What's Taters, Eh?

I'll be 26 in a couple of months, and I just now realized that the first letters of July through November spell "Jason." How could I have lived this long and never noticed that?

JFMAMJJASOND.

See? Jason. Or, if you add December, Jason D. Could there be some secret behind this? Who is Jason D.? I suspect that Jason D. is "the Man" that's always holding everyone down. He's around for half the year and most people don't even notice him. Something must be done about this. Jason D. must be stopped.

But in the meantime, let's talk about the weekend. Michele's sister came to visit for a few days. And I have to say, Michele is a lot more fun when her sister visits than when her aunt comes for her monthly stay. Anyway, Misty's cool. She's a couple of years older than me, and it depressed Michele a little that her younger sister is older than her boyfriend. But I think she should embrace her cradle-robbery. Misty could only stay for the weekend, but she'll be back for Easter.

Since her visit was a surprise, there was a little debate over what to do with the Ron White tickets we bought a few months ago. Misty wasn't staying very long, so Michele didn't feel comfortable going out and leaving her behind. And Misty didn't want to intrude on plans that we had made months in advance. So we tried to figure out who should go. Should I go with Michele, or should Michele go with her sister, or should I go with her sister? My brother Glenn ended up going with me, which seems to be a recurring theme.

In 2003, my friends and I all got tickets to see Lewis Black. Ryan got a ticket, but Glenn didn't have any money so he couldn't go. But the show ended up falling on the same day as Game 7 on the AL Championship Series between the Red Sox and the Yankees. Jose didn't want to miss the game, so he decided not to go. Glenn went in his place. As it turns out, they gave constant updates of the game throughout the show, and since baseball games, especially Yankees-Sox games, tend to last longer than Britney's first marriage, we still got home in time to see Grady Little set himself up to be ridden out of town on a rail. But he stayed home, and Glenn saw the show. That boy always seems to be at the right place at the right time. Bastard.

So the show was at the Orpheum Theater, which has the unique distinction of looking simultaneously fancy and run-down. Ron was great, and had a lot of new material. At the end, he came back for an encore to do his signature "Tater Salad" routine, but forgot how it went about a third into it, which was somehow funnier than if he'd just come out and nailed it.

The next day, we showed Misty around town. This was her first visit to New England, and it snowed the morning she arrived, so she "got" to experience that charming little slice of life. She was amazed at how big the houses were, and couldn't believe those weren't the "rich people" houses. So we took her over to Cohasset to where the real big houses are. I think she was impressed, but honestly at that point, I was passed out in the back seat.

When I woke up, we were at the new Jordan's Furniture in Reading. I guess it sounds strange, taking someone to a furniture store, but it's something that really has to be seen to be explained. The one in Avon has M.O.M., the Motion Odyssey Movie ride. You sit in a chair that jerks around in eight different directions in synch with the movie, which is usually either about dinosaurs or some kind of futuristic space mining colony. The Framingham store is modeled after Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street. It has an in-store Kelley's Roast Beef and an IMAX theater.

The one we went to has something called Bean Town at the entrance. There's replicas of Boston landmarks made out of jelly beans, including the Green Monster, with a giant Animatronic Wally eating a Yankee. There's also something called Liquid Fireworks, which emulates a fireworks display by shooting bursts of water out of a giant fountain. This one has an IMAX and a restaurant, too. Oh yeah, and they sell furniture.

We ate lunch at the fifties-themed restaurant. During lunch, a discussion came up that continues to baffle me. Corn, it seems, is not a vegetable. It's a grain. It affected Glenn the most, because he said the only vegetables he eats are corn and potatoes. Michele said corn is a grain and potatoes are starch. So he doesn't eat any vegetables? He does it pickles, but I noticed that the one on his plate kind of looked like a stretched-out lime. That's when I knew that pickles can't be vegetables, because they, like tomatoes, have seeds. And beans....somehow beans are classified as meat. So if you're a vegetarian, are you allowed to eat peanuts? And potatoes are starch? What the hell food group is that? The whole conversation was ridiculous. Everything I've ever known was a lie!!

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Extra! Extra!

Did you know that day care is expensive? IT'S TRUE!! To cover the cost, Michele recently decided to get up at three o'clock in the morning every day and deliver newspapers. I do my part by adding unobtrusive banner ads that no one ever clicks on to my website. I do what I can.

Did I feel guilty about curling up in my warm, fuzzy blankets while she drudged around in the freezing cold? Of course. But I had another, more powerful feeling, too. One that clearly states that nothing short of a fire warrants getting out of bed at three in the damn morning.

And yet, for the past two days, I did get out of bed at three in the damn morning. Michele twisted her ankle while delivering the papers Wednesday morning, so I've been helping her. I delivered the Patriot Ledger when I was a kid, but it was only twenty or thirty papers, all on my street, and I did it in the afternoon when I got out of school. Michele's route has 168 papers, and there's only one or two houses on each street. Plus the whole waking up in the middle of the night thing.

We drive down to Weymouth Landing to pick up the papers. She only had 118 papers this week because of school vacation. We got there around 3:30 yesterday, but the truck was late. It finally pulled in after four. I didn't think it would be too much of a big deal, since we had until seven to deliver all the papers. I was all kinds of wrong.

Most people want their papers on their porches or in between their doors, but not one house has de-iced their driveways. I slipped a couple of times at various spots yesterday, but I didn't hurt myself. Before she hurt her ankle, Michele split her hand falling on someone else's driveway. I'm not sure what "I split my hand" means. We didn't really discuss it too thoroughly. Sounds painful, though.

I think Macaulay Culkin lives in one of the houses. I didn't see Michael Jackson hiding in the bushes, but the entire sidewalk in front of the house is absolutely covered in ice. But it doesn't look like the ice in front of the rest of the houses, it's more smooth, as if someone intentionally poured a gallon of water on the sidewalk.

There was one house that had instructions to leave the paper on the middle landing of the steps, because if we go any further we might "fall through." Fall through? What did that mean? I walked carefully up the stairs, and tossed the paper onto the landing, but it went behind a snow drift. I wanted to make sure they saw the paper, so I carefully walked up and tried again. This time, I aimed for the small porch near the door. I wasn't sure exactly where it was that I might fall through, so I was careful to stand on the grass near the stairs. I tossed the paper up near the door and watched in horror as it disappeared down a hole. I ran up to the porch and saw the giant hole in the planks. Fortunately, the paper just fell down to the snowy ground below the steps, so I made my way through the bushes and retrieved it.

I noticed something while I was going to all these house. A lot of people have "Welcome" signs on their doors, but their doors are locked. Well, which is it? These people are sending mixed signals. All I'm saying is, don't put a "Welcome" sign on your door and then call the police when you find me making Jiffy Pop in your kitchen. It's rude.

Michele has five apartment complexes on her route, and one of them requested that the papers be delivered to the customers' doors rather than the lobby. They have to go down to the lobby to get their mail anyway, but they want their papers delivered to their door, like a hotel? Are you kidding? She put in a call to her supervisors, so we'll see how this turns out in a couple of days.

Yesterday and today we started delivering papers at around four o'clock and finished after seven. I love Michele, but I never wan to do this again. Ever.

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Some Days You Just Can't Get Rid of a Pizza

If you've been following along, you already know about the late Old Pantsless Guy. Just to recap, he was an old man that used to loiter outside the 7-11 near our old office. He could always be seen wearing his tattered blue trench coat and hat, and seemingly nothing else. He was just one of the menagerie of oddballs that populate our fair city. But more specifically, OPG was one of the Scary Old Men, a troika of scrawny old white guys that roamed the South End. Aside from him, the Scary Old Men consisted of the cross-dressing security guard, and a really skinny guy with a bushy beard. There's a line in Fight Club that goes "Chloe looked the way Meryl Streep's skeleton would look if you made it smile and walk around a party being extra nice to everybody." Well, this guy looks the way Fidel Castro's skeleton would look if you made it walk around in a filthy tank top and shorts all day. The jury's still out on whether any or all of these guys are homeless, crazy, or both. But with the passing of OPG, the Scary Old Men are now a duo.

You may also remember Tricycle Man. If you've ever seen Tyrone Biggums on Chappelle's Show, just picture him pedaling a three-wheel down the street, huffing "Huuuh! Huuuh!"

Standing in front of another 7-11 is the "Even better" guy. When you walk past him he says, "You have a good day, now!" But if you give him some change, he says, "You have an even better day!" Or if he said "You're looking good," he'll amend it to "You're looking even better!"

But arguably the most well known homeless guy in Boston is the ubiquitous (I hate that word ubiquitos. Mostly because I see it everywhere. Somewhere along the line, the word ubiquitous itself became ubiquitous.) shaggy-haired, slow-talking guy with the huge glasses. He's usually in the Park Street area, but I've seen him on the subway a few times and even in Harvard Square. Remember that old guy from Wings? Well, if he ever did the voice of a cartoon snail, it would sound just like this guy,


Does any-body haaaave any spaaaare chaaaange?

Siiiir, do yoou haaaave any spaaaare chaaaaange?

Miss? Can you spaaaare some chaaaange?

Does any-body haaaave any spaaaare chaaaange?

In that last picture, he's scratching a lottery ticket. So that's what the change is for! Once I offered him some orange juice, but he just said "Nnnnooooo." Another time I saw him sitting by the window in coffee shop. He was holding a coffee with one hand, and the other was gesturing to the people walking by the window outside. He was still saying "Can you spaaare some chaaaange?" even though they were on the other side of the glass and couldn't hear him, while he was inside drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

So why am I telling you all this? Am I setting up the framework for my new line of "Homeless of Boston" collector's cards? No, but there's an idea, I mean, people could collect and trade their favorite stars and the proceeds could go to the Pine Street Inn, or something. It could even branch out into a board game, Hungry, Hungry Homeless.

Okay, before the ground opens up and swallows me, let me say that the point of the story I'm about to tell is that I try to help those less fortunate whenever I can.

A couple of years ago, I lived in Boston for a few months, watching my cousin's cats while she and her husband went on a road trip across the country. I was staying in the North End, which is a heavily Italian neighborhood. My friends and I had tickets to see John Leguizamo at the Colonial Theater, so they took the train into town and I met up with them. But before I did, I ordered a couple of slices of pizza from one of the various Italian restaurants near my cousin's apartment. I didn't realize that their slices where equal to about half a pizza, so I could only eat one piece. It was getting late, so I took the other piece with me and headed off to meet my friends. I figured I could give the other slice to someone along the way who really needed it.

I went down near Downtown Crossing, where I usually see a lot of pan handlers, but I didn't see any. Not one. So I kept walking. I was bound to bump into one eventually, right?

I kept walking. Jeez, what did they all go on vacation or something? I finally saw a man in a wheelchair on a corner. I was about to go over to him, but I stopped. What if he's not poor? What if he's just a guy in a wheelchair? You know how angry they can get when you try to help them.

On the corner across from him I saw another man. He was sitting down on a piece of cardboard, rattling a cup full of change. I was about to go over to him, but then I thought, "What if that other guy really was homeless? I just walked right passed a guy in a wheel chair and helped someone who still had full use of their legs. If I did that, the guy in the wheelchair would think I was a dick."

So I kept walking.

Eventually, I met up with my friends. Unable to find anyone to give the pizza to, I dropped it in the trash. I left it face up, so I guess if someone was really hungry, they could have taken it out of the trash. Still, I wish I'd have given it to one of those guys on the corner. I could have split it in half or something. I felt really bad about it. Nobody should have to live like that. On that note, here's a song I always think of whenever I go out of my way to ingonre a begger on the street.

On the Turning Away
Pink Floyd

On the turning away
From the pale and downtrodden
And the words they say
Which we won't understand
Don't accept that what's happening
Is just a case of others' suffering
Or you'll find that you're joining in
The turning away

It's a sin that somehow
Light is changing to shadow
And casting it's shroud
Over all we have known
Unaware how the ranks have grown
Driven on by a heart of stone
We could find that we're all alone
In the dream of the proud

On the wings of the night
As the daytime is stirring
Where the speechless unite
In a silent accord
Using words you will find are strange
And mesmerized as they light the flame
Feel the new wind of change
On the wings of the night

No more turning away
From the weak and the weary
No more turning away
From the coldness inside
Just a world that we all must share
It's not enough just to stand and stare
Is it only a dream that there'll be
No more turning away?

Anyway, speaking of homeless people, if you've been losing sleep at night wondering what ever happened to pro wrestling's Rikishi, you can sleep easy knowing he'll be wrestling this weekend at the National Guard Armory in Quincy. Really.

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The Morning Thus Far (or, I Just Wanted a Bagel)

I heard the following exchange on the train this morning:

"I ran into Bruce the other day."

"Bruce that taught at Harvard?"

"Yeah, he's driving a cab now."

This happened just as I was getting off at my stop, so I never heard how Bruce went from an Ivy League professor to a cabbie. The mind boggles at the possibilities. And how exactly did this guy find out about Bruce's new job? Maybe they bumped into each other at the supermarket...

"Hmmm...Gold Bond Medicated Powder, half off."

"Bruce? Bruce is that you? It's me, Dave. You know, from Steve's thing."

"Right, Dave. From Steve's thing. So, how have you been, man?"

"Doin' good, doin' good. How about you? Still teaching up there at Harvard?"

"Oh, no. I gave that up a while ago. I drive cabs now."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's been a dream of mine ever since I was a kid. I'm a huge fan of Tony Danza. But, you know how it is. Things get side-tracked and you put your dreams aside to go get your Master's degree."

"So what happened?"

"Well, one day I was in the middle of an advanced political science lecture and it just hit me. 'What am I doing here,' you know? This isn't the life I dreamed of. So I just walked out and never looked back."

"You walked out in the middle of class?

"Half the students didn't even notice! Is that insane or what?!"

"Wow. That is just...I mean, wow."

"I know. I know. But I'm living my dream and I'm having a blast. I think for the first time in my life, I can say that I love my job."

"Well, hey man, good luck. It was great running into you. I've gotta go, the wife's expecting me home with...hell, what did I come here for? Dammit. Sandy's going to kill me!"

But I think we all know it was probably closer to this...

"Fleet Center, please. Bruce? Bruce is that you?"

"Uh...no hablo ingles.

"C'mon Bruce, you old rascal, you're name's right there on your license."

"Alright, alright. It's me, keep it down."

"What are you doing driving a cab? I thought you were a professor at Harvard."

"Well, now I 'm not. Let's just get you over to the Fleet Center, okay?"

"Wait. I remember reading something a while back about a teacher that had all those inappropriate..."

"Can we just not talk about this please?"

"That was you?! You're the Naughty Professor? Bruce, you sly dog, you."

"Alright, that's it. Get the hell out of my cab. Jesus."

We may never know what actually happened, but one thing is clear. Pondering the assorted vocations of Bruce makes you want bagels. The section of town where I work is somewhat of an anomaly in that it may be the only section of New England where there isn't a Dunkin Donuts every five feet. There's a Finagle a Bagel on Boylston Street, so headed over there to get my fix. But they had a line going out the door. I didn't want to wait that long, so I went back in the other direction to Au Bon Pain.

I walk by it all the time, but I'd never been inside before. They had a rack with a bunch of bagels in the middle of the place, but I wanted it toasted with cream cheese. Don't they do that here, or am I supposed to do it myself? I looked around to see if they had toaster for people to use. I made my way to the back of room, where I saw people picking up their orders, and a sign that read "Bagel with Cream Cheese." There we go. As I was standing there, waiting for someone to take my order, I looked down and noticed pads of paper and pencils. They were forms. If you wanted a plain bagel with cream cheese, you'd mark of the little box next to "plain bagel" and the little box next to "cream cheese." The hell with that! I'm not going to fill out a form for a stinking bagel. Anyway, I also wanted an orange juice, and I don't think I had two forms of identification and my birth certificate on me.

So I got out of there and set off for the Park Square building. I knew they had a little cafe in there. Surely I could get a bagel with cream cheese there. I was about to walk in when I noticed there were two doors. I didn't see any signs that said "enter" or "exit," but I think I hesitated a little too long, because the people inside started to stare at me to see if I was going to go inside or not. Too embarrassed to go in, I kept walking.

In the same building, I found a place called Croissants de Jour. It sounded too fancy, but I went in anyway, hoping to at last get a bagel with cream cheese. The guy at the counter with the ambiguous ethnicity (Greek? Pakastani? Symbionese?) took my order and I finally got my bagel with cream cheese. And an orange juice. Hooray for Croissants de Jour! I wonder if the guy at the counter ever taught at Yale...

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Here Come the Scuzz

I grew up in the eighties and I never owned a GI Joe. Or a He-Man. Unless you churn butter and shun technology all day, that's unnatural. I did have this guy that kind of looked like He-Man, but not really. He came from a flea market. He had Roman Centurion armor and some kind of robot horse. The horse was pretty cool, so that got to hang out with all the cool toys in the Styrofoam fortress, while it's no-name rider in the chain-mail skirt was condemned to patrol the bottom of the toy box for all eternity.

In retrospect, I'll bet he had some harrowing adventures down there, battling all those nasty centipedes I'd always find when I had to dig for something near the bottom of the box. And when they all lay slain at his sandaled feet, maybe he began a quest to reach the top...to freedom.

I'll bet in his travels, he must have come across Pedro, a souvenir from South of the Border. Pedro had seen the surface, and he knew the quickest way to get there. But the path was fraught with peril, and Pedro had nothing more than a poncho and a painted-on smile, and you can't fight peril with a poncho and a painted-on smile. He used to have a sombrero, but lost it in a poker game to a headless Max Rebo figure. Losing his most cherished possession to a headless blue elephant in a diaper had taken it's toll on Pedro, and he drowned his sorrows in a bottle. The Centurion needed a guide to help him on his journey, so he offered his swordsmanship skills in exchange for Pedro's services. So the two set off into the darkness in search of their freedom. They braved the treacherous Go-Bot Cemetery, where scores of broken Transformers knock-offs wailed and howled as they tried to pull trespassers into the unforgiving sea of cheap plastic below. They bested the foul-smelling rubber dinosaurs and wave after wave of naked McNugget Buddies, the first line of defense of the fabled McDonald Clan. They even beat the dreaded Monchichi. Yes, the Centurion and Pedro the drunken Mexican stereotype were quickly becoming legends, as word of their heroics spread throughout the box. It seemed as though fate was on their side, and although the fight with the Monchichi left them feeling drained, it was only a matter of time before they were free. After fighting their way to the top for years, they would soon be finished with it all. The musty smell they had been all too accustomed with at the bottom of the bin had been replaced by the slightly less musty smell of the open air of the basement. It wouldn't be long now.

But alas, it was not to be. For as the Centurion neared the opening, he was trampled by an army of genuine second-hand He-Man figures that my brother got from a neighbor. In his final moments, the Centurion saw what it was that he could never be. A desirable toy.

Pedro was able to push an armless Stinkor figure off himself and escape, but not before losing his poncho in the hustle. Now completely naked, Pedro looked down and realized he had no genitalia. Horrified, he took his own life.

Yeah, that's a lot cooler then the stuff I used to play. But the point is, we had all these generic toys, like the kind they sell in supermarkets and pharmacies. Some were knock-offs of well known brands. Others were based on obscure cartoons that no one remembers now. One such toy came from Bravestarr, a short-lived cartoon about cowboys in space. It was this fat little troll guy in a little black flying wagon. His name was Scuzz.Outlaw Scuzz.

Scuzz had seen some time at the bottom of the box as well, but not much. Even though he was the product of a failed attempt to market an obscure TV show, he found himself a new career as a character actor. I'd use him for a giant troll to terrorize my Lego castles, or the sleazy second in command to the perennial arch-villain, an Imperial Guard from Return of the Jedi . I only had one Imperial Guard, so rather than being a nameless minion, he was the purveyor of all things evil. At least until I dropped him while walking up the stairs and his damn fool head popped off.

My youngest brother is turning eighteen this year, so old Scuzzy's been collecting dust in the basement for some time now. That is until last week when we stayed over at my parent's house. Brianna wanted something to play with, so I was sent downstairs to look for the box of Playskool Little People. I couldn't find it, but I did see the little troll guy, so I picked him up and brought him up to Brianna.

"Here's a toy."



"AAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!! AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

That was the abridged version of what happened. She had this look on her face as if the small plastic toy in my hand sprung to life and promised her it would eat her flesh as she slept. The packaging for Scuzz is long gone, but I'll bet somewhere on there it must say something about "May not be suitable for six year old girls."

Of course, I tried to show her that it was just a toy and couldn't hurt her by repeatedly sticking it in her face. That didn't help at all, and got me in trouble with several authoritave parties. Later on, my mom tried to show her it wasn't scary by saying it's looks silly, but it still freaked her out and caused much crying. I guess I have a little ways to go before I figure out little girls. It's just a toy. Look, he's eating cake!



Enjoy it, Scuzz. You made it from the bottom of the toy box to the toast of the town. Plus you scared a six year old girl. That's gotta be good for your credentials, being evil and all.

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Burning Questions

I just saw a website where someone wrote "Lorena Bobbit was the woman from Long Island who cut off Joey Buttafucco's [joystick] because he had an affair with Amy Fisher. Just so people know." Fortunately, I was able to stave off the aneurysm usually associated with such sentences. But it did get me thinking. There are people who are famous because they have talent. Actors, athletes, musicians. And then there's the Joey Buttafuccos and Monica Lewinskys and Kato Kaelins of the world. They show up at movie premieres, sign endorsement deals and get their own TV shows. They're more than famous. Like El Guapo, they are infamous. And it seems like many people don't know the difference.

Then there's the reality TV "stars". Enough already. Hasn't this horse been beaten enough yet? It's not even a horse anymore. It's a friggin' bottle of glue. People need to stop watching these already, or I'm just going to have to go around the country kicking people in the shins. Oh! They could film me while I do it.

Will the new Gilligan's Island do an episode with the Harlem Globetrotters?

How do these faux celebrities keep creeping into the limelight? Why do I know who Kevin Federline is?

Why won't Britney Spears go away? At least the Backstreet Boys got it right. They put out a few albums, won the hearts and money of teenage girls and then quietly and gracefully fell off the face of the Earth. They just vanished one day like the Incan civilization. Why didn't all their little teeny bopper cohorts follow suit?

Do you think Lou Bega, in the height of his popularity, (which I believe was a Tuesday) ever considered approaching Columbia/Tri Star about doing another Short Circuit movie in which he would sing the theme song?

Johnny No. 5!

Hey, that could still happen. You could be browsing the bargain bin at Wal-Mart one day and find Short Circuit: With a Vengeance. Chris Tucker could do the voice of Johnny 6, the street smart robot cop.

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It Looks More Like Aztek to Me

Some people just need to be beat with a trout. People who think the word "mine" has two syllables, for example. People like a certain co-worker of mine, who also like to pronounce kindergarten as "kindy-garden". He treats the English language like it's Robin Givens and he's Mike Tyson. Conversations with Joe quickly turn into an Abbott and Costello routine.

"Is this yours or mi-yan?"

It's mine.

"Oh, okay. Here you go."

No, it's not mine. It's yours.

"But you just said it wasn't mi-yan."

It's MINE, you freaking clod!

"Then take it."

No, it's yours.

"So it is mi-yan?"

I'LL KILL YOU!!

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A Chilling Glimpse Into The Future

I know it's hard to believe, but the End Times are near. I've been in contact with someone, I can't say who, but for two dollars the first minute, 69 cents each additional minute, they let me in on the chilling events of the weeks and months to come. Here is some of what they saw.

CBS announcer: You're watching CBS, America's most watched network, and home of America's most watched new drama, CSI: Milwaukee. Wednesday on an all new CSI: Milwaukee, Det. Squigman uncovers a violent murder at the old Shotz Brewery. Now stay tuned for America's most watched reality show, Up Close and Personal. CBS. Most watched! America's!

Jeff Probst: Welcome back to the four-hour wrap-up addition of Up Close and Personal. As you all know, our three contestants knew going in that they would be living in a confined space with another person. What they didn't know was that they'd be staying in a crypt with a dead loved one!

Lisa, the accountant, was paired with her beloved granny. Bryan, the aerobics instructor, was paired with his disaffectionate father, and Eddie the hog farmer was paired with his wife. Let's take a look back and see their reactions when they found out.

Lisa: What?! What the [expletive deleted] is wrong with you people?! I think I'm going to be sick...

Bryan: Oh no. No. No you didn't. You did not just say I have to spent two months with that drunk bigot's rotting ass. No. Uh-uh.

Eddie: But...my wife died of cancer. I was by her bed when she passed. Why are you doing this? How could you do this to people? Have you no compassion?

Probst: Ha ha! What fun! But the two grueling months are over and now it's time to reveal the winner of Up Close and Personal. Are you ready? This is the big moment. You've all worked hard to get to this point. But only one of you can win. A big moment. Only one winner. Big moment. Two of you will have speant the last three uncomfortable months with a dead person for nothing. And the winner...of Up Close and Personal...is...Eddie Brown! C'mon over here Eddie!

Eddie: I-I won? Really?

Probst: That's right! Tell me, what was it like, spending all that time with a dead body?

Eddie: That body was my wife. And every second was agony. You should all be disgusted with yourselves. At least I can take my million dollars and get her a proper burial and still have some money to put the kids through school.

Probst: Oh, you're not getting a million dollars.

Eddie: I'm not?

Probst: Nope. We're throwing in another twist. You're getting something even better.

Eddie: Better than a million dollars?! Wait, it's not something creepy like bringing my wife back from the dead or anything, is it? Because I just don't think I could handle that.

Probst: No, no. Nothing like that. It's the moon!

Eddie: What's the moon?

Probst: Your prize. You won the moon.

Eddie: The moon? The MOON?!! What the [expletive deleted] am I supposed to do with the moon? Is this some kind of sick joke? God I hate you! The [expletive deleted] moon. [expletive deleted] you, Probst.

It gets worse. Later, FOX tries to outdo the competition by sending Paris Hilton and that other chick to work on Eddie's farm he set up on the moon. The Simple Life 4 is a huge ratings draw, mostly because, for the first time, Paris has no one around to sleep with. So she takes up jackhammering. Night and day. Until she eventually tunnels deep below the moon's surface and discovers an ancient city, still inhabited by a benevolent race called the Sh'Rahla. The media dubs them "Moon Gremlins", due to their vaguely similar appearance to the creatures in the movie Gremlins.

Every news outlet on Earth turns their attention to the first-ever proof of intelligent life outside our planet. Through a series of intricate drawings, the "Moon Gremlins" explained how they had been trapped under the surface of the Moon for many centuries, and expressed how grateful they were for being rescued. They set up talks with every major country to exchange ideas, knowledge and technology. For a while, there is peace among every nation on Earth.

Then something unthinkable happens. Nearly two-thirds of the Sh'Rahla are wiped out when they get VD from Paris Hilton. The remaining Sh'Rahla become enraged. They spare a few million humans and other species for use as slaves and lay waste to the Earth. And also Mercury, to show they mean business.

Scary stuff. Didn't that John Titor guy say something about the end of the world happening when a rich hotel heiress lays down with a moon person? Or was that in Revelations?

But this does not have to happen. It is a possible future, but there is hope. We must find a way to get back to the year 2004 and stop shows like Up Close and Personal and anything with Paris Hilton that isn't shot in night vision from ever ending up on our airwaves! Also, we must not allow our past selves to see us. It could cause a rift in the space-time continuum and bring about circumstances a thousand times worse than the ones I just described.

We must get back to 2004, and I think I know how. Some time ago, I hit my head on the sink while trying to hang a clock in the bathroom. That's where I got the idea for the flux capacitor, the thing that makes time travel possible. In my machine, you can go back to any point in time, but can only go as far forward as the day you went back. So if you left on February 9, 2005, for August 13, 1987, you could go forward to any date between August 13, '87 to February 9, 2005. You could not go to, say, February 10, 2005, even if you were gone for longer than a day. It keeps that point in time-space in it's coordinates. Oh, and it has a cup holder.

Now hurry, we haven't much time. Mechanisms for cataclysmic destruction on a global level have already been put it place, and the only way to save the planet, and probably Mercury, is to go back to the year 2004 and shut down the Beast that churns out reality television. Actually, we'll be in a time machine, so I guess we can leave any time you want.

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Super Bowl XXXIX: The Untold Story

Somebody call John Forsythe, we've got a dynasty on our hands. I'm sure you've heard all the stories by now. While Donovan McNabb is crying in his soup over poor clock management, the New England Patriots are celebrating their third Super Bowl victory in four years and are 9-0 in the post season. And let me be the one billionth person to remind you they did all this in an age of parity and free agency. Bill Belichick now has a better post season record than Vince Lombardi, although if you mention it to him he'll instantly change the subject and possibly have you killed. Adam Vinatieri kicked yet another game winning field goal, although this time he did it with about eight minutes left instead of eight seconds. There were no sightings of Paul McCartney's saggy old man nipples. Commercials featuring chimps continued to be comedic gold. Terrell Owens proved his critics wrong by catching nine passes for 122 yards. Conversely, Freddie Michtell had one meaningless catch and was last seen with his foot in his mouth and his hands in a woodchipper. The Eagles kept it close, but basically, nothing unexpected happened Sunday night. Except for Charlie Daniels getting up on stage with the Black Eyed Peas.

But the Super Bowl is about more than football and talking animals. It's about personal triumph. Like the story of a brave young man and his ongoing battle with his bladder. You won't find this story on ESPN, or even ESPN2, you'll only find it here.

I went over to Nick's house to watch the game, because the Super Bowl experience just isn't complete unless I can be crammed in a tiny, bathroomless house with my best friends and some ferrets. First we watched highlights of Super Bowl XXVIII so Jose could bask in the Cowboys former glory. Then we watched Club Dredd and Get Shorty until game time.

Around kickoff time, former Presidents Bush and Clinton came out on the feild wearing matching blue jackets. They looked eerily alike. Around this time I had to use the bathroom, but I didn't want to miss any of the game. And I didn't go during the breaks because I didn't want to miss any of the commercials.

Budweiser usually has the best commercials, but most of theirs were pretty lame this year. Except the parachuting one, which was one of the best ones of the night. If you didn't see it, you can check it out at ifilm. The only problem is that if you haven't seen the ads yet, a lot of the names spoil the ending. But they're still funny, I guess. The other ones I liked:

Ameriquest, "Taser Scare"

Ameriquest, "Cat Killer"

Frito Lay, "MC Hammer Makes a Comeback"

Mastercard, "Mascots"

FedEx, "Dancing Burt"

Diet Pepsi, "P. Diddy Truck Trend"

and all those CareerBuilder.com ads with the chimps. The Mustang one was okay, but they showed it three or four times.

Halftime would have been a good time for me go...you know, but I couldn't move. Maybe I was waiting for something to happen during McCartney's set. Maybe that streaker from last year would show up again. Maybe Charlie Daniels would come up on stage during "Hey Jude" and say "I told you once, you sonofabitch, I'm the best that's ever been!" Maybe Paris Hilton would parachute into the stadium and have sex with a donkey. It's the Super Bowl. Anything could happen.

As I was watching the game, I noticed that 99% of the time, McNabb would throw to whoever Patriot's rookie cornerback Randall Gay was covering. He did a fairly good job, considering he had to be the one to stop the reciever on almost every play. And as childishly amusing as it was to constantly hear his name, I kept wondering why Belichick never caught on and had someone else over there with him. He still won, so I guess it doesn't matter, but I couldn't help but think about that. I also kept thinking about how much I had to pee.

When the game was over, Nick offered to drive Jose home and Wah Kee would drop me off. If we left right after the game, we'd be home in time to catch The Simpsons and American Dad. I only live about twenty minutes away. We got on the highway and were making pretty good time. I might even be home before they announce the MVP. There was no way it was going to be Brady again. It was the defence that won this game. I was thinking it could be either Tedy Bruschi or Rodney Harrison. Bruschi is the man. I even wondered if they'd consider Owens for MVP. Jose said there has been a Super Bowl MVP from a losing team before. And yeah, Owens talks a lot, but he can back it up. He certainly made every effort to help his team.

I didn't get too far in this line of thinking, because coming off the exit ramp to Quincy, this guy was tailgating us. Wah Kee's car hit a patch of ice and skidded into the snow on the side of the road. The other car continued to drive away. We were fine, and there was no damage to the car, but it was more than a little scary spinning around out of control like that. It was a bit like a Tilt-A-Whirl, but with an iminent feeling of death. But we were saved thanks to the abundance of snow that acted as a marshmallow cushion, the very same snow that we'd been cursing for weeks now. So we were safe, but the car had spun 180° and was stuck in the snow. Kee tried to drive out, but that didn't really do anything but make everything smell like burnt rubber. Amazingly, the contents of my bladder remained in place during the whole ordeal. Good for me.

A few people stopped and offered help. A couple of guys in trucks even tried to pull the car out. While Kee was talking to one of them, I was sitting in the car and I saw someone else pull into the snow. At first I thought it was someone else offering to help, but they had actually skidded on the same patch of ice and were left in the same situation we were in. At least they were facing the right direction.

A few minutes later a cop showed up. He was nice and helpful, but he didn't do any sort sobriety test, which I thought was weird. Almost insulting. We were coming from a Super Bowl party, chances are we'd been drinking. We weren't though, partly because we're not really drinkers but mostly because you have to leave Nick's house to go to the bathroom. But he didn't know that. He didn't even ask. He just called a tow truck and asked the other guys who had pulled over to help to leave. We waited ten minutes or so for the tow truck to arrive. I didn't want to call Michele because she wasn't feelling well earlier and I didn't want to get her worried. However I did use the web feature on my phone to see who was named MVP. Dieon Branch. Huh. Well, that solves that.

It took some time, but he got us out, then we had to pull over to the side of the road while he pulled the other car out. The fee was $90, so then we had to follow him to an ATM machine. Once he had his payment, we were free to go. We had left Nick's house around 10:20. I got home a little after midnight. Michele was still awake and the Simpsons was just starting. That must have been one long award ceremony.

After, um, draining the snake, I told Michele about my little adventure.

"Why didn't you use your AAA card?"

"Did you miss the part where I almost died?"

Women.

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She's Got it All

A few years ago, one of the guys at work got me to sign up for a figure drawing class. Another guy that used to work with him signed up as well. Eight or nine people showed up for the first class, and we all gathered around and set our easels up in a circle. The instructor introduced herself as the model got undressed. We were supposed to be doing quick studies the first class, which means we could only spend two or three minutes on each sketch. And I have to give the model credit; she had a different pose each time. At one point, she was actually doing a handstand with her back up against the wall. I know there are people who are into some crazy things, but I wouldn't be surprised if there are only a select few who can say they've witnessed a naked woman doing a handstand.

I actually saw her a few months later, standing in line at Kinko's. I resisted the urge to say "Hey, I know you! I drew you naked. I almost didn't recognize you with clothes on."

The next week we had a male model. That was kind of weird, but it's art so you get over it. He was hard to draw, though, because he kept changing size.

Heading into the third week, we joked about wondering what we'd be drawing this week, since we had a woman the first week and a man the second. The teacher was running late, and neither of the previous models were there. There was someone over in the corner, I couldn't quite tell if it was a man or a woman. Depending on the light, it looked like either a light blond young man or a white-haired older woman. The person spoke, but the voice wasn't particularly masculine or feminine. They asked if the teacher was here yet, and after a few minutes, they started to take their clothes off.

First she took off her shirt. Oh. it's a woman. Then he took off his pants. Oh. Ohh...

Waitaminute. What? What's going on? What am I looking at? I mean, he's got...but also...what the hell am I looking at?!

What I was looking at was a pudgy, naked, pre-op transsexual. The next week, the teacher apologized profusely. It seems that when she was booking models, this one, whom she had never worked with, wrote male on the application and never mentioned his desire to become a hideous albino woman. She said she was very sorry and embarrassed and we would not have that model again. We didn't know any of this that week, of course. I for one assumed she had hired a hermaphrodite so we could speed up our skills drawing the male and female form simultaneously. Nope. Not a hermaphrodite. Just a plain ol' transsexual.

This was not an attractive man, but sweet singing Sally, he made an ugly woman. Not satisfied with what the good Lord gave him, (and I wouldn't be either, considering it was little more than a nub) he had taken it upon himself to buy a pair of equally small and pasty breasts. I just couldn't bring myself to draw the Whole Experience, so I just alternated each drawing between average-looking male and monstrous female. I no longer have those pictures, but to give you a visual, there are three words that best describe what stood (and dangled) awkwardly in front of us:

Phillip. Seymour. Hoffman.


And that was the strangest thing I've ever seen in Boston.

An interesting side note, the teacher usually had the radio on while we sketched, and while we were drawing Pat or whatever his/her name was, the song Laid came on, which feature the lines

Dress me up in women's clothes
Messed around with gender roles
Dye my eyes and call me pretty

Eerie.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Monday morning, there's bound to be a bajillion write-ups about the Big Game, but only one will be written by me. Will Freddie Mitchell still be thanking his hands for being so great? Find out Monday. Well, find out on Sunday and then read about it on Monday. But in the meantime, you can waste away the hours reading the archives. And if you've had all you can stand of puke green, then head over to trinamick's blog. She's gotta be the most consistently funny person I know. Or check out thesneeze.com, by the most consistently funny person I'd never heard of until two days ago. There's also a great Star Wars parody, Episode III, A Lost Hope, at sequentialpictures.com, assuming their server hasn't crashed due to heavy traffic. Lastly, there's a trailer at apple.com for Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. That is one demented guy right there.

That ought to keep you occupied for a while. See you Monday, and go Patriots! Or Eagles. Whatever's cool.

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Old Pantsless Guy and Tricycle Man

Huuuuh!
Huuuuh!
Huuuuuuuuuh!

It was a familiar sound for two and a half years. Every day, a guy would pedal his big red tricycle down Newbury Street, yelling "Huuuuh!" all the way. I had not seen him since I graduated, but I was coming out of CVS yesterday and I heard his signature grunting. I stepped aside as his tricycle, adorned with a long flag pole and a Red Sox logo on the back, churned past me. Tricycle man. He's still going after all this years. Good for him.

I've certainly seen stranger things. There used to be an old man that would loiter outside the 7-11 on the corner. He'd stand there with his scruffy beard and his cane, wearing a hat, a long, greyish blue trenchcoat, and little else. Yup...no pants. Unless you count a thick layer of caked on dirt as pants, which I don't. It looked like he hadn't bathed since they cancelled The Chevy Chase Show. He always smiled and said "Hello." He never asked for money. There was a rumor that he actually owned one of the buildings in the area. Maybe he just liked to stand around all year and let the wind blow up his coat. Then one day, he wasn't there. I guess he passed away. Poor old guy. I hope wherever he is now, he has plenty of soap. And pants.

There's another old guy I still see every now and then. He's got thick black-rimmed glasses and always wears a beige security guard uniform. But sometimes he wears any combination of earings, a fur coat, a pink boa and high heels, in addition to the securtiy guard uniform.

I'd like to say that was the strangest thing I've ever seen in Boston, but I can't.

A few weeks ago I heard sirens outside my office window, I looked out and saw a fire engine coming from the wrong direction down one-way Newbury Street. It pulled up in front of our building. A couple of fire fighters got out and talked to a woman and what I'm guessing was her son. The woman and her son stood with the fire fighters while another took their picture, then they got back in the engine, turned on the lights and sirens, and drove off, still going the WRONG way down the street.




I'd like to say that was the strangest thing I've ever seen in Boston, but...

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