Monday, November 20, 2006

The Slideshow

Thursday, June 29, 2006

The Tree That Fell On My House

On Sunday a tree fell on my house. I saw it happen. I was in the living room, looking through the apartment out the kitchen window. The meadow in the backyard was thriving. Sure it was attracting mosquitos (due to the fact that the hose had been on for a week and the backyard was basically a standing cesspool of malaria). But it was thriving. As I looked out the window, I heard a loud CRACK! And then the backyard was covered with hanging branches and leaves, dangling from velocity that was broken when A GIANT BRANCH BROKE OFF OF A TREE AND FELL ON MY HOUSE!

I actually thought to myself as I slowly got up off the couch, "hmmmm, I think a tree just fell on my house." My cell phone rang and then I thought to myself, "I bet that is someone calling to tell me that a tree just fell on my house.".

"Hello."

"Hi." It was my sister. "How are you?"

"Ummmm, I'm well." I answered. "I'm pretty sure that a tree just fell on my house. But I'm well." I walked out to the backyard to investigate.

"A tree fell on your house?" My short stroll through the meadow confirmed my suspicion. A tree had, in fact, fallen on my house. On my bedroom roof, as a matter of fact.

"Yep," I shrugged. "A tree definitely just fell on my house."

Luckily the damage was very slight. My ceiling is separated in two places, the roof beam is split in half, and if you really look closely, the wood paneled wall is slightly bowing inwards due to the massive weight of the tree that was resting on it.

The branch is gone now. The tree service guys cut it up and it is now firewood for the winter. Recycling is a great thing. And so are fireplaces. Turns out the tree is rotting. The whole tree needs to be taken down. But get this. Apparently, the neighors, who own the tree as it is on their property, don't want to cut down the tree. Apparently, the neighbors would rather let the tree rot undisturbed, until another, even larger and heavier, branch falls on my house. Maybe this time I'll actually be in bed, and the thing can crash through the roof. Clearly, the neighbors would rather let the tree die a slow rotting death than cut it down in hopes of saving my life.

I hate that Coors Light commercial where they cut off the bride's head from the bride and groom ice sculpture to put in their 'cooler' to keep their beer warm. But it's better to save the beer, even shitty Coors Light, than to let that ice bride die a slow melty death. My neighbors are dumb jerks.

Friday, June 16, 2006

The Fireside

So an italian, a catholic, and a gay mormon go into this bar...

No, but really. Madge, Chef and I went out for a late night drink the other night. We went to this bar in our neighborhood casually called by locals 'the fireside'. I'd been there once before, but not for a very long time. We got there around 1:30 in the morning, just in time for last call...or what would be last call at most bars in Boston.

The bar is a U-shape with the bartender and all his goodies in the middle, surrounded by drunks. On one side of the U were a bunch of JP hipsters, you know the type. On the other, a bunch of wasted, old Teamsters. We sat on the Teamsters' side. I guess they felt closer to our age, or something. Plus, the view was better, even young hipsters are better looking than some old, drunk laborers. Nothing against labor.

The bar was playing Sinatra. They have a great fucking juke. And as we sat down a couple of the old Teamsters were dancing and singing, in a drunken embrace that was quite endearing. I definitely needed a beer for this. The three of us gulped our PBRs as we watched the old men stumble over the words and each others feet, dancing and singing their alcohol soaked hearts out. Their friend, who just happened to be sitting next to us, turned his head towards us, rolled his eyes and sighed, "Golfers". I guess I hadn't quite made that connection yet.

It got to be pretty late--past two--and the drunks were only getting drunker. Our favourite drunk, Munch (a 50-something short fat drunk man with a small education but a big fucking heart and a helluva nickname), was past the point of politeness, tact, and general manners. He had four jokes that he used in heavy rotation, usually in the same order every time. He called everyone 'bird'. "Who's that bird?" he'd grunt. "Who is this bird, eh?" he'd grumble. Apparently he'd spent some time in Southie, because he kept exclaiming, "Ha, spent four months at Castle Island!" No, it's not just you, it didn't make sense.

Early into the morning, Munch had to piss. On his way to the bathroom (which is located on the other side of the U from poor Munch), the jukebox started playing Sweet Emotion by Aerosmith. As Munch rounded the last corner, he couldn't control himself any longer. He went into a full on strip tease (without removing his clothes, miraculously) with highly stylistic choreography that included (and I'm not making this up)

  • licking his hand and slapping his ass
  • rubbing his chest, paying particular attention to the nipple area
  • grabbing the door frame and slowly and sloppily dry fucking it.

It was classic. And Munch was no amateur entertainer. He had the entire bar on their feet, cat-calling Munch and egging him on. Hipsters and Teamsters came together.

"Some sweat hog mama with a face like a gent
Said my get up and go musta got up and went
Well I got good news, shes a real good liar
cause the backstage boogie set your pants on fire

Sweet emotion
Sweet emotion"

As munch ended his show, by swinging open the bathroom door and blowing the bar a kiss before disappearing, the crowd was calling for an encore. The encore that luckily, never materialized. I think everyone forgot about it before Munch came out of the bathroom a few short minutes later. We had moved on, but we hadn't forgotten.

The night ended around 2:45 am. As Madge, Chef and I parted ways outside the bar, a large white van pulled up to the corner. A large old white guy stood outside the driver's side window and bid us a drunken farewell before sliding onto the road headed home. Goodbye Munch. Drive safe.

"You stand in the front just a shakin your ass
I'll take you backstage, you can drink from my glass
I talk about something you can sure understand
cause a month on the road an I'll be eating from your hand

Sweet emotion
Sweet emotion"...

Note to Greg, co-founder of National Corn Dog Day: There, I finally wrote in my blog again. I hope you are enjoying the World Cup!

Thursday, December 29, 2005

The Christmas Card

I don't often feel like a very good member of the gay community. I don't really like the gays. I like being gay. The sex is good. But I don't really like the other stuff that goes with the typical identity. I've basically ostracized myself from my own people. But every once in awhile, something happens to me that makes me feel connected to the gays. And this year, it was a Christmas card from Mario.

He usually sends me a couple of cards a year. I never send cards. To anyone. This year's card was the typical Christmas card: a frosty blue color with a drawing of snow covered trees with birds on their branches. The words "Season's Greetings" delicately etched in sparkle across the front. Inside was not only a message from Mario, but a picture was enclosed. It seems that Mario went on a gay cruise co-starring Charro and managed to get a picture of him with his arms wrapped around her waist. And he sent it to me in my Christmas card, sent all the way from San Francisco. It's official - I have gay friends. Well, at least one. But he sent me a picture of himself on a gay cruise with Charro. That has to count at least double. Right?

I never send cards back. I sent Christmas cards one year, my first year living in Boston. And I never did it again. I had only sent out half of the cards I had originally intended to send when it occurred to me: If I do this, I'm going to have to do this every year or else I'll be known as "that guy who used to send us a Christmas card every year". It was just too much pressure. First of all, it's a lot of fucking work. It takes a lot of time, you have to write stuff and try to be clever, and to be cheap, 37 cents is just to much to send a fucking card. So I threw the rest of them away and never, ever sent anyone a card since. It was probably one of the smartest things I did the entire time I was in college. Or since for that matter.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

The Hurting Time Begins

Johnny is a Yankee. It hurts to just type that. I cried a little at my desk, surrounded by the black lillies that my co-worker brought into the office today. My Johnny Damon Bobblehead looming over me, now adorned with a boycott symbol taped over his face and a dunce hat on his head that reads LOSER.

Sure, the threat of Johnny leaving Boston has been hanging over us since he played out his contract with the Red Sox. but Johnny himself said he didn't want to play for the Yankees, or any other team for that matter. No, Johnny's heart was, according to him, with the Red Sox. He wanted to finish out his career playing for Red Sox Nation, at least that's what he told us. Is that why he took a four-year deal with the Yankees for a mere $12 million more than what the Red Sox were offering? Damon also said it wasn't about the money. He knew the Yankees were going to come at him hard and offer alot, but the Jesus of baseball preached that baseball is worth more than money. Apparently not. Lie to yourself, Johnny, but don't lie to me.

I hope that cutting your hair and shaving your face before each game is worth that extra few million a year. Because I'll tell you something, Damon. It's going to be a lot easier to hate you than it will be to become a fucking Yankee fan. You truly are an idiot.