Tuesday, April 27

Damn that's a tiny pony

Double 7s Pt II

Anne wrote about our super exciting Anniversary morning yesterday.

Later ...

Home early from work we walked (hand in hand) down to the local Culinary Institute. They have a restaurant where the public can get a flavor for the up and coming chefs of Boston.

They were closed.

So we walked to EVOO in their new Kendall Square space. The maitre d took our coats but asked that we place our (unused and closed) umbrellas in the lobby ... against the wall.

And when did "Home Made" become an acronym for good? "Home Made" bread, desserts, and sorbets can all suck.

With full bellies we walked home and watched 20 minutes of a British detective show from the 1980's, and were in bed by 9.10pm.

Sweet sweet middle age.

Monday, April 26

Made in China


An iPad is making it's long journey to my gadget filled home.

Sunday, April 25

It's been a while

Since I ragged on the clientele of Starbucks.

I've pared back on the coffee this year, but we were out of milk this morning, so I headed on down to one of the 12 Starbucks within a 2 mile radius of my house.

Shockingly I was stood behind an over-privileged, pedantic OCD prick.

Drink #1
Venti, non-fat, half-foam, half-caf, extra hot (?), extra shot ... latte.
2 minutes later when the poor chick handed him this drink, he sipped on it to make sure it was right.

YOU FUCKING DOUCHEBAG.

Drink #2
Tazo Black Shaken Iced Tea Lemonade
When handed this one, he inserted a straw, took a sip, and then threw away the straw. Next he wiped the top of the lid, and then asked for another lid. Having clasped on the 2nd lid, he wiped it again. And then asked for another lid.

During this time the girl behind the counter was trying to make my latte.

Finally he asked for brown sugar.

I wanted to twat this guy ... but he was bigger than me, and he had an extremely hot beverage as a weapon. I just had a poorly made latte by a distracted MIT reject.

Monday, April 19

Evel Knievel

You go years without mentioning the 70's daredevil, and then he crops up twice in a few days.

Running late for an appointment this morning, I'd beat the lights close to my house and was fast approaching the Tobin bridge, when 45 School buses pulled out in front of me. It's a State holiday today, so Christ knows where they were going (probably helping the Boston Marathon runners).

It's not until you see a long parade of School Buses that you realize how batshit crazy you must be to try to jump them on a motorbike.

Last week I'd gone with my mum to a hospital visit. It was the same hospital I'd had my tonsils removed in 1975. I reminded my mum that when I left the hospital, my sister Lorraine had the mumps. To make sure I didn't pick them up, they bundled my sister off to my grandparents (Grandad was already sterile!).

There was a few hours overlap while they quarantined the house, during which me and my dad walked over to my school playground and played with this bad boy.


The wind up Evel Knievel was THE toy of the mid-70's.

Sunday, April 18

Hookers don't kiss

In the Logan airport lounge last week, a beautiful woman in a short black dress sat next to me. Her phone rang, and in a heavy Russian accent she told the caller that she had met a nice 51 year old gentleman on this trip.

She continued to chat and sit alone for the next hour, and as we boarded she checked-in, just in front of me, still alone.

So this is how we lined up when we first boarded. You'll notice I have labelled the Russian woman a whore. Harsh I know. That's why there's a question mark.

So, Indian woman and her kid were restless. Indian woman tries getting dude's attention. Sadly for her, the dude has his pussy goggles on and is engaged in giggles and titters with Russian Whore?.

Finally, tired of saying excuse me, Indian woman taps dude on the arm. He turns. She asks, "Can we switch places so my kid can sleep in the middle 2 seats overnight?"

"No", he replies.

I'm not editing because I'm a lazy typist. He just said no. Nothing else. And so he went back to macking on the sexy Soviet.

At this point nice guy said he would switch with Indian woman and Indian kid. I was happy, I got the center armrest in the deal. Meanwhile dude and Russian Whore? sidled on up to each other, and increased their eye to eye contact and small talk.

5 hours later ... Wow, those tablets really do make me drowsy. Lucky for me I had no heavy machinery to operate. I awake to this scene.

Russian Whore? is laying on dude's lap. Which way is her face pointing? Crotch side. Russian Whore?'s face is smushed up against dude's Stonewashed jeans.

And I swear at one point I saw the dude calculating if he could bring his tray table down. It's a hard call. You've got a woman 2cm from your junk, but you have no place to sit your coffee.

As the plane prepares to land they are making out. (At this point in a previous telling of the story, my therapist interjected with "hookers don't kiss" - I'll ask him how he feels about this next week).

Canoodling continues through Passport and Customs, but then as they re-enter the public arena, they go separate ways. No goodbye, no friendly ass-slap, not even a peck on the cheek.

Mystery.

Saturday, April 17

A journey that made me smile

I took a few days off last week and went back home. Sometimes you need to write how happy you are. And the journey back home was great.

On an April evening masquerading as a summer night, a dirty Somerville cab, driven by a glove wearing brother sped me through traffic, with the windows down, as we listened to white guy FM hits from the 80s.

A passport, an iPod and a benadryl were all I needed to get to England (I'll save a few stories for later).

On the other side, the Heathrow Express takes you through some shittier parts of outer London, but on a sunny day surrounded by familiar accents I don't care.

After 10 years in the US I get the privilege of seeing my country of birth through the eyes of an outsider. It's like finding a favorite old jacket. You forgot how cool it was, but you remember why you threw it in the back of the closet.

Lazily I took a cab from Paddington to Kings Cross. I chatted with a typical chirpy taxi driver, but I people watched as we (relatively) sped along the Marylebone/Euston Rd. It's still easy to divide tourists from Londoners.

I realized that I now view ads and billboards like those in mainland Europe. The models look so different, typography much cleaner, and the £ and € signs look like a foreign language to me.

Some things don't change. Kings X is still an absolute fucking dump, but even that plucked at me with nostalgia.

I took the train to Wakefield. Went First Class. Bigger seat, and you get a fairly OK coffee in a ceramic cup. Once you are out of London, the scenery is mostly countryside. Lambs and calves stick close to their elders, and life seems much simpler. In a carriage of business men I felt happy to be free of work and responsibility, reclined in my chair, music playing and a packet of Cheese & Onion crisps to keep me company.

Tom Waits wrote "Never missed my home town until I stayed away too long", and as the train approached my station it stopped for a minute. This was my chance to view a town I grew up in, but the photo in my brain is missing a bunch of new buildings and roads. In an instant you determine what they pulled down, the memories you associate, and for me the local history lessons I sat through that now seem strangely redundant.

And as I stepped off the train, there was my mum, waiting for me. A hug and a kiss later we crossed the platform and there was dad, illegally parked waiting to whisk me home again.

Wednesday, April 7

Whatever Happened to?

Here I am in 1992 giving the Hoover Dam a run for all-round spectacular-ness.

I hadn't thought about Global Hypercolor in years. Isn't it about time these things came back? If only as an ironic nod to the 90s?

For the uninitiated Global Hypercolor clothing changed color depending on the temperature. Which meant that this T-shirt was almost always blue in cloudy England, but turned a girly pink when either:

a) I went overseas, or
b) my Mum ironed it (yes my mum ironed my T-Shirts)

The less said about the bandana the better ....

Monday, April 5

Gross? Wonderful?

The last few weeks have felt like I was on an airplane. Ears popping, echoing, going silent. I put it down to the chest infection I've been trying to shake, and with a trip to England imminent I thought it was time to get it checked out.

Nobody likes earwax, it appears to be one of life's less celebrated emissions. There's no ear wax fairy for instance.

So when the doc said she thought that may be the problem I countered with my cough excuse. She hit me with, "No it's years of accumulation".

Fuck and Yuck.

So while I held the little plastic bowl of shame, the doc shot a hot syringe load into my ear canal. 39 years of stuff exited the freeway.

And now I can hear the sound of fabric against skin. It's like a pointless superpower. When I walk I sound like a hingeless futuristic door. Shussing all over the place.

Is this a Craig David blog?

OK, so 3 posts in a year about Craig David is particularly worrying. Anyone who records a song called Booty Man needs a sharp and swift kicks in the nuts.

So, as previously explained, my morning ritual involves coffee and internet. Today, no different, I read the BBC website and clicked on Entertainment. Despite 10 years in the US I still give a little credence to whatever is #1 in the UK.

Craig David is not #1, but he does have a new CD of soul covers.

Now I'm a fan of soul. And I'll usually give a cover version a spin. You never know, you might uncover the 'original' original - so many of the Motown/Stax/Atlantic tunes were seemingly recorded by everyone on the labels roster.

Better yet, you might stumble upon a modern wonder like the Detroit Cobras, who pay homage to the old recording but give it some modern day sass.

So today I entered by UK iTunes password and ... well .... frankly I pissed away my hard earned UK Pounds.

It seems to me that Craig took the sheet music of these classic songs, spread them all over a flat surface, and then proceeded to defecate upon them.

In 1969 Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong wrote Just My Imagination. It is sad yet sweet. Soulful and full of longing for a love that will never be fulfilled. I have about a dozen versions of this song. I'll tell you how bad Craig David's version is. I prefer the Bette Midler recording.

Sunday, April 4

Incompatible


Realized this week that all round Lady's Man Craig David and Blues Legend Etta James would not get along.

As Craig stated in his seminal work ... I met this girl on Monday, took her for a drink on Tuesday, we were making love by Wednesday, and on Thursday & Friday & Saturday, we chilled on Sunday.

Meanwhile, Etta's more of a weekend lover. I don't want a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday, Friday or Saturday. Oh nothing but Sunday oh yeah. I want a Sunday kind of love.

Shame. They'd have interesting looking kids.

Good Lord!

So I just sneaked out of Mass. I'm sorry, too many kids screaming, plus I think I have an ear infection, so the whole service sounded like I was in a submarine. Oh, and I'm an atheist.

But that's not the point. I walked home in the sunshine, and started to make myself some lunch when I heard an almighty crash outside.

I ran to my deck to see dust and debris in the air. The chimney on one of the houses behind us had fallen down. I was soon joined by most of our neighbors (nice way to meet them!)

Here's a photo from my bedroom window (I felt a little weird shooting from the deck, everyone else seems very concerned).

So now everyone is having a good old chat about it. Nobody is home at the house in question, or the neighboring house for that matter. Just the problem of half a ton of broken chimney to clear up.