Saturday, October 30


My wrist has been hurting like a bitch the last few months.

Guessing I have Carpal Tunnel, my bow-tie wearing Doctor sent me to see the "wrist specialist" this week.

The usual 20 questions coupled with the prodding and the poking determined nothing, with maybe the possible exception that the intern thought I was a bit of a pansy. Screw you trainee wrist nurse. I'd give you the wanker sign but my wrist hurts ...

So they ran a bunch of X-Rays and this shit showed up!

Instead of having 3 bones at the base of my hand, I have 2. My lunate and triquetum are fused together.

A few years ago I discovered I have an extra bone in my spine.

Now I just want to get an all-body x-ray to see if I have a bit extra anywhere else ...

In a completely separate comment the doc told me he usually sees this problem in African Americans.

You know I got soul.

Monday, October 25

High School Reunion

So the wife's 25th High School Reunion was a blast.

It's weird to look out on a room of 60 women and know they are all the same age. Going in blind you'd think there was a 25 year age gap between some of them.

Being an all-girls school we were mostly saved from any efforts of re-kindling schoolyard crushes. And of the 30 or so blokes who went along as husbands or boyfriends I was the one deemed to have "a look".

Back in the day the designer look meant stubble and a Don Johnson roll of the jacket sleeves. This week in Ohio I think it just meant "the guy not wearing chinos and an oversized button down shirt".

And so it came to pass that an assortment of ladies shook their assorted asses to hits of the 80's played by a kid who was probably conceived in the 90's. I shudder to think of the royalties Hall & Oates received for this night.

After a few slow jams at night end, the party was breaking up, and as is customary in these situations we began to say our goodbyes. While Anne exchanged contacts with long lost friends, I had a 43 year old mother of four slow grind herself down my leg while she slurred "Come on Hot Dog we didn't dance tonight".

Now admittedly I was wearing a T-Shirt that said Hot Dog, and for a mother of four she was quite attractive, but it's tricky to know what to do in this situation. I have no desire to quash her already low self-esteem, but all I really wanted to do was leave.

Quite naturally I adopted the deer in the headlights pose and begged Anne to get me the hell out of there.

Smooth bastard.

Friday, October 22

To the airport. Once again.

Ohio bound. Tomorrow is Anne's 25th High School Reunion.

I considered not writing how many years, but I think she looks damn good for her age. And now I've compared her to a Buick, I'll also tell you how freaked out I am that some of her schoolmates are grandparents.

"I'm freaked out"

But I'm going in with an open mind. I'll be playing the role of the eccentric Englishman that Anne married. I'm hoping to hear the phrase "He knows shit about College Football, but damn he looks good in that Ascot and monocle."

I'm weighing up the pros and cons of saying "We couldn't have them", when people ask why we have no kids. Or better yet, "We're not allowed" because of some Draconian law drawn up after the War of Independence.

Here I am in my first year at High School. What a Fucking Hipster!

I wish we had organized School reunions, if only to angrily right the wrongs that occurred. It would be fantastic to re-inact the time when half the kids in school would flick gallons of spit and saliva via their bus pass onto the backs of unsuspecting, naive kids in Fred Perry sweaters.

Or watch a bunch of balding 40-somethings hold a kid against a wall while everyone else kicked a soccer ball from point blank range into the kids bollocks.

I'd like to visit my design teacher and tell him he was wrong. Alternatively I could tell my English teacher that he was right.

Happy days.

Back to tomorrow, maybe at the airport I'll be able to pick up one of these bad boys.

America. Fuck yeah! Nothing screams patriotism like a Stars and Stripes neck pillow.

Land of the (neck spasm) Free!

Monday, October 18

Not the greatest Blues song ever but ...

I woke up this morning ... itchin' like a bitch

So I jumped into the shower guessing that perhaps I was having a reaction to something on my skin, then in perfect horror movie style I wiped the mirror free of condensation to reveal I was a godawful freak.

My face was swollen. I looked 15 years older, and had sillier lips than when Meg Ryan had her collagen mistake a few years back.

Walking back into the bedroom I woke up Anne and said "We have to go to ER".

Anne was Cool Hand Luke. She calmly observed my hive riddled torso, dressed, gave me some Benedryl and bundled me into the car. A taxi moving like a drowsy snail held us up for a while, so Anne rode his tail until he pulled over like an old lady pulling a caravan on a Sunday afternoon jaunt in the countryside.

Once in ER, they jabbed me with a cocktail of stuff administered from one of those liquid bags that looks like the world's worst breast implant.

I'm fine. What sucks is that I had to miss my 'Hand Doctor' appointment. The past few weeks have been agony. A click of the mouse hurts like crazy, and that sucks when your only talent in life is clicking a mouse.

Sunday, October 17

The Wedding of the Year

It's a witnessed fact that last year at the previous family wedding I got blindingly drunk and became the de-facto post-party entertainment.

So this wedding I kept my alcohol intake down to just 9 beers, and 3 glasses of wine. That's positively prudish.

This time around my nephew bagged the MVP award for his drunken slow dancing shenanigans, but all in all the evening went off with awesomeness. If such a word exists. Which I guess it does because I didn't get the annoying red squiggle underneath the word.

I should probably reveal that it was my niece Mandy who was marrying her handsome beau Brandon. I don't have any photos of them, but trust me they looked great.

Instead I have this smorgasbord of drunken debauchers, from the fantastic photo booth.

Anne, her 3 brothers and President Barack Obama

Mrs Anne Taylor + 1 Guest

Friday, October 15

The Seattle Seahawks

We flew into Chicago last night for the wedding of the year ... at least in our family.

Check in wasn't exactly smooth at the Wnydham, but after 10 minutes we were handed the plastic card with the flimsy magnetic strip (oh how I miss keys), and off we headed for the 17th Floor, which happened to be the top floor no less.

In the words of white guys impersonating blacks guys "Damn". Our suite was almost as big as the crazy-ass suite I had in Hollywood earlier this week.

We are here for 3 days, and 3 different wedding events, so we hung up all of our clothes, and even put underwear in the drawers!

This morning we had breakfast with Anne's dad, and an hour later with her mom. They're not divorced, they just get up at different times!

With 2 breakfasts in my belly I returned to the room. No entry!

So I trudged back down to reception to be told 'someone' had booked the whole of the 17th floor, and we had to move our stuff out immediately.

I did my usual huffing and puffing, and got a $50 rebate. After re-packing and moving down to the 12th floor I noticed a bunch of 300lb brothers with diamond earstuds checking in.

And so it came to pass that the Seahawks fucked-over both me and Jay Cutler this coming weekend.

Thursday, October 14

Crazy tree bloke

We finally had a guy come round with a cherry picker and a chainsaw today.

Here he is cutting off chunks of tree right outside our bedroom window, which is on the 3rd floor of the house!

We live behind the Courthouse in Cambridge, notice the Court security guys watching from the loading bay at the bottom of the photo. They've been there for an hour.

That's our tax dollars at work right there.

Tuesday, October 12

C'mon Man

Long sentence alert.

So in my sophomore year of Fantasy NFL I am again aiming to prove that any monkey born outside the US and therefore without any cultural or social attachment to football but with a vague knowledge of mathematical logic can outsmart a stupid fuck who thinks he's hot shit just because he has a replica Patriots jersey, drinks Bud Light, played DB at High School, and knows enough to be dangerous about the College draft.



I'm just sayin'

Sunday, October 10

oh no you di'n't

I once found myself in a Fire + Ice restaurant with a middle aged Texan man.

When told by the 18 year old waiter that they did not have his choice of beer, the Texan replied,

"Kid, don't make your problem my problem".

I made a mental note to one day, use that myself.

For the uninitiated Fire + Ice is a moronic "pick out your own food, and watch it grilled in front of you" concept loved by idiot kids. Apparently it is also a sexual act involving (in no particular order) whisky, a tongue, ice and a butt.

Either way, Fire + Ice is not my thing. As usual I've digressed.

Another place I did not want to be was the Enterprise rental office in LAX at 11.30pm last night.

The guy who handled my reservation was real nice, and apologized that their computer was down. Using good old fashioned triplicate paper we worked through the problem until it came to what size car I had ordered. I confessed that I had no idea. At this point the woman of color next to him jumped in and decreed that I should know this info.

I smiled and admitted that my Business Manager had placed the reservation.

"Sir, sir ....", oh how I love to receive the Double Sir. This lit my fuse.

"Lady (note I did not double down on the lady opening), don't make your problem, my problem."

"Excuse me?" Two simple words but delivered with wide eyes, a shoulder shake, and three very deliberate syllables. All that was missing was the 'z' snap.

It went downhill from there ... which is probably why I ended up in a shitbox Kia Rio ... and to be fair, downhill is the best place to be heading in a Kia Rio.

Saturday, October 9


Anne and I were once almost bumped off a flight in Amsterdam because one of us gave a touch too much attitude when the flight attendant pushed in line at security. But hey, that's Anne always angry and pushing buttons.

I'm much calmer. Obviously.

Traveling on a Saturday afternoon is very relaxing. Not many flights equals short lines at security. That didn't stop the AA bitch cutting in front of me with her 5 bags. They're all linked together so I guess that makes them 1 bag.

Ho hum, no rush but noticeably no thank you either. Well as they say in middle school French classes "quelle surprise". She had incorrect items in her bags. So the 8 bucks an hour guy who failed his xray class had to pull her bags out and rescan and therefore hold me up. During this phase the cooze walked in front of me 3 times. Each time brushing into me. Each time without a fucking grain of humility or apology.

As she whined to the TSA guy, I said "I guess you don't travel much. These rules have only been in place for 5 years"

"I'm a flight attendant", she replied.

"Wow I had no idea", I said as I looked up and down her bri-nylon blue outfit with complimenting brooch and scarf.

I'm sat in the lounge waiting to board. I've seen her twice again. I'm praying she's on my flight.

Thursday, October 7

A Slight Contradiction

The missus and I are both known to run with the old, "We love the different seasons of New England" line.

And yet as soon as the temperature drops a few degrees we have the heating on and we start thumbing through winter sun destinations.

Last week my mum said, "You're not going to Acapulco this year are you". I have no idea if I should put a question mark at the end of that quote. It was more of a statement given that a bunch of tourists were hijacked by a drug cartel last weekend.

Last winter we went to Florida. It was so so. Full of Floridians. Bummer.

So next February we're off to the Cayman Islands - which is odd, because that's when the Boston winter is at its most lovely.

Tuesday, October 5

Another Chocolate Story

In late August of 97, on a Saturday, during the last days of a warm summer, I traveled to Rosenberg, a small rural town with a massive print facility in Southern Germany.

With their predictable sense of punctuality and efficiency, the print company picked me up at Munich airport in a sparkling brand new Mercedes minivan.

With equal predictability the Turkish guy they were also picking up was late. When he finally arrived and entered the minivan he was wearing a fez. He nodded and said one word to me. The word was "Goodbye".

I took my book out of my bag and began to read during the 2 hour ride. I would later regret this.

Arriving in Rosenberg I was treated to a fish supper. Not great.

Sunday morning and the first press approval for Hungarian chocolate bars designed by an English agency.

The printer had fiddled with our files. The first design looked nothing like I expected.

So. Sunday on a long weekend with nobody to call today or Monday. I made an adjustment the best I could and approved the first of 8 chocolate bar wrappers. The next approval would be in 4-5 hours time. Back in my room I finished my book.

I was now staring down at 48 hours in rural Germany with nothing to read or listen to. The print rep, Hans as I recall, challenged me to a game of chess, and beat me in 19 moves.

Next we went on a drive to the nearest town. Now, I may be a cynical bastard when writing a blog, but I can be a gracious guest in real life. As we drove around this boring town I made all the right noises and approvals about the town square and the maypole.

Until he started apologizing for the Nazi regime.


Do not mention zi war!

The longest 2 days of my life followed. For kicks I would walk to the village store, which had 3 magazines - none of which were pornographic, which breaks one stereotype I suppose. German celebrity magazines are full of guys in leather jackets and chicks with underarm hair.

After the 8th approval, I was ushered into a side room and offered one of two gifts. I rejected a chess board.


Here's why.


When I got home the design agency rejected all of my approvals. Fucksticks!

Saturday, October 2

Give us a Kiss

There's been a small individually wrapped piece of chocolate on the urinal at work all week.

There is an irony to the specific chocolate too. Of course I work with a bunch of people for who irony means "Sort of containing iron?"

Standing in front of a urinal taking a "Gypsies Kiss", is common to anyone with a passing knowledge of Cockney rhyming slang. Throw in the fecal connection to Hershey's and there really is no better small individually wrapped piece of chocolate to balance on a urinal than the Hershey's Kiss.

The cleaners get $500 a month but I guess they don't do chocolate removal.