Idea IV: Lord of the Dance

Dance recitals are fun for about 5 minutes, while you watch the kid that you know dance. Unfortunately, you have to sit through a couple of hours of everyone else’s kid to get there. The one that I attended this weekend featured 24 acts for 12 sets of dancers. The first twelve acts were tap, the second twelve were ballet slippers. When the second round began, at act thirteen, the three year old in row front of me realized that the girls were the same as the ones from group number one.

Again? They’re going again? No, Mummy. Pleaaaaaaasssseee. Let’s goooooo. Pleeeeeaaaaaasssse.

Idea V: Notel Motel

Is it possible to recycle all the Hotel soaps that get used once and thrown away? For sanitary reasons would you have to shave off the outer layer of soap (or at least comb it nicely)? Is there money or value in such a proposal? Would it be beneficial to tell people that the soap was recycled? If not, would you have to tell them?

Idea VI: The Cricket

Is it possible to create a device that will interact with the electronic part of a musical birthday card to make it remote controlled? Then you could hide the thing in someone’s desk or room, and shut it off the minute they start honing in on it.

Like a cricket.

Idea VI: I was a Teenage Zombie

Say you’re dreaming that you’re running away from zombies. You know that if they bite you, you will become a zombie too. You are very careful, running a lot, hiding a lot, and shooting a lot. Then, you get bitten.

Shit. Now, you’re a zombie, too. You confirm this by looking into a mirror and seeing dark circles under your own eyes. So, you say “fuck it,” and go sit on the black leather sectional sofa and hang out with the other zombies. You find that you feel pretty much like you did as a normal person, with the exception that you now have dark circles under your eyes. Nothing’s really changed except that you are no longer running away, being paranoid, and fighting all the time. You find that being a zombie suits you.

Then, some idiot finds the antidote for being a zombie, and you’re outnumbered once again. People begin to set up zombie traps, and build stupid obstacles that zombies aren’t supposed to be able to cross. You’re on the run again, breaking down doors and hiding in empty houses. You try to act normal when in the presence of normal people, but they pick off that you’re a zombie almost instantly by the dark circles under your eyes. You think to yourself, “I should just take the antidote,” but for some reason, you keep running…

and running…

and running…

Idea VII: High Balls and Lucky Strikes

Rat Pack Impersonators (Frank, Dino, Sammy, for sure. I’m not sure if Lawford and Bishop will be overlooked) will be playing at the Wonderland Ballroom in Reveah on May 17th. It’s a full on show with dinner, and it costs around $45. I’m going to try to get tickets, and if you want to go, I suggest you do the same. I cannot vouch for the quality of the show, but it is being advertised on stations like Easy 99.1 FM, and WXKS 1430AM, Boston’s die peacefully (to Sinatra) in your sleep stations. For info, call (781) 289-3080. If it’s sold out and you have tickets, I will kick myself for this post. Now where’s that skinny tie…

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…

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

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

A Bud Light snowboard.

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

I’m good, but not that good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A horse and a chicken are playing in a meadow. The horse falls into a mud hole and is sinking. He calls to the chicken to go and get the farmer to help pull him out to safety.

The chicken runs to the farmer but the farmer can’t be found. So he drives the farmer’s BMW 328i back to the mud hole and ties some rope around the bumper. He then throws the other end of the rope to his friend, the horse, and drives forward saving him from sinking.

A few days later, the chicken and the horse were playing in the meadow again. This time the chicken fell in the mud hole. The chicken yelled to the horse to go and get some help from the farmer. The horse said, “I think I can stand over the hole.” So he stretched over the width of the hole and said “grab my ‘thing’ and pull yourself up.” And the chicken did and pulled himself to safety.

The moral of the story?
If you are hung like a horse, you don’t need a BMW 328i to pick up chicks.

(Thanks, for that one, Rose…)

A friend forwarded an e-mail to me the other day from a guy who kept e-mailing her to wanting to go out for coffee. She mentioned that the guy creeped her out, and wanted my advice on what to do. I asked her a series of questions: First, did she find the guy attractive? The answer was no. Second, have you responded to the request? The answer was that she simply would delete the e-mails as they came in. Third, if you did find the guy attractive, would you find the e-mails creepy, or would you consider them flirting. Upon reflection, she agreed that it was simple flirting, and a simple e-mail letting the guy down would suffice.

I don’t believe that this case is unique, as flirting is rapidly becoming a lost art due the the general breakdown of interpersonal interaction in this day in age. I wonder if harassment suits are filed more against attractive, or unnatractive people. I bet it’s the uglies. Damn uglies.

Anyway, if you want to have a fat lawsuit thrown at you, read up on the art of flirting.

A man once approached my uncle and asked, ‘Bob, who are the five greatest tenors of all time?’ Being very knowledgeable about opera to the point of once a being a budding opera singer himself, my uncle replied,
‘Let’s see. I would say Beniamino Gigli, Richard Tauber, Giacomo Lauri-Volpi, Aureliano Pertile, and John McCormack.’
‘Are you crazy?’ asked the man, ‘What about Caruso?’
My uncle replied evenly, ‘You asked me for a list of tenors, not gods.’”

Tonight, I had the pleasure of being invited to my Aunt and Uncle’s house for dinner. My aunt is a very good cook, and both of them are very Italian, which means that I would leave very full. The food was al dente and delicious. Even the parmesan was some of the best that I have ever had. It was Parmigiano Reggiano which doesn’t come in a spray can, or a shaker for all you non Italians. It comes in a block, you have to grate it, and at $9-$14 a pound, it’s pretty costly, but damnit if it wasn’t the best cheese that I’ve ever had.

After dinner, the two of them wanted to introduce me to some of the opera that they have loved over the years. I’m not talking about sitting down in front of the boom box, popping in a CD, and having a listen to track number 9. I’m talking about records…

Before I lost my record collection in the fire (all 1600 of them), I used to think that there was something a little more, well, magical about listening to albums than CD’s. I used to spend weekends, yes full weekends in record shops, yard sales, and flea markets over a period of years to find some of the oddities that would enjoy spots in my collection. While it wasn’t uncommon for me to blow $75 a day, both Saturday and Sunday, there were days that I could find a solitary album under a table, pay fifty cents for it, and be pleased for the week. Only a record junkie knows the feeling of panic that sweeps over you when you find a rare gem for fifty cents, knowing that the seller has no idea of what a find it is. You swear under your breath, your eyes dart back and forth, and as you manage to release their tightening grip on the album, you try to play it cool and seem completely disinterested before trying to buy it. Sometimes, you might buy a few other albums just as mere distractions, to mask your true interest from the seller. In those situations, the extra album covers can work as makeshift fans for the enthusiasts whose bowels let loose while squatting over a box of gems at the flea market. There’s nothing that sours a sale like the smell of fresh poop. Not that I know or anything.

Once you get all those records home, you want to play them for yourself, and then your friends. You are not a collector. No, you despise the collector. The collector buys up everything, puts it in plastic, and hides it away to increase in value. You are an enthusiast. You buy records to listen to them. And make your friends listen to them. And what Neighbor doesn’t want to hear Spock sing “Bilbo Baggins” early on a Saturday morning? You know that they want to, and you feel that it is your duty to help them listen, whether they know it or not. You are going to share. But like a greeting card, you have to pick the right music to fit the particular person that you will entertain.

I would spend considerable time looking through my stacks for the right record for the listener, oohing and ahhing at particular ones that I would not make the cut, but I would try to remember, and invariably forget, to listen to in the ensuing days. Once I’d found the right one, I’d pull it from it’s home in the insane ordering convention that had made that particular spot in the stacks that record’s temporary home. After pulling the plastic off of the 12 inch cover, my thumb in the middle, fingers along the edge, I would gently remove the record from it’s sleeve, leaving me looking as a waiter, tray in hand, waiting to serve a patron. Once it had been reviewed for the correct side to start with, the small amount of dust would be gently blown off before gently placing the record on the platter by its edges.

It was a process. Not a pop in J-Lo and do the cabbage patch process, but a process baptized with thought and executed with care.

Tonight, I got to be on the receiving end of that kind of care. Being that the golden age of opera was about 1890 to 1910, most of the original recordings are on 78 RPM records…Victrola records…or should I say “Victor talking machine” records, of which my uncle and aunt seem to have a ton. Most of them came in true albums of 10 records apiece, cost around $5 to $7 at time of issue (amounting to an average week’s pay), and were mostly one sided.

Having only gotten my feet wet with opera over the last few years, I was immensely interested in what people who love opera would choose to have me listen to. My uncle and aunt spent time really pondering some of the records just as I would have, and picked out a few from the 50+ records on the floor. The music was played on an floor standing Victrola, which not only had to be cranked up to start it, but had to be cranked to the proper tension to play at the right speed.

The results were astounding. There is no volume control on a Victrola, so however loud these people sang into the recording machine a hundred years ago, that was what came out of the speaker on the Victrola. At points, it made my ears ring, and the needle vibrate out of sheer power of their voices. Pertile sounded great, McCormack was powerful, and Caruso was absolutely amazing in both the power and nature of his voice.

Then we watched a little Carlin, and they lent me CD’s of the top 5 tenors to check out. Then, to finish off the evening properly, we had some desert, and planned some vendettas. Is there nothing as wonderful as a spending an evening with people you admire?

Tante grazie.

I started reading Chomsky’s “Manufacturing Consent.” A really great book if you want to look at what your country and the media are really doing to you. The preface is 60 pages and has over 150 footnotes. This is going to take a while.

A special thanks to those of you that donated to the National kidney foundation this XMas. In the future, when I get my super-human clone kidneys as a result of your donations, I will not use them to damage your bushes or flower beds. Maybe.

Previous entries suggest that a friend of mine got porn for XMas. He did. The porn he got not only had multiple angles, and 3+ hours of porno, but had an “interactive” feature as well. I didn’t notice this when I bought it, but I was curious when I noticed it. If my sister wasn’t there, I would’ve had it him put it in the PS2 to see what it was all about. When I mentioned this, I got:”Listen, dude. There are only two times to be watching porno: When you’re alone or at a bachelor party”

I don’t know about you, but I came up with 14 or 15 other scenarios while he was talking. How about the situation where you’re hanging out with a hot chick that likes porno? Or what about the one where the porno star’s car breaks down just outside your house, and she’s all like, “Can I come in and call a tow?” and you’re all like “yea” and she’s all like, “I’m so bored” and your all like, “Well, do you want a coke or some wheat thins or something?” and she’s like “Nah. You got any porno that I might be in that we could watch to pass the time?” And you’re all like “listen lady, there are only 2 times to be watching porno…”

Or then there’s the one where the Swedish bikini team’s van breaks down outside your house, and they’re all like “Can we come in and call a tow?” Oooh oooh or when the Swedish porno team’s van breaks down outside your house. Yea! And they’re all like outside and chanting your name and stuff, and you’re all like, “Keep it down out there you biatches, before I call the cops! I’m trying to watch porno in here.” And they all like start making out in your front yard and you totally film it. Yea.

I was off the last two weeks, and I rarely blog on vacation, so the last few weeks of entries are non-existent. Upon the return to work after two glorious weeks of sitting on my ass, I returned to the basement to further my “career” in computing. The first thing I noticed was the smell of this place. I never really noticed it before, but the basement where I work smells vaguely of oil and electricity. After a day of staring at my monitor, I ended up with a migraine and a feeling that the human body is not setup to be staring at a monitor for a solid eight hours. Thus, I avoided blogging one more day. And I skipped the gym. And I laid on the couch.

“I got a letter from the government the other day. I opened and read it, it said they were suckers…”
-PE

Actually, I didn’t get one from the government. I got one from my cousin. A letter! With the prevalence of IM, e-mail, and cell phones, who sends letters anymore? Let me rephrase: Who, that is under 50 and over 13, sends letters? Let me clarify: Who that is under 50 and over 13 that is NOT: in love with a pop band, an angry consumer, trying to win a contest, or a person who wears thick glasses, mismatched clothes and claims to be from “the planet Nebulon”, sends letters ?

Not many people, that’s who. With the exception of my cousin. She is none of those things that I mentioned, and she sent me a letter. If you haven’t gotten a letter recently, it’s pretty cool. If you haven’t sent one recently, try it. It’s a simple thing, and it can really make someone’s day.

I’m not a wuss. Seriously. I’m macho. Really. Feel my muscles. OK, Forget what I said before. Send letters to chicks, sprayed with your cologne that just say, “You, me, sweaty.” And if your a chick, don’t bother sending letters unless they say, “You, me, sweaty.” And put some panties in there.

I have to go scratch myself and spit on the floor.

Thanks, cousin. You made my day.