had blown into those instruments had come back to permanently haunt it.

So, I’m in a “wine room,” I’ve eaten a great dinner, experienced great service, heard great music, and was privileged enough to be accompanied by a beautiful date (yes date, mother f’ers. A date. Not a virtual date, computer, cardboard cutout, hooker, or pet. A date. Ask me no more.) As if things couldn’t have been more perfect, the waitress arrived with the desert menu. There was a lot of good stuff on there, but my decision was guided by one of my favorite movies, Amelie, where one of the simple pleasures in life enjoyed by the main character was cracking the creme brule with a spoon. I have never had creme brule before, but as the night was going so well, I though that I would explore this simple pleasure myself. As foo foo as it is, I enjoyed it.

Dinner was leisurely, taking a scant 3 hours from soup to nuts, creating an atmosphere not of grabbing dinner before going out, but that dinner was going out. I can attribute at least part of this to the nature and professionalism of the waitress. She was like no other that I’ve had, and deserved a big fat tip, no matter what the bill was.

If you have a special occasion coming up, I would suggest reservations, as I arrived at 6:40 PM, and they were already booked through 9…or maybe they weren’t. Maybe you can play dress up.

So, I get involved in this series of e-mails today:

Mr. Pink: So, I’ve been reading your blog, and I realized that these are the type of things that turn up as evidence against people who are mostly described on the news something like “He was quiet and he mostly kept to himself. And then cats started disappearing…”
Me: At least people won’t look at my e-mail theme, and think, “his marriage is sham. He’s kidding himself…”
Mr. Pink: That was a bit hostile, don’t you think? Are you on the “juice”?
Me: You seem a bit sensitive. Are you…nevermind.
Mr. Pink: IT’S AN ESCHER! No one gets me….
Me: Whatever, fancy boy.
Mr. Pink: LISTEN! How much you bench?
Me: Settle down. Your secret is safe.
Mr. Pink: Stay gay.
Ms. Blue: I just read the blog and agree with Mr. Pink - very scared for you and those around you.
Me: I’m done with both of you. Have fun shopping or getting facials or whatever you girls are doing this weekend.
Ms. Blue: Stay Gay. Looks good on you.
Me: I KNOW you’re not talking to me…
Ms. Blue: How do you know?
Mr. Pink: Actually we are going shopping, and we’re going to get you a nice Yankee candle as an anniversary gift.
Me: That was low, but thanks. Just leave it on the porch as I will be at the shooting range practicing…

Do I need this?

The reference to the candle and the anniversary were intentional fouls. One was a reference to my house being burned down a couple of years ago in a fire started by a candle. Throw the flags. No need for instant replay. I’m calling a technical. Revenge is a dish best served cold…

The reference to “How much you bench” comes from my methods of getting rid of telemarketers. If they are women, become the slimiest guy you know, and try to pick them up. Don’t listen to a word of their sales pitch and throw in, “you sound soooo hot” a lot. Be creative.

If it’s a guy, refuse to listen to anything he says until he answers the question:

“How much you bench?”

If he won’t answer, you don’t buy from a guy who doesn’t bench.

If he says it’s unimportant, act as if he just said that breathing is not important. Say, “How can you say that? You better be joking,” through clenched teeth”

If he says, “I don’t know,” ask, “How can you not know?” as if it is ridiculous that he would not know that info.

If he gives an amount, any amount, say “No, seroiusly.” Then go on to debate his lifting technique, and tell him that he could be doing more. Ask if he keeps his back straight. Tell him that he’s probably not getting enough protein and aminos.

If he get’s defensive and asks how much you bench, you say, “Listen buddy, I’ll ask the questions here,” or “Listen buddy, I’m a world champ. I bench two people benching on their benches attached to a big, huge bar like you’ve never seen. And not puny telemarketing people, neither. Big dudes who bench a lot.”

Then make sure that they put you on their no call list before you hang up.

Let me know how it goes.