I go to the doctor, and she goes to the gym. I only go to the doctor if an appendage is hanging off and there is no duct tape available. This is not really a good thing.

So, today #1GF! offered me a deal: if I made an appointment to get a checkup, she would join the gym. I did, she did, and now both of us are a little freaked out by accepting our ends of the deal.

Although staying healthy is the goal of both ends of the deal, I totally think that #1GF! got the short end…

System of a Down and Nelly both released their new albums today, so after work I decided I’d go pick them up. It’s a rainy night, and because everyone was driving like grandma on downers, I decided to cut through the blue hills to reduce the number of chances for people to slam into the back of my car, as they so love to do.

Despite my detour, I was rolling along behind Sir Brakes-A-Lot, lazily contemplating whether it’s “cheaper” to get 2 CDs for $8.99 each at Circuit City or to get the CD’s for $9.99 each at BestBuy where I have an unused gift card to burn.

Sir Brakes-A-Lot makes a right, I make a left, and it’s a clear shot back to the semi-clogged main road. I clear 4th gear and out of MOTHERFUCKING NOWHERE, a DEER runs in front of my car. I may be a city kid, but it’s not like I haven’t seen a deer before. I’ve seen like two million in Maine and like half a million in Taxachusetts. That’s not to mention the elk, deer, and deer-like animals that I’ve witnessed grazing lazily on the roadsides of Washington state.

What I have NOT seen, is one bombing in front of my car at top speed at dusk. Maybe I have seen one gracefully crossing up the road or something, but not five feet from my hood at 35 MPH. That, my friends, is a first. After it made it into the woods and my brain stopped yelling “FUUUUUUUUUUCK!”, all I could think was “Thank you, Brembo,” and then, “Man, that thing had a huge ass.”

I would officially like to thank Brembo and the guy who designed the Lancer Evolution for not giving me the opportunity to write a more exciting post or test the WI-FI capabilities at South Shore Hospital.

(As a side note, which do you think? Is it “cheaper” to buy 3 CD’s at $8.99 ($26.97) at CircuitCity, or to buy 2 CDs at $9.99 and one at $11.99 ($31.97) at BestBuy where you have a $25 gift card to burn?)

Two things I did this weekend: Began recording the Cowbell CD for Jo, and started growing my annual beard for me.

After running some errands for #1GF! the following took place:

Me: Hey you want to go to Building 19 (local seconds store)?
#1GF!: Sure.
Me: BestBuy?
#1GF!: Whatever you like.
Me: Are you just giving in to me because I’ve been so good?
#1GF!: You can have anything you want.
[moment]
Me: I’ll Take Tiffany Amber Theisen.
#1GF!: What? You want another Girl??
Me: Eh. She’s got thick legs and great boobs.
#1GF!: What?? Ok. She does have good boobs.
Me: Yup.
#1GF!: Actually she has good everything, doesn’t she?
Me: Wha???

This is one of those chain mails that I got recently. I figured posting it is easier than annoying a whole bunch of people with it. Copy and put your answers in the comments if you are so inclined.

What is your ideal amount of sleep?
8.5 hours

Diamonds or pearls?
My testicles reject said question with authority.

What was the last film you saw?
L4yer Cake

What is your favorite TV show?
How I met your mother/Jerry Springer

What did you have for breakfast?
Same as the last 20 years: A bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

What is your middle name?
Edward

What is your favorite cuisine?
Italian

What foods do you dislike?
Fucking bananas

What is your favorite footwear?
Vans.

Your favorite CD at the moment?
Lyrics Born – Later that Day

What kind of car do you drive?
A black, tinted out Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution VIII with a big ass wing on it.

Characteristics do you despise?
Bitches, be they male or female.

Are you superstitious?
Nah.

Favorite item of clothing?
The Amoeba music T-shirt that my cousin gave me.

If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
Hef’s Grotto. (I really wish there was an emoticon for wiggly eyebrows.)

What is the best color for a room?
Red, orange, or any color with a high saturation. Don’t be a pussy with color.

Favorite brand of clothing?
Brooks Brothers.

Where would you retire?
Someplace cheap and safe that has LAN in the rooms and naughty nurses, hopefully. Female ones.

Favorite time of day?
As an Italian, I should say dinner, but I’ll have to say lunch.

Where were you born?
Dorchester, MA

Favorite sport to watch?
Motocross or X-games type stuff, maybe. Anything where people flip and twist through the air. The rest of the sports can just suck it. Seriously.

Last book you read?
It was a tie between “Early Bird” and “Bleachy Haired Honky Bitch”

What are you afraid of?
Sharks swimming underneath me.

What laundry detergent do you use?
This sounds bad, but whatever #1GF! uses (I’ve done my own laundry since the age of 12, so don’t start).

Favorite non-alcoholic drink?
Coffee Milk or coke. Maybe a strawberry shake, though.

Are you a morning person or a night owl?
I hit my stride from noon until three.

Do you have pets?
If people can say their fucking dogs are their children, then I can say my PCs are my pets. In that case, I have a newborn thoroughbred, 5 I can’t teach new tricks, and one that I dismembered and threw around my office before he went and died on me.

Any new and exciting news you would like to share?
No gnus is good gnus.

What (who) did you want to be when you were little?
Alex P. Keaton or a mobster.

Favorite Candy?
Turkisk Pebbar from Sweden. It tastes like battery acid dipped in salt.

Favorite childhood memory?
The day I stopped taking shit and started throwing punches. I think I was 8.

What are the different jobs you have had in your life?
Lifeguard, dishwasher, office temp, pool guy, propane guy, LAN admin, and corporate whore.

The piece of technology that you would make out with if it had lips:
my PS2. Oh the PS2. I would kiss that little bitch like it’s never been kissed. I think this question is really unhealthy.

Piercings:
2 in the ear that may be open, but I ain’t testing ‘em.

Eye color:
Bluer than you remember.

Ever been to another continent?
Ireland, Sweden, and New York City, so yea.

Ever love someone so much it made you cry?
Yep.

Ever hate someone so much it made you scream?
Afraid so.

Been in a car accident?
People ram my cars. THEY FUCKING RAM ME ALL THE TIME.

Croutons or bacon bits?
Yes.

What would you be if money didn’t matter?
Very, very good at video games, and probably really, really fat. Or an electrician, maybe.

Favorite restaurant?
Tosca. Hands Down.

Favorite flower?
Cherry Blossoms are nice I suppose (I wish could think of a stripper name for this one).

Favorite ice cream?
Brigham’s Big Dig.

I like the smell of _______ but hate the smell of _________.
homemade sauce, NYC

If they paid me to _______, I’d me a millionaire.
Take things apart

Favorite fast food restaurant?
In n Out Burger, but I just won’t touch the stuff anymore.

Do you believe in Karma?
I’ve run out of illusions.

Pay the pros or do it yourself?
RTFM & DIY

From whom did you get your last e-mail?
Probably the bank.

Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?
Amoeba Music in Fan Francisco

What do you do most often when you are bored?
Stare at things or flail around.

Who are you most curious about their responses to this questionnaire?
Buxom Swedish models.

Who’s the last person you went to dinner with?
#1GF!

What are you listening to right now?
The hum of a 120 mil fan

City mouse or country mouse?
City

What is your favorite color?
Red.

Lake, Ocean or River?
Ocean.

How many tattoos do you have?
Just one big, badly thought out one.

Do you go for the best, the best deal, or the best price?
I am the eternal deal hunter.

All Time Favorite Concert?
Probably Monsters of Rock because I was a teenager and made out with this fat chick in the 3rd row. Plus one of our friends kept yelling, “YOU SUCK DAN DOKKEN!” until we told him that the guy’s name was Don. Gooood times.

What makes you smile?
Kids, Dremels, electronics, CDs, and the whooooosh of a turbo.

What puts you on edge?
Truly unpredictable people.

What soothes you?
Slayer or any tumultuous music. It’s weird.

What physical attribute attracts you to those you’re attracted to?
Make ‘em tall, short, dark, light, whatever. Just give them curves.

What personality trait does it?
They have to be nice to me for chrissakes.

What’s your best physical feature?
My eyes.

What’s your worst?
My kidneys.

What’s your best personality trait?
A tie between a sense of humor and a sense of loyalty.

What’s your worst?
Procrastination.

I’d rather be…
Fixing something.

So I took a couple of days off last week, and I’ve been in a bit of a slump ever since. Sometimes that means more posts, sometimes less. I don’t know if it has been the inescapable “Welcome to London” weather or my job that brought it on. Maybe it’s a combo of the two. Don’t get me wrong: By no means can I sit here and pretend that my job is bad. It isn’t. I get paid ok, I don’t have to wear a uniform, my co-workers are generally smart and funny, but it’s not like I’m a playboy photographer or race cars for a living, either. After 11 years with the same company, it’s feeling like a walk down a dead end road. It’s a relatively pleasant walk down a tree-lined dead end in a safe suburban neighborhood, but it’s a dead end just the same.

So, I’ve been in one of those funks where I start bouncing my crazy ideas like the drift racing team, the bikini car wash, and other ways to make a million dollars off of my friends. Then, I try to calculate how long I could live work-free on my current savings. Most of the time thinking is done without showering while staring blankly at the walls. And the malaise usually fades away over time like a nagging cold.

And today, something changed.

I threw on a couple of t-shirts and set out for the beach, where the waves were crashing so heavily that they sounded like a busy highway from a quarter of a mile away. And when I got there, I just ran until I was sufficiently worn out. And then, I simply walked home in the rain.

When I got to my mailbox, two things were there. The first put an instant smile on my face. Brian over at www.schuss.net answered the CD challenge all the way from the great state of Washington (one of the few states that I have personally and aimlessly toured in a rent-a-car). Although the world champion distance in the challenge so far has come from the home office in Eskilstuna, Sweden, I think this edges out San Fran for the Continental US distance title.

Thanks, Brian. Way cool of you.

The other thing was a letter containing all the newspaper articles about Chris, my childhood friend, who died back in August. His mom sent them along with a really nice note thanking me for the post I wrote about him. When a mother loses a son, and she thanks you for a small post in some small corner of the internet, you might feel very, very humbled. And when you stop to think that Chris’s sisters and parents live with his death every day, while you sort of dumped your heart into a post and moved on, you might feel like you really don’t deserve the praise.

I can only say that the articles were fucking heart breaking, but had the right effect of making me think: I’m sober, I’m alive, and the small stuff really doesn’t matter.

Thanks, Barbara. I mean it.

If you can’t get an embarrassing picture put on a cake for your friend’s birthday because your idea of 24 hours notice is showing up at the supermarket 2 hours before you need the cake, you will be forced to buy that weird cake decorating gel and do your best.

My best happened to be, “Happy Birthday Shit Lips”.

My mother’s birthday was this weekend, and my sister got a last minute flight in from Oregon for the occasion. She flew 14+ hours in 2 days even though she was only staying for 23 hours. Without telling my mom that she was coming, we picked my sister up from the airport, gave her a cell phone and dropped her off 3 blocks from my parents house with instructions for her to make a “happy birthday from Oregon” call as she walked to the house.

My Mom had been talking to my sister for 10 minutes when my sister walked in the door and stood behind her. She actually had to say “just turn around” 3 times before my mother figured out that she was right behind her and dropped the phone on the floor.

That trumped any damn gift that I could’ve come up with.

After spending 2 full days massaging SQL data that really didn’t deserve it, I came home to find that my Ghetto CD Divider Post got linked at Hack-A-Day!

Finally, a massage with a happy ending.

I searched the web last night to find something interesting. After a couple of hours this is what I found:

Ugh.

Wait. I did find ratemyjugs or ratemyboobs or ratemyjubblies or something .com, which held my interest for 5-6 minutes. It was very similar to amIHotOrNot.com but with boobs. If I remember what the hell it was, I’ll post it.

Update (Sept,2005):I never went back and posted the site, but I seem to get a lot of hits from google on this. What you’re looking for is Rate My Boobs.

Good Movie
Bruce Almighty: Corny, funny, B+.

Bad Mechanics
If you have an integra, an Autozone “OEM” oxygen sensor will not fit in your car. You will have to return that oxygen sensor, and drive all the way to the dealer and pay $220 for a real OEM one. As you don’t have a lift, you will have to pay a mechanic to install it. Most places that you call will tell you that it will take more than an hour to install and try to charge you $80 or more to install it.

If it takes a person over an hour to unplug, unscrew, plug new, and screw back in, they really don’t deserve to earn an $80 per hour labor charge. Maybe they find the whole concept of lefty-loosey, righty-tighty to be a half hour struggle. I don’t know.

The more I try to do things myself on my car, the more I realize that most mechanics will completely bullshit people. Most repairs are not as complex as a mechanic would have you think.

Now when you find one who can install your O2 sensor in ten minutes with minimal cost, stick with him even if he’s a little drive away and answers questions with a less than reassuring, “Sure, I’ll give it a shot.”

Bad Mama Jamma
Happy Birthday to my beard, which is now 3 months old. It almost lost it’s life this weekend…Until I put on a bandanna. The scary biker look appealed to me enough to breathe new like into my beard. Said bandannas can be found in Wal-Mart next to the Dale Earnhardt baseball hats, wrestling t-shirts, and blade sunglasses.

Wal-mart brings everything that’s wrong with middle American fashion right to my home town for me to enjoy.

The weather hit 40 this weekend, and I came to the realization that I am really, really tired of winter. I think that I feel this way at this time every year, but with the extreme cold of this winter keeping activity at bay more than normal, I think I feel more so. I’m antsy and lethargic. It’s like pacing.

I was trying to figure out a place to just go and sit that conveyed the relaxation of ocean or the solitude of the woods. It may be time to hop a plane and take a vacation. Unfortunately, my imagination provided me with no solutions outside of my house. There are probably places, but my imagination was as frozen as the New England air.

Then, I drove by a three year old walking down the street. He was walking ahead of the rest of his family by ten feet or so, and completely unaware of anything beyond his feet.

pick up foot…slam it down…bam…pick up foot…slam it down…bam…shake my body…wave my arms…pick my foot up…slam it down…bam.

He was not only completely happy with walking along, but was actually enjoying every step. And I wondered to myself, at what point did I cease finding pleasure in every single step?

Giga Joe
Joe is an engineer. Joe is a good photographer. I told Joe that he should build a gigapixel picture for his girlfriend for Christmas.

The interesting thing about tawbaware.com is not only that this person build a gigapixel picture (think of a 1000 megapixel camera), but that the resolution of the resulting clarity of the picture is better than the human eye can detect on its own.

If anyone has any ideas on this, I’m open. And I’ve reserved giganudes.com for our um projects.

Giga Jo
My sister and parents returned from Barcelona. My parents saw architecture and pubs, while my sister saw poop.

My sister brought back stories of the Caga-tio (Spanish for “Uncle Shit,” which I actually had to confirm, as it seems too odd to be real). The Caga-tio is a log with two legs and a face on it. Before Christmas, the children of Barcelona put a blanket over it, and “feed” it. On Christmas, the kids beat the thing with sticks while singing for the Caga-tio to shit presents for them, lest they beat it more.

The Caganer is an extra figurine included in the back of Nativity scenes in Barcelona. My sister somehow remembered to look for it and confirmed that it indeed exists. What’s the big deal about an extra figure? The caganer is a figurine squatting down with his pants around his ankles dropping a deuce.

100% Increase in Size
April, 2003: a friend bought a shirt from the dyers.org store. I told him he was nuts.
June, 2003: Jon thinks about getting rid of the store, but it doesn’t cost or generate anything, so he keeps it.
November, 2003: A co-worker doubles the sales of the dyers.org store by buying a baseball shirt. Jon tells him he is nuts.

I will never understand people.

(If anyone else wants shirts or logos or custom crap, I can print it out from my printer and you can iron it on, saving you wait time and extra expense.)

Hitman 2
While shopping for others for the joy of X-Mass, the clerk must’ve accidentally rung up Hitman 2 because I would never buy something for myself while holiday shopping. No way. Not me.

Thanksgiving
As my parents have fled the country yet again this year, I am free to have any Thanksgiving I damn well please. For the 2nd annual Jon-a-thon I will again play video games, watch a James Bond marathon, and eat whatever is available in my fridge. I will also avoid showering and moving off of the couch. I will brush my teeth, but not my hair.

While I feel that avoiding obligations is the greatest form of holiday, most people that I encounter think that spending a holiday this way is not a holiday at all. Some even get really irritated and tell me that I can’t be alone on Thanksgiving. They even go so far as to inform me of what I must eat, as well. I usually just humor these people, as fighting a war of words against tradition is an uphill and fruitless battle.

Most of the people with the strongest opinions of what is required of me on holidays are women. Men actually get doe-eyed and say things like “No way,” or “I wish.” One woman surprised me, though. She had obligation after obligation on Thanksgiving. She posed the question to me, “Why should I have to go to visit people just because someone declares it a holiday? I mean, if I want to visit someone, I can on any other day.”

I was stunned. I have always felt that the obligational aspects of holidays actually ruin the holidays. Instead of being about relaxing, it’s about bustle. Instead of doing what you want, it’s about doing what you have to. I’ve never heard that sentiment vocalized before, and certainly never from a woman.

So, for the second year in a row, I have done what a lot of people dreamed of this holiday: Absolutely Nothing.

Thanksgiving 2
If someone tries to tell you that Thanksgiving is about giving thanks, ask them how stuffing yourself until you are sick makes you thankful.

The times when I am most thankful for food is when I have been without it; for health, after I have been ill; for friends when they have been away.

Thanksgiving 3
History is written by the victors, and we all see what we want to see. The first Thanksgiving might have been declared not in 1630, but in 1637, not to party with the Indians, but to celebrate a massacre of 700 Pequots.(More). Or in 1676 (More). Or in 1869, or 1941. The more you look, the more elusive the truth becomes. Oy.

My Dad turned 59 today and got a kayak, some socks, a kayaking book, a cheap whistle for kayak safety, and a walkman. I would like to say that his favorite gift (besides the kayak) was the walkman, because as he sat transfixed listening to TV broadcasts while I muted the TV. He stared at us doe eyed saying things like, “That’s what I’m listening to! That’s what I’m listening to!” and “I like this much better than listening to the actual TV.” I would also like to be able to say that children like their gifts better than the cardboard boxes that they come in, but I can’t. The boxes always tie for first.

Even after warning my Dad that he was not to use the emergency whistle in the house, and going as far as having to forbid him from even opening the whistle before he got to his car, I knew that there would be no stopping the man. After a few controlled blasts in the house, it was getting late, and he had to go get home.

From the middle of the apartment, with all the doors and windows closed, I chuckled and shook my head, as I could hear him blowing the whistle full blast out of his car window as he was driving away.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Dear George,

No nude pictures have come in since yesterday’s post. I think that women are actually observing your national no porno week.

In your memo, you stated, “I call upon public officials, law enforcement officers, parents, and all the people of the United States to observe this week with appropriate programs and activities…”

I have no idea what you mean by “appropriate” activities, but I assume that it is a winking nod to beating up gays, hookers, strippers, perverts, freaks, and anyone with a penis larger a Texas inch. I wish you were more clear.

I would like to thank you for the week, though, as I am going to buy up all available porno, as this meaningful, far reaching, and important announcement will depress prices on “Shaving Ryan’s Privates,” “Sperms Of Endearment,” “Honey, I Blew Everybody,” “The Loin King,” and maybe even “All Anal on the Western Front” to an all time low.

With all due respect, I think it’s time that we have a pro-porno week, just to be fair to the other side. We may even loosen up a little and stop killing each other over pissing contests, and focus on things that are important. You know what I’m saying. Yes you do. wink wink. Starts with boo, ends in bees. That’s right, buddy, don’t let them tell you you’re dumb.

But please let it be known, that your decree, while inadvertently providing me with cheaper porno movies, deprives me of another avenue of happiness, namely nudie pics in my e-mail.

I admit that your decree may not be the problem, as the women may not yet own digital cameras due to the poor economy, or may have even mistyped my e-mail address, due to lack of funding to our school systems.

So, to close, I’m finding it difficult to form a global pornographic empire without naked women. As a pro-business leader, you can understand this. Please do not make me revisit my business model, as it is obviously sound.

Thanks for your Time,
Jon

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

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

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

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

And it was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

And a moment like that is what’s important.

For Your Ears
From a wired news article on file sharing and the record industry:

“As an artist representing an 80-year period of black musicianship, I never felt that my copyrights were protected anyway,” Chuck D said. “I’ve been spending most of my career ducking lawyers, accountants and business executives who have basically been more blasphemous than file sharers and P2P. I trust the consumer more than I trust the people who have been at the helm of these companies.

The record industry is hypocritical and the domination has to be shared. P2P to me means ‘power to the people,’” Chuck D said. “And let’s get this to a balance, and that’s what we’re talking about.”
-Chuck D., PE In Effect.

For Your Brain
The RSVP party game

For Your Hearts (and eyes)
Boobie-thon for breast cancer.

The in-chapel part of my wedding took seven minutes and forty-seven seconds and cost $300.
The in-court part of my Divorce took twice as long and cost ten times as much.

Smart ass I: You get what you pay for.
Smart ass II: Good things some to those who wait.

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.

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.

Yesterday, there was something that I wanted to write about, but I couldn’t remember what it was. Today, it popped into my head: The “Waiting Room” Comfort Station in Hull, Ma. First, let me say that given the sheer amount of powder blue pants and white shoes that came strutting in and out of the place, this comfort station should have a “God’s” preceding it’s name. Second, this was one of the absolute best comfort stations in Hull.

What’s a comfort station? Ah, well that’s what we in the barbaric world call a bathroom. As if bathroom itself isn’t euphemistic enough for the place used for taking a leak, breaking the seal, watering the flowers, taking a tinkle, taking a number two, pinching off a loaf, manning the torpedoes, dropping the kids off at the pool, or making making toilet strudel. I guess that bathroom has become just too dirty for our pristine ears this century. Grampa no longer has to embarrass the grandkids by saying he needs to take a dump…No! He now simply makes a visit to the comfort station.

Anyway, this comfort station is probably the cleanest public bathroom in Hull, the hand dryers actually dry your hands in less than 20 seconds, there is a heat lamp running the whole length of the place (fall use?), and most importantly, no stinky of a the pissy.

I know what you’re thinking. You want to go down there and drop a deuce right now, don’t you, you dirty bird? You’re dying to make “N sync’s new album in all of it’s glory, and flush it awaaaaaay.

And you should. You really should.

But, you will have much more fun if you simply drain the lizard at this comfort station. Usually, when your taking a leak, you end up staring at a blank wall, and hope that the guy next to you in the pink hot pants is not checking out your cock, as this can lead to messy situations like yelling, fist fights, or seriously uncomfortable mutterings of, “Nice cock.” Now, the guys out there know that some of the cooler places put the sports page up in front of the urinal, so that you have something to read during those really, really long leaks…and to distract you from the aforementioned uncomfortable situations.

But, no bathroom that I have ever been in distracts you as much from draining the main vein as the Waiting Room Comfort Station. See, the way this bathroom is set up, is that the urinals are all against the outside wall. Above the urinals are giant windows looking outside. So, if you happen to be in Hull, and you need to see a man about a horse, you can watch people play mini golf, as the local mini golf course is a mere 10 feet from the window. And don’t think there’s any blocking of the golfers looking at the whizzers, or the whizzers looking at the golfers. No sir. There isn’t.

So, if you can get over the uncomfortable feeling that watching mini golf while steering stanley to the stainless steel is wrong, AND if you can get over the fact the dudes watching your last awesome putt are not applauding because they are siphoning the python, all would agree that this is the best comfort station ever.

The comfort station is located Next to Mini golf on Nantasket Ave in Hull. Visit if you feel the need. Number ones and number twos are welcome.

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

Birds of a Feather

If Joey didn’t make the mistake of signing up for friendster on the assumption that I already had, I would’ve never signed up. Through 9 friends, I am indirectly connected with over 63,000 people. I was hoping to expand a little on the social network, but this is truly imposing. By what I’ve read of the profiles, my interesting friends are connected with very interesting people that can eat up tons of time. Most people put pretty clever descriptions of themselves in there, although my favorite “Interests” listing so far was “hand jobs, blow jobs, and dry humping.”Even through your friends, you may be connected to a freak or two.

Flock in Threes

Today was the third day that I was supposed to have a court date to finalize my divorce. This was also the third time that the ex stymied the hearing by neglecting to turn in a simple, two sided financial form to the court.Now it moves into motions to compel and a bunch of hitherto whereto for legalese just to get out of a simple failed contract.

Two words to get in, two years to get out…and counting.

I took my walkman and my digicam on a walk yesterday. I never take solo walks, but for some reason I figured that I might find something interesting to photograph or find something interesting to write about.

In 40 minutes of walking, I didn’t find one thing worth a picture or interesting enough to write about. It was hot, and the sun was bright enough to make you really squint. The tide was high, and the beach was relatively unpopulated. I was looking at everything trying to find something interesting or peculiar to photograph, but with few people about, and a sun so bright that it made everything seem overexposed to even the naked eye, I found it very difficult. I even started looking on a microphotographic scale to see if I could find an interesting pile of pebbles or cigarette butts, but I didn’t find a damned thing.

I thought that I could take a ride down to Boston Light and take a picture of that, but there have been a jillion pictures taken of that thing. It’ll always be there. I think I was looking for something beautiful that was particular to the day and the area that I was in. I wanted to photograph something that might not be there again.

I even went so far as to try to find a way to photograph Hull in a way that I would explain what it’s like to live down here. Um. Yea. As I was unable to find a single interesting picture, a video diary of Hull seemed a little far-fetched. The digital camera remained pocketed, and I did nothing but walk.

The lifeguards were still on duty on the way down the beach, but they would be gone before my return. A few people were still arriving for a quick swim, and others were squeezing all the warmth that they could out of the late, bright August afternoon sunshine. With my walkman on, I was an observer, watching a very average Massachusetts summer on the wane. Despite my inability to find a picture, and the pointlessness of the walk, I was unusually cheery and almost found myself giggling to myself as I walked along.

I met my mother, my aunt, and my cousin for lunch on a spur of the moment phone call. I greeted each with a big hug each. My cousin got one, then my aunt, then my mom. Just as I finished hugging my mom, some lady walked out the door and jokingly threw open her arms.

She got as big a hug as if she were related, too.

After lunch, I went back to work to resume my robotic role as Mr. Monkey Boy. As I was numbing my brain, an e-mail suddenly came in from an old girlfriend who had gotten married and moved away. Her friend from college was getting married, and she said that she couldn’t really think of her college years without thinking of me.

We had dated for a few years in what I lovingly to refer as my “drunken asshole” phase, where I not only passed out shit drunk while getting ready for our first date, but continued my drunken melee for a good couple of years of dating. Why she put up with me, I don’t know. And when I get e-mails from people in my past, I always think that it’s going to either be to tell me off or ask me out. As this woman is freshly married, I figured that this was going to be a tell off.

After firing 3 rapid fire e-mails back and forth, I got something wonderful. I apologized for passing out (in the shower) before our first date. I’ve apologized before, but here it is ten years later, and I still feel like that was one of those warning signs that I didn’t pay attention to, and one of the more inconsiderate things that I’ve done. Her response was buried deep within a paragraph full of responses, but lost none of its impact:

“I don’t remember you as an alcoholic, but as my first love.”

The thing is, most of my life, I spent a lot of energy working at being anonymous. I would keep a very small, tight circle of friends, keep my mouth shut, and even turn my head away when cars drove by. I never wanted people to remember me, or single me out. I wanted to pass by you unnoticed, anonymous. I would not only bar you entry into my world, but I would work very hard to make sure that you didn’t even notice that the world existed.

Then, in college, I made sure that everyone knew my world existed, it was off limits to the general public, and was as peaceful as an unexploded grenade. People could smell trouble, and it smelled like an eight dollar case of beer. I was living the same solitary life, but making negative marks everywhere. Where they needed to be, or where they didn’t, I was relatively indiscriminate.

That was me: In both cases, too afraid to let people in.

Now, I look to let in as many people as I can possibly fit into this dumb little area that I call my life. I want to make an impact, and I need it to be positive. I want people to laugh, and connect, and find that small, peaceful corner of their lives that means something to them.

And I want to be in on it.

So, when someone from a time that I find very difficult to even reflect on remembers me as a love and a source of laughter, rather than the person that I really might have been…

It makes this Monkey Boy smile.

I get out of work late, I go to the gym, I get bored, I go to BestBuy. Like any geek, I check out the video games, and plan to hit the digital cameras, laptops, TVs, music, and DVDs. Geeks somehow get this far off look when in there. They’re relatively comatose, and each are on a private mission to individually evaluate all of the electronics in the store. Guys can enter the store together, and they will all scatter to seek their own destinies.

And then, they walk out of the store with nothing.

Halfway through my mission (I made it through the music, games and TVs), I met a coworker who happens to be in a similar demographic as myself. Geeks in similar demographics react similarly. My missions go music, games, TV, digital cameras, laptops, and out. He seemed to be on a similar mission, but was going about it in some alternate order. Interesting. He had a pack of zip disks and was staring in the direction of the digital cameras. We talked about various features of a couple of cameras and how they were too expensive, technologically obsolete, or some such nonsense as to why we couldn’t by them. Then it hit me.

This was a total fucking waste of time.

Seeing someone else doing the same thing that I was solidified that in my head. Then I got ready to walk out. Then, the phone rang. And it rang loudly. And I couldn’t get to it fast enough. It was the girlfriend. I wasn’t supposed to see her that night, but she was right in the area and without plans.

So, instead of playing the single, bored guy wandering stores and buying video games to keep himself occupied, I became the boyfriend and ate pizza and laughed.

And laughed.
And laughed.

People are supposed to be happy, not consumers.

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.)