There was a time in my life where throwing up was as common as taking out the trash. Actually, it was probably more common, but I have to say that I didn’t mind it as much. And at the time, that really didn’t seem like an issue. If you carry gum “in case you puke”, something could be wrong. If you’ve made peace with the fact that throwing up is a common part of your day, something’s definitely wrong. At least, it was for me. But that was a long, long time ago.

As far as I’m concerned these days, if your body decides that you have to throw up, I think it should be for two, or maybe three reasons: 1.) To teach the body’s owner that debauchery has a price, 2.) To make the person disgusting enough when passed out that no one wants to put their balls on them and take pictures, or 3.) Possibly to punish the person for spinning around and around in circles one too many times. That’s it. Vomiting should not come on randomly like it did to me this week.

It all started when we went to visit #1GF!’s sister this weekend. Because I was heavily involved with the semi-annual maintenance on their family PC, my inquisitive brain parts were busy forming questions starting with “How the fuck…”, while my fix-it brain parts were spending a fair amount of energy pushing the inquisitive parts out of the way, so it could get the PC fixed. With all the pushing and shoving in there, I failed to take better stock of the fact that #1GF!’s normally energetic sister had suddenly climbed under a mountain of blankets and was not the least bit interested in dinner. Although I am a wiz at diagnosing PC issues, I admit to being less than skilled when it comes to humans.

Let’s fast forward 24 hours or so when I started getting nauseous. Because I get migraines all the time, nausea creeps up on me enough that I don’t take much stock in it. I grab a coke and something bready and wait for it to pass. What I didn’t seem to notice this time was the lack of headache that one would normally expect to accompany a migraine. Like a child that can’t seem to get the attention of a dismissive parent, my body changed tactics and replaced the nausea with a very large temperature drop.

The fact that I was dressed in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and under two blankets and a quilt did not alarm me at all, probably because, as I said, I am merely a human who troubleshoots computers. If I were a human that could troubleshoot other humans, I may have reacted differently, but I was so relieved by the repeal of the nausea that I simply amused myself by jolting #1GF! with my ice cold feet until she fell asleep.

After spending hours trying to distract myself from the minor waves of nausea and the lack of heat within my thermal cocoon, I finally started drifting off to sleep after a Valium-like dose of a late-night PBS special on the topic of the construction of the Alaskan pipeline. Because I had never been so cold inside the house without running out of heating oil, some small part of my brain must’ve finally started to worry. Just as I was drifting off, I was jarred awake by the thought, “If you fall asleep, you might die.”

“I’m fine,” I thought. “I’m just cold and nauseous.”

Then, I started churning, “I’ve never been this cold. What if I got bitten by a spider when I was cleaning out the PC yesterday? What if this is some sort of reaction? I could drift off and never wake up.”

“This is irrational,” I thought, and started drifting off again. Just as I touched sleep, I was again jarred awake by a skull on a black background in the center of my vision. And there I was, awake, irrationally nervous, nauseus, and freezing in the dark. I figured that even if I was being irrational, it couldn’t be good that I was still so cold. The only way that I could think of to get warmer was to hop in a hot shower. I snuck out of bed and made my way through the black hallway to the bathroom.

When I closed the door and flicked the light switch, the sudden burst of bright light burned my eyes, as waves of nausea washed over me. I turned the shower handle as hot as it would go, and while waiting for it to warm up, I weighed the pros and cons of throwing up in every single receptacle in the room, just in case I was presented with an opportunity to choose. As soon as I reached into the shower and my fingers touched the falling water, my choice was made for me.

I dropped to my knees and heaved. My body stiffened, and the force only made it to my chest. “Fuck,” I groaned, “Fuck.” And then I tightened again as if every cell was trying to pry itself away from me.

And I threw up like I hadn’t done in years. By then, #1GF! was at the door and trying to get in, and I was waving her off. Whatever was in me, it wanted it out, and I wasn’t going to let anything distract me from letting it go.

And I threw up again. And again. And then, for a minute, it all stopped.

Despite being baptized with an icy sweat, it was the best I had felt all day.

After I collected myself a little, I showered, changed clothes, and tried to go back to bed. My temperature started to normalize, and I thought relief was on the way. Unfortunately, by now we all know my record on human diagnostics. As soon as I warmed up, the nausea came back. The warmer I got, the worse I felt. I would eventually have to wait for #1GF! to fall asleep before returning to the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom where, using my sweatshirt as a pillow, I would see only flurries of sleep. My subconscious would only wake me up once wondering whether I was having a heart attack because one of my arms had gotten caught under me and gone numb.

There was a time that sleeping on the bathroom floor was common, but that was a long, long time ago. And even though I can see the holes of mortality have worn through the invincible armor of my youth, I can’t say that I’d trade a moment of where I am now to mend them.

I was recently introduced to the joy that is dim sum. For those who have never been to a dim sum restaurant, it’s the absolute ultimate in eating for lazy people with short attention spans and zero patience. I cannot comprehend how it wasn’t invented by an American.

The way it works is, you get seated, and black and white people get forks in addition to their chopsticks. They’re put there in case you need them. Bitching about this will only slow down the process, and honestly, there just isn’t time. Within 2 minutes, the wait staff rolls carts full of bite size Chinese food to your table. Within 8 minutes, you have a table full of food that you have selected with a lot of pointing and nodding. And then the carts keep rolling through the restaurant in an endless convoy for you to grab food off of whenever you see something you like.

Unless you consistently wear sweatpants to restaurants (you know who you are), it is guaranteed that within 25 minutes, you’ll be toast. Your stomach will be bloated enough to make you loathe the thought of getting up and getting your ass back to work where you will sit for the rest of the afternoon sweating and trying not to fall asleep.

I’ve done this 3 times so far, and every time I end up feeling like a goldfish with unlimited access to the whole can of fish flakes. If humans lived in water, you’d be able to tell my dim sum days because I’d be floating upside down at my desk trying to keep my little fish eyes at least half open.

The reason for my overeating can be blamed on one simple problem:

Jon Dyer loves steamed buns.

I grew up in the Asian center of Southern Massachusetts, and I can’t believe that I have never been exposed to such a delight. I also can’t believe an American didn’t invent them. Americans love rolls, and they practically invented BBQ pork, yet a Chinese guy beat the Americans to baking the pork inside the roll by about 2,000 years.

It’s like a self-contained BBQ Pulled pork sandwich, no bigger than a White Castle hamburger. I know what all my American readers are thinking: HOW DO YOU TOP THAT? HOW? I’ll tell you how. Instead of baking the roll, you fucking steam it. Oh mama. Yea. Then, your roll is essentially a big, sweet marshmallow full of pulled pork. Can you get more American than that? No, you can’t. It makes me want to sing a fucking campfire song and hump a den mother at tractor pull while combing my mullet.

Yet, it’s totally Chinese. The perfect food was invented by the Chinese.

As there is always ying where there is yang, the perfect food must have it’s its nemesis. Balance must prevail. Even though I ate at least a tray of steamed buns, I also figured I’d go Joe Rogan this time and eat some Phoenix talons. In America, we call those chicken feet. In America, we also throw that shit away. You know when you get chicken wings, and there’s that useless part of the wing that’s pointy and full of nothing but bone and skin? Yea. Take that and boil it. That’s what chicken feet are like. They’re not Fear Factor gross, but they’re essentially devoid of meat. If an American had invented Dim Sum, I can guarantee that he would’ve replaced chicken feet with something a hell of a lot meatier.

I didn’t really understand the point of them with all the filling and delicious other foods flying by, but the lady at the next table was sucking them down as fast as I could get through the rolls. Then again, I don’t think that she is sitting at her computer a mere 10 hours after eating, still feeling bloated, floating at the top of her virtual tank with her eyes half open, like I am. She’s probably comfortably sleeping by now, like I wish I could.

Then again, a good night sleep, just ain’t worth eating chicken feet for.

I worked 40 hours in 4 days, then had a 3 day weekend on which I ripped 50 CDs, drove 2 hours to Maine to buy 2 pairs of socks, and had 3 people over. On Easter, we made 12 blueberry muffins, 2 quiches, 2 pounds of potatoes, 1 pound of bacon, and a tropical fruit salad.

Tropical Fruit Salad:

Chop into bite sized chunks and put into a big bowl:
4 kiwis
3 oranges
2 mangos
1 pineapple

Make the juice:
Thaw 1.5 cups of frozen strawberries and throw in a food processor with 1 tablespoon of sugar
Blend until you have a strawberry liquid

Put it all together:
On the bottom of a bowl put a few scoops of strawberry yogurt.
Cover with fruit
Drizzle strawberry juice on top

Grab your balls or talk about NASCAR before anyone accidentally calls you Brenda or Nancy.

Here’s a question for you Boston locals. If a person was coming to Boston for her very first time, and had limited time, where would you tell them to visit?

Off the top of my head, I thought…

• Grab a coffee at Dunkin Donuts (It sucks, but nuthin’ says “It’s ok, I’m from heah” like Dunky’s)
• Hit the record stores in Harvard Square and maybe stare at the Charles for 2 or 3 seconds,
• Visit the Boston Public Library (BPL) and sit on the stairs,
• Go to Long Wharf and stare at the Constitution for 10 seconds,
• Run through the North End and grab some pastry from Mike’s,
• Roam Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall,
• Walk down Newbury Street to rub elbows with the rich and fancy,
• Wander the Boston Common and Public Garden (maybe hit the Bull & Finch pub aka “Cheers”?),
• Hit a cheesecake factory (for desserts) or Dick’s last resort (for weird raunchy dinner),
• Or seek out Redbones for some fantastic BBQ…

Any other suggestions?

Saturday: Attended 4 Xmas eve parties.
Highlight: [from the other room] Oh Shut The Fuck Up!
Kid: [running into crowded room] Mom Mom Mom Mom Mooooom!
Kid’s Mom: WHAT?
Kid: [tattling on Dad] Dad just said “Shut the Fuck Up.”
Mom: [exasperated] Well…shut the fuck up then!

Highlight2: No matter how innocent “Hey, could you grab my package” may seem, you have opened yourself up to a barage of comments.

Sunday: Attended 2 XMas day gatherings.
Highlight: (Too many. Will follow up)

Monday-Wednesday: Went away to a cabin in the woods with the family.
Highlight: Uncle dad and me are standing in a room
Me:[to Dad] Hey did you give him his tickets, yet?
Dad: What tickets?
Me: The tickets I gave you.
Dad: What tickets?
Me: [rolls up sleeves] The tickets to the gun show. Oooooh yeaaaaaa.
Uncle: Seriously. You can’t be related to me.

Highlight2: Name that tune with a 100 TV tunes CD set.

Thursday: Had a doctors appointment and visited with my aunt.
Highlight: I got an ultrasound where the lady showed me some spots on my kidneys that look a lot bigger than they did 3 years ago. In a previous visit, I thought it would be funny to ask if it was a boy, to which the radiologist gave me a look that seemed to say “Stop fucking around.” This time, the radiologist beat me to the punch and asked #1GF! if she wanted to know the sex of the baby.

Friday: Went to the gym and did some shopping.
Highlight: BestBuy and Circuit City!

Saturday: Sat on my ass and did some cooking
Highlight: Made lasagna and 9 quarts of sauce with #1GF!

A couple of days ago, #1GF! and I went to get Chinese takeout. After waiting for what seemed like an unusually long time, a semi-exasperated guy came out of the kitchen with our food. He smiled at us and said, “Taypisonay! Thank you. Have good night.”

#1GF! and I thanked him, took our food, and headed out the door. Once out of earshot, I gave her a look of confusion which she mirrored right back at me. “I have no idea,” she said. “Really. None.”

We walked back to the car pondering the possibilities until I broke the silence. “Nothing I can come up with makes a lot of sense,” I said. “He either just told us that the kitchen staff pissed on our food (They piss on it!) or on him (They piss on me!) and it took some extra time to get a new bag or clean pants. On the other hand, he could’ve meant that the kitchen staff was ‘Pissing him off’ (They piss on me!) for taking a long time with the food.

The only other explanation that I can come up with involves an elaborate hoax involving his ability to speak perfect English and running $5 bets with the cooks that he can get a customer to smile at him after telling them that someone pissed on their food.

Sunday
Today, we got to go see #1GF!’s cute-as-a-button niece who is just crossing the age where children are wary of me. She’s still in that “pick me up and hold me” age where #1GF! is more appealing than climbing on the jungle jon. Soon, she will cross into the age of of “chuck me around the room” where Jon will dominate. Enjoy it now, auntie. The End is neigh.

I then somehow developed a motherfucker of a migraine and spent 4 hours hiding from light and sound, recovering just enough to go to a cookout with some of my friends. Even though I’ve known them for at least 15 years, no one hit me in the nuts once. That shouldn’t have to be counted as a benefit for a cookout, should it?

Friday
We went kayaking with my parents and I accidentally swamped my kayak while goofing off. A dry hold is where you store all the stuff you want to stay dry when you swamp your kayak. The air pocket that it creates also stabilizes the kayak while you get back to normal. When you treat a regular hold like a dry hold, you will have to drag all your wet stuff to shore before you can even think about emptying it out.

Thursday
We went to the beach all day. While walking around…
#1GF!: “Jon!”
Jon: “Huh?”
#1GF!: “You look like you’re going to kick someone’s ass.”
Jon: “Me? [guy sidesteps me] I think it’s just the way my face is.”

Quiche
Real men don’t eat it, but they can make it.

4 large eggs
1 frozen pie crust
1 cup milk
1/4 cup cream
a pinch of salt
a few twists of pepper
garlic powder
some basil

1 tomato, chopped
5 or so cheese slices cut into strips

Pre-heat the oven to 400. Take the pie crust out of the plastic and put it on the counter to thaw for 15 minutes. Don’t do one good goddamn thing that it says on that wrapper such as trying to take the crust out of the pan. Leave it the fuck alone. Put all the first group of ingredients into a large bowl and whisk it all together. Loosely cover the bottom of the pie crust with the cheese, add some tomato, then a little more cheese. Pour your egg mixture in there. Put it in the oven for 50 minutes.

Blueberry Muffins (8)
These kicked so much ass that they should be nominated to be the pie in the next version of American pie.

Group 1
———-
1 1/2 cup of flour
3/4 cup of sugar
1/2 teaspoon of salt
2 teaspoons of baking powder

Group 2
———-
1/3 cup of oil
1 large egg
1/3 cup of milk

A small package of blueberries

Topping
———-
1/3 cup flour
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 butter squooshed with a fork
1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon

Combine first group in a bowl. Combine the second group in a measuring cup. Mix both together. Fold in blueberries. Pour into 8 greased muffin tins. Mash up topping with a fork in another bowl. Cover cups with topping. Bake at 400 for 25 minutes.

It’s all over
The relaxation that I stored up over that nice, long vacation was expected to last me at least two weeks. Unfortunately, I used up all my calm on dipshits and side tracks in a mere 2.5 days. At one point somewhere near the end, I think I actually referred to someone as a “stupid dick,” in a pretty matter-of-fact way that surprised my co-workers into a burst of laughter, but could probably be construed as “not very professional.” At least no one construed it as some form of pseudo-sexual harassment. So, I got that going for me…which is nice.

And it Tastes like Poop
Even though making a drink called Mexican Hot Chocolate sounds exotic, the smell of chili powder and cinnamon in your hot chocolate gives the distinct impression that you are drinking a steaming hot cup of poop.

Interestingly enough, after I made this connection, I took two more sips. And then left the rest on the counter for my GF to try.

To make 2 cups of the most chocolaty hot chocolate ever:

Ingredients

• 1 cup milk
• 1 cup half and half
• 8 teaspoons sugar
• 1 ounce semisweet chocolate, finely chopped (It’s like a giant semi-sweet chocolate bar)
• 1 oz or 1.5 Tbs unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped (you can get a tin of unsweetened cocoa to make it easier, sissy)
• 1 tablespoon brown sugar

Instructions

1. Put ingredients into saucepan and stir over low heat for 20 minutes.
2. When it’s cooked, pour half in the blender and whip it up for a minute or so.
3. Pour into 2 mugs.

Notes

If you’re going to do the chopping, I’m warning you now that it’s a fat pain in the ass. A cheese grater works better than a knife, but it’s twice as messy. I suggest making multiple bags of the above and stashing them in the cabinet, because you’re going to like the results, but not the process.

Dick 1
My Dad described my work situation as follows: And I quote, “It’s like having your dick nailed to a burning building. I mean what do you do? Stand there? Pull away? What do you do?”

He also said that I wasn’t a corporate man, as I didn’t kid myself into thinking that the corporate world is the real world. I think that was a compliment, but I couldn’t get past the image of my burning dick with a nail in it.

Dick 2
One of my good friends went to Siam house in Quincy for dinner. He called me immediately to tell me that there were two kinds of sherry on the menu: Cockburn and Dry Sack. We’ve known each other since we were 8, and never really progressed from there.

Pie 1
Over the last week, I’ve cooked spaghetti squash, homemade chicken soup, and three(3) homemade, from scratch, puree the motherfuckin’ pumpkin, pumpkin pies. Soup is easy. Spaghetti squash is kind of fun. Trying to puree pumpkin pie will leave you finding bits of orange in weird places for a week.

Pie 2
This is the actual recipe for pumpkin pie that I cobbled together from a few sites on the net. It’s easy except for making the pumpkin puree, which sucks fat ass.

Required tools:
Spatula (A)
baking pan (B)
Blender (C)
Paper Towels (D)
colander (E)
fork (F)
spoon (G)
knife (H)
oven (I)
oven mitts (J)
measuring cup (K)
measuring spoons (L)
and a big ass bowl (M)

Ingredients
1 12″ store bought graham cracker pie crust (baking isle)
3 large eggs
2 cups of fresh pumpkin puree
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup light brown sugar (granulated easy to work with)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ginger
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 teaspoon salt

Making the Puree

1. Go to the store and buy a small sugar pumpkin (not a jack o’ lantern one) no bigger than your head. If you have no idea what this is, ask. While you’re there, make sure you have all the ingredients listed above, as going back to the store will just piss you off later. Also, try to stand behind some hot chick in line, as you won’t care how slow the checker is.
2. Go home.
3. Cut the pumpkin in half, from stem to bung with your knife
4. Scrape out all the seeds and strings with the spoon. If you want, you can save the seeds, soak them in salt water overnight, and put them on a cookie sheet at 275 for an hour to toast them, but don’t worry about that right now.
5. Put a cup of water in the roasting pan and put the pumpkin halves in it face down.
6. Turn on the oven to 350 and throw the pan in there.
7. Leave it there for about an hour or until you can easily pierce the skin with the fork.
8. Take the halves out and leave them on the stove top to cool for 20 minutes.
9. Scrape out the pumpkin into a bowl.
10. Now the shit part: Feed the pumpkin into the blender a little at a time to liquefy it. The only issue is that the pumpkin is so dry that the blades just whip through it, leaving you with a mess of pulpy crud in your blender. Not one recipe fucking tells you this, but you have to add a little water to the blender until you get a nice pumpkin tornado going in there. Then, add a little pumpkin at a time until the vortex just barely vanishes. Pour that smooth pumpkin shake into your big ass bowl and repeat this process until you have pureed all of the pumpkin. There should be no chunks, no strings, just smooth pumpkin puree.
11. The problem now is that pumpkin puree is supposed to be thick as hell. Yours is watery, so you need to get the water out before you bake it, so get out the colander and line it with a couple of paper towels.
12. Dump the pumpkin into the colander and let it drain in there for an hour or so. Shake it if you want, I don’t care. Just get the water out of there.
13. Once the puree is thick, you can refrigerate it until tomorrow if you’re sick of this already, or continue on to making the pie. All you will need in the end is 2 cups of fresh puree per pie.
14. If there is a woman of the house, now is the time to clean up the big ass mess that you have made of the kitchen before she gets home. This will also make it seem like you know what you’re doing if she walks in on the process later.

Making the Pie

1. Pre-heat your oven to 375.
2. Wash your big ass bowl and crack the eggs into it. Whisk them with the fork like you’re making scrambled eggs.
3. Add all the rest of the ingredients and mix with a spoon until it looks pretty even (no spice chunks, no milk patches).
4. Open the pie crust. Notes: (a)Don’t throw away the plastic cover: you’ll need it later. (b)If there’s graham cracker dust in there, don’t flip over the crust and try to shake the dust into the sink. The crust will break and fall down the drain, leaving you to curse more voraciously than a drunken sailor in a Bohemian hump-hump bar.
5. Pour your pie mix into the crust.
   Carefully put the pie in the oven for 55 minutes. No more, no less. If you leave the pie in any longer it cracks and burns; less and you’ll be eating pumpking soup. It’s going to look done about an inch around the edges, and the middle is going to look a little soupy. No one tells you this, but it’s normal. Also, no one tells you not to touch it, or you will have a big, fat fingerprint on your pie. So, I’m telling you: Don’t. The pie will thicken as it cools in the fridge.
6. Take it out and let it cool on the stove burner (off!) or a pie rack for an hour or two, until it’s dead cold.
7. Invert the plastic cover that I told you to save, and use it as a pie lid before putting it in the fridge.

Then, eat the motherfucker for breakfast.

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.

Movie Review
The House of Sand and Fog (Drama): My mother prefaced this movie by using the word sad 50 times. She was right. It was sad. It was a character piece, and I didn’t really mind the length. Plus, you get to see Jennifer Connelly’s butt (which, from what I could tell was pretty nice.). B

Twiden
Ok. Say you traveled 1/2 way around the world just to visit your friends for a week in an imaginary country called… mmm… Say “Twiden.” Let’s just say for the sake of argument that you think that they are worth it. Now, if those same two friends came halfway around the world and stayed 40 minutes from where you live for three weeks, how long would you expect to see them?

A. Mi casa, su casa, so three weeks.
B. Maybe a couple of weeks, as I am only human.
C. Fish and company stink after 3 days.
D. I get paid by the hour.

What if you only saw one of them for 2 hours with no notice, and a time limit set by another set of plans?

Yea. I’d suppose that I’d feel like I got checked off a list, too.

Restaurant Review
Barefoot Bob’s in Hull has been no less than 3 places in the last few years, and I expect that it may be another in a few more. It has ok food, ok service, and a noise level that suggests that it is more of a place that locals go to have drinks and hang out, rather than eat. I think it would be a great place for hanging out, and better for eating after a few beers in the sun. B-

La Musica
I realized that I have enough music here to listen for something like 30+ days without repeating a song. Thank you, MediaMonkey for helping me to organize and play them. Now if I can just find the time to tie in an X-10 remote interface like I did for Winamp a while back (yea, I did), then I can be cool. Well, not cool per se. Something like cool? Forget it.

After a blueberry pancake breakfast at Stars, we decided once again to get on the highway and head North. This time, we only got as far as Cambridge. When we arrived, I convinced the GF not to park in a garage and to make a round to see if there were any spots. While making the second pass around the square, we luckily snagged a great spot in the middle of the square.

I think it was the last weekend for the Harvard kids, as there were orange dumpsters everywhere. In the first one we passed by, there were two Russian guys in it digging deep. One was holding a soup spoon.

We walked down to the river and walked along Memorial drive, which was closed to cars for the day. It’s a great and odd feeling to walk along a main road without hearing the sounds of traffic. While we were walking, two exasperatingly fit young girls ran by, yanking an exasperated, “Bitches!” out of the GF. Her only excuse for the comment was that the women’s legs were as tall as her.

After walking the river, we hit a couple of used record stores. The weather was nice, and made for a very nice day. There the usual crowd of street performers, and interesting faces circulating around them, so we sat for a bit and watched the world pass by.

A couple of women smiled at me, and I thought that I might have a blueberry on my face. The GF confirmed that this was not the case. At one point, when the GF was bent over tying her shoe, I caught a guy trying to get a look down her shirt. His GF caught him too, and gave him heck. I found the whole thing quite amusing. When the GF asked me why I wasn’t angry at the guy, I simply stated that men can’t help themselves. Even though propriety tells us that we shouldn’t stare, we are compelled to do so anyway.

Before we left, I wanted to head up to see my friend’s record store one last time, so I grabbed a Sobe energy drink and headed for the end of the square. There was a time when I couldn’t walk into a record store in Cambridge without recognizing someone, and seeing the “For Sale” sign in the window of my friend’s shop and peeking into the empty interior signaled the end of an era. Harvard Square was for another generation. I was officially a stranger in a strange land. So, we walked down to the car (without jumping into any dumpsters) and headed toward home in search of dinner.

Halfway home, my colon decided that it didn’t like energy drinks. This made for a very sweaty ride, and mandated a pit stop to “freshen up” before dinner. After leaving half my body weight at home, we headed to dinner at Dalat in Hull. Dalat’s food is not bad, but it’s way overpriced. I feel as good eating it as I do if takeout had a $50 surcharge. After dinner, we headed home, and I lost the other half of my body weight while the GF watched the current season of Coupling on the BBC (the 3rd season is available on DVD on 6/1).

All in all, a good day.

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.

Both my Dad and a good friend of mine have been raving about a new breakfast place in Quincy called Mannions. For a couple of weeks, the GF and I have been itching to try it out. Today, we did.

Little did I know that this place was an Irish breakfast place. There were pictures of Ireland, Irish ex-pats, and Irish music. Given my Dad’s torturous love of the John Latchford Irish Hour that had developed in my youth, I was all set with the surroundings. The food, on the other hand, was supposed to be good, so we sat down at the counter and opened the menu. They had bangers, rashers, black and white pudding, and a whole bunch of crap that I had to ask what the hell it was.

The beauty of the Irish being born with a penchant for strong drink and without taste buds is that they can eat almost anything no matter how tasteless or downright foul. And they do. This was something that I had forgotten.

The girlfriend ordered some egg based skillet breakfast that sounded very good, and I figured that I was in Rome, so I’d eat like the Romans. I ordered the full Irish Breakfast, which included two rashers, two bangers, baked beans, 2 black and white puddings. What we got:

GF:
eggs and potatoes with a full stick of Velveeta melted on top of it.

Me:
“Rashers” aka “Irish Bacon,” in reality are two slices of ham, with the taste generously boiled out of them,
two “bangers” aka the thinnest, wrinkliest, funniest tasting little sausages I ever ate,
baked beans, fresh out of a can, unheated and untreated,
two “black puddings” aka 2 burned balls of pigs blood, with a taste only describable as if a fart had taste,
two “white puddings” aka 2 balls of pig’s god knows what (they wouldn’t say),
and two nicely done eggs over medium

As Fear Factor is one of my favorite shows, I ate it all. Unfortunately, unlike Fear Factor, there was no $50,000 prize waiting for me: merely a bill for $18.72. The only prize that I can hope for is that the entry for a free trip to Ireland that I put in my Dad’s name on comes through. Then, he can experience the beauty of Full Irish breakfast in all it’s glory and at full strength.

With $18.72 and 4+ trips to the toilet under our belts, the best thing that we can say is that at least we didn’t waste our weekly Sunday breakfast on Mannions.

The beauty of living in a beach town in the winter is that it’s not very hard to get a table on a Friday night. Tonight we had appetizers and dessert at the Red Parrot, and were one of two couples in there. During my appetizer course, I got busted by the waitress for lifting a long string of cheese from my French onion soup high over my head like a 7 year old. She did so from across the restaurant.

Spending a Sunday reading the paper (Best Buy and Circuit City ads mainly), watching bad TV movies, and catching the world’s strongest man contest on TV is something that I rarely afford myself the luxury of. I need an excuse to do something like that. Today, I found my excuse in the kitchen. I, unfortunately, had to help to cook a large pot of chicken soup, leaving very, very little time for constructive endeavors. Alright, alright, I admit that it was a piss poor excuse, as well as a great reward for doing nothing but being me.

1. Boil the chicken in a pot for 20 minutes a pound.
2. Pull out chicken, de-bone, and throw all available meat and skin back in (if you wait too long, it will fall apart as your taking it out).
3. Cut up an onion, six carrots, and some celery, and throw it in.
4. Boil it more, and add more parsley flakes than you think you should.
5. Add more salt than you think you should.
6. Add 2 TBsps of sugar. (Yup. Sugar. Check your Lipton package. They use a ton of it.)
7. You have chicken soup without adding any chemicals, MSG, or partially hydrogenated crap that Lipton throws in.
8. Eat for a week.

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.

An old friend and his girlfriend were in town for the day. As we were going to dinner in an undisclosed location in the North end for Palazzo’s birthday, he was secretly invited along as a surprise.

Let me start by saying that I have eaten dog food. I eat everything on my plate, and sop up whatever’s left with bread. I eat nearly everything and anything, and actually enjoy pancakes with tuna fish on them. I am not picky. I am, however, the harshest of restaurant critics. If I say it’s good, it’s probably good. If I a place merely an “ok,” most people I know will look at me like I just spit on the Queen.

Let me say next that Boston’s North End, although a large Italian enclave, is an expensive tourist trap. It is wall to wall restaurants, for blocks and blocks. They will put a restaurant for 3 people in, if they have a spare bedroom in the basement to convert. Despite this, I have yet to have a fantastic meal in the North End. Mostly, I’ve eaten pasta drenched in garlic to make me think that Boston must have a vampire problem, made to fool white bread Midwesterners into thinking that they have eaten Eye-talian food. Yes, garlic is a part of Italian cooking, but it is not the only part.

Palazzo wanted to go to Prezza. Prezza wasn’t actually an Italian restaurant, which was an interesting choice for the North End. It was priced in the $25-30 per plate range, and had the furnishings to actually pull it off. It looked like a really upscale place. The food was fancy and served on square plates, complete with dribblings of various goos and colors.

Unfortunately, looks aren’t everything. I had duck and duck liver pate. I had the same thing at Tosca’s two days before. I was comparing apples to apples. There was nothing wrong with the prezza food. It was a solid $13 meal. At $40, they lost me. I sat thinking, “If this was free, would I like it better? Do I not like it because it’s not worth $40?” The answer was, “No.” For $13, it was edible. At $40, it was edible. But, at $40, it’s a joke. On me. And everyone who walks into the place. They don’t sell food at Prezza, they sell a feeling. That feeling is called “pretension.”

So, if all the coke has completely ruined your sense of taste, and you like hobnobbing with 40+ singles in an upscale atmosphere, and you feel the need to spend $50pp: Prezza is the place to be for you, my friend. If your sense of taste is in tact, and you do the coke simply to make more money to eat in expensive restaurants: Skip the trap. Go to Tosca’s. If you don’t have the money for coke, and want a good value, go to Vinny Testa’s. If you hate Italians because the ripped off the Greeks, get some pizza from Christo’s or Copeland Pizza. If you wanna the free meal in the winter, come on a my house, my house a come on. I make a you the sauce from a the scratch.

Let me finish by saying that Montillio’s Bakery in Quincy, will out cannoli the world famous Mike’s Pastry any day of the week. And that’s the truth.

Oh crap. What? Ok. Ok. Ow. owowowowow. Ok ok. Um, Vinny (whisper whisper) I mean “Dinny” suggests that I might be mistaken about the North End (whisper whisper) and that the restaurants are “real good like.”

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 dessert, 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 dessert 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.

Where does one take a vegetarian to dinner if they don’t like fish, and specify “No Italian, no pizza.”? Yea. I went with Chinese. The only other option was slurping air noodles and water pies, but I didn’t think of it.

One. Whack your woman on the head and drag her to see Defending the Caveman at the Wilbur Theater. I give it two thumbs up. It’s only there until May 18.

Due. You are a bachelor, thus one of your main food groups is the pasta group. If you are not Italian, you may eat jarred sauce. If you are Italian, you have a guilt complex and pray that the Madonna doesn’t strike you dead when you eat sauce from the jar. Actually, if you are really Italian, you have fifteen frozen quarts of sauce in your freezer. Then again, if you are really, really Italian, either your mother or your wife is making you sauce, and you are in the garden with your nice pants on yelling and a waving you hands at a the goddamma kids on a you lawn.

In any case, you need to go buy cheese for that pasta. Next time, blow off the jarred cheese. Go to the deli, and look for “Parmigiano Reggiano.” It’s about thirteen bucks a pound, and you have to grate it yourself, but you will not believe the difference it makes. Seriously. It takes the typical bachelor meal of pasta, and makes you think that someone made it for you. And that they actually like you. No, no, no, they worship you. And you will enjoy it. Oh, man will you enjoy it.

Three. Make Peanut Butter. Shit, it’s easy. Get a blender. For every cup of unsalted peanuts that you add, put in a half tablespoon of oil, and a quarter teaspoon of salt. The recipe I saw said to use peanut oil, but as a bachelor I really don’t have things like sage, rosemary, pot pourri, and peanut oil just laying around. Neither do you, bachelor boy. And you shouldn’t. You are free to use any type of oil under a forty weight. I used olive. Doesn’t matter. Neither do measuring spoons. Grab a big spoon from the drawer and wing it. It’s peanut butter for chrissakes.

Pour all the crap into your blender, and push one of the middle buttons and let it ride for three or so minutes. If you’re in a tizzy about whether to press whip, chop, blend, or to use the blender’s turbo button, you need to release your feminine side and revisit your hairy, stinky man side. Just push any of the buttons, and come back later. One cup of nuts will make roughly 2 sandwiches: one for you, and one for that chick that is going to be impressed with you for making her a homemade, warm peanut butter sandwich.

If you leave it on the window sill, she may show up eventually…

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.

Friday
Saw the P-bruins lose, and saw one of the boards crash down on a lady’s head. Also got to read the mad libs that the Mom sitting next to me took away from her 4th grade kid because he played it like everyone plays it: using words like dick and sexy. The whole family had Bruins shirts on.

Saturday
Played 2 games competitively all day, Bookworm and Big Money and showered just in time to go to dinner with a good friend of mine at Gio Mate’s. I didn’t know, but Gio Mate is Italian for “dog shit.”

Sunday
Got up early, had breakfast at Percy’s Place where I recognized a trashy looking girl. Unfortunately, there was no way that I could place where I might know the girl from, and was forced to admit that she may indeed be a stripper. I then spent 5 hours at the Raynham Flea Market where I bought 3 CDs (Sir Mix A Lot, Sublime, and A Lounge album that had a fuzzy leopard cover), 10 albums (Della Reese, the best of Earth Wind And Fire Vol. I, Van Halen I, Commodores greatest hits, Stevie Wonder’s Talking Book, Ennio Morricone’s A Fistfull of Dollars Soundtrack, Bing Crosby’s Merry Christmas, Ferrante &amp Teicher’s Pianos in Paradise, and Lionel Hampton’s Golden Vibes), a John MacCormack 1 sided opera 78 for my aunt, and a Loretta Lynn Christmas album for a friend.

Spent $30, and didn’t get the 13″ TV that I went in for. It was a typical flea market day. Did I mention that I don’t even own a record player anymore?

Monday
Dropped off a ton of documentation to the lawyer, and wrote a status report all day long. I did notice a usually good natured coworker with an unusually distraught look on her face. When I asked her if she was ok, she said that the war was really getting to her. I understand what she means.

Things happen in our name that we want no part of, and have no power to stop.

I try to stay away from it because it really gets me down, too, and no matter how much I watch, I can’t help. It’s way outside my sphere of control. If you watch any TV or listen to any radio, though, you can’t get away. Even if you manage to shut it out, the fucking idiots you sit near may spout off about killing people on a daily basis, dragging you right back in.

“If I was in chahge, I’d fuckin’ line ‘em all up and put a bullet in them all. No moah chances. No moah bullshit. I’d just kill ‘em all.”

1. That’s why you’re not in charge.
2. It’s really easy to spout off while watching a war on TV, while sipping coffee from the comforts of your desk. Talk is cheap. You believe in this war so much, then sign the fuck up. Fuck your kids and your wife. Sign up and make some sacrifices, if you’re that into it. Otherwise, shut the fuck up and allow me to work without your tired rhetoric.
3. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that these people have seen more death than you can imagine from your tiny cube. War torn areas breed tough people. Death in the U.S. breeds therapy. In other countries, it’s a fact of life. I’m sure that even a basically trained Iraqi soldier wouldn’t have much trouble overtaking a middle aged American computer guy.

It’s amazing to me how little the war hawks actually think, how much of their argument is just bullying, how much they ask, and how little they give. Oy. I’m going to listen to some jazz…

#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.

I’ve seen people drop 15% on waitresses that SUCKED, just because it’s the expected amount. If a waitress, sucks, leave her a nickel, and stand it on edge. Leaving a good tip for shit service sends the wrong message to the waitress. I’ve also seen people give 15% to waitresses that were phenomenal, which also sends the wrong message. A tip is earned, not given. If they earn it, give it. Don’t level the playing field and give everyone the same thing. You want to tell someone that they gave really good service? Drop a large percentage tip. Make a statement.

Now, what “service” do the counter staff at coffee shops provide that require the placement of a tip jar on the counter? Maybe they made a suggestion for a coffee or something. Ok, I can buy that. But if you say, “black coffee,” she brings it to you, and you pay her some asinine amount, where is the service provided that makes you say, “Now that’s service.”?

It’s horning in on people who do real service related work. If you’re counter help, and you feel that you need a tip, it’s that the boss should be paying you more.

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 dessert 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.

1. Go down to Hingham or Milton Marketplace
2. Buy some Garlic Rosemary Citrus sauce
3. Buy some fat chicken thighs.
4. Buy some fresh beans, broccoli, or something.
5. Buy some red potatoes.
6. Pre-heat the oven to 400F
7. Put some sauce on the chicken
8. Put the chicken in the oven for 40 minutes.
9. Boil everything else.
10. Serve to hot chick, strippers, or hot strippers who are chicks.
11. Set up brass pole and wait for dance of gratitude.