Cream Shop Friday: Time Flies When You're World Champs

I cannot believe it's been a whole year since last year's Sox/Yanks series.

It's been a whole year since my adrenaline enabled me to hold Vito aloft and march in a victory circle.

It's been a whole year since Jamie and Scott Cyr sat behind the Yankees' on-deck circle and SAC heckled the players, garnering Hideki Matsui's attention with the now infamous barb: "HEY! Check that bat for soy sauce."


(photo: "I will club you with my soy-sauced bat and roll you up in seaweed, Scott Cyr.")

There is a restlessness that comes along with a Sox/Yanks series. I feel like I have to moor myself to a piece of furniture, afraid I may float up in the air and be pulled toward Fenway by the sheer excitement of it all. Fenway is, at least through Monday, the center of the Universe. Monday, the center will shift slightly east to the Garden when U2 arrives in town. GO SOX!

Cream Shop Friday is a feature on this blog detailing the biggest distraction of the week.

Gaelic & Garlic

(photos: WMD "mans" the grill. LP whips up some magical potatoes. Beautiful evening.)

The "Gaelic & Garlic" cooking sensation of Perchard & Dell’Olio sponsored a very sophisticated-very adult dinner party at Chez Bags in Cohasset last weekend. If my culinary vocabulary were not limited to that of a 70s-era Shake-n-Bake commercial, I would be better able to describe the succulent feast for the eyes and belly set before us.

The celebratory dinner was in honor of Auntie's and Bags' nuptials almost one year ago and all attendees were as joyful as Patch, running excitedly from room to room throwing around the love with boundless abandon.



The Cakebread was flowing and, at times, taboo topics, like conversational gasoline, hovered too close to the flickering candles, as did Dreama's pointy finger.



And sometimes the Cakebread hovered too close to my pointy head and Goy's, forcing us to finish it off.


Everyone was starting to look alike, Scott Cyr "points" out.



Then it was time to dance.

Within our circle of friends, no evening is too softly-lit or refined that it cannot degenerate into something resembling a curbside ruckus outside of the Quencher Tavern. After exorcising Norma Desmond from Dreama's soul, we decided to give Mini Bags a special birthday gift: An unprovoked assault of roundhouse kicks and piledrivers.

But even that could not prevent Mini Bags from being a total party asshole.

What it Feels Like to Be a True Renegade

The Pointy Universe is proud to post a guest blog by 2005's Besotted Bison, Keith "Bags" Beaudin!


About nine months ago it seemed like a typical evening out with good friends. The Bags and the Jacksons were at La Dalat Restaurant in Hull enjoying a Hunan gourmet feast. Auntie and Kate were swan diving into a couple of cosmopolitans, forgetting about the drudgery of the week that just passed, while engrossed in each other’s analysis about the latest episode of “Six Feet Under”. Meanwhile, James and I engaged in our usual topics such as devising strategies on how to become the best husbands possible and eradicating world hunger.

Then it happened. Jamie asked a simple question that changed life for me as I knew it. “So Bags, Auntie tells me that you used to play baseball back in the day. We have this softball team at work with a great bunch of guys [from the Motor Pool], but our numbers are starting to dwindle and we need some new recruits. What do you think about playing for the Renegades this year?”

So with a simple confirmation of “Yes,” I was introduced to a cast of characters that could have fallen out of Nicholas Pileggi’s book Goodfellas. There was Whitey-The 600 Pound Gorilla, Tom D (Dipaolo), Gordo, Brown Guy, T-Bag, JJ, Bison Skipper Brett, Roche, Clemmie, Sweetwater Murph, Chaney, Meegs, Vinny and Al the Nat. Each person distinct with his own special talent, but all committed to a common goal: winning the third MSESL championship in the past four seasons.

What was immediately noticeable to the new recruits, such as Scott Brown and me, was a common bond and sense of friendship that resonated throughout the team and strengthened as the season progressed. It usually started with a roll call two days prior to each game asking who would be able to put reality on hold for four hours on Thursday or Friday night and culminated with the consumption of the last Bud Light from Whitey’s cooler. In between there was a game against some other faction of engineers dedicated to providing an infrastructure of transportation for the masses.

Even the gladiators (both past and present) who were not able to attend were able to track the progress of the team on what possibly could be the most content rich website since ESPN. Box scores, game photos, analysis, out of town scores and real-time individual statistics gave a complete, detailed picture of the Renegades trials and tribulations. John Roche should be commended on creating such a masterpiece and allowing me to waste hours of work every Friday surfing the Renegades site.

So what does it really mean to be a true Renegade? The experience was not measured by wins or losses, championship trophies, batting average, beers consumed, or bruises received from attempting to field 140 mph ground balls hit at you repeatedly on an infield with the consistency of concrete. No, rather the experience could be measured in the kinship of fellow teammates that extended to friends and family members in the stands who allowed us to escape the complexities and pressures of everyday life and act like kids, whose biggest concern was getting another at bat.

With that being said, there is always the chance for the Motor Pool Renegades to repeat in 2006 and continue this time honored tradition steeped in excellence. But like Patriots coach Bill Belichick says, "You’re only as good as your last win," and there are always questions to be answered such as the ones below.

1) Will Jamie break down and buy a new bat on Overstock.com or will the Renegades be utilizing the original equipment from when the team was founded in the late 80’s / early 90’s?

2) Does Kate Jackson know about the Renegades' party on October 9th at her house in Hanover?

All these and other pressing questions will be answered in the upcoming 2006 season. As Jamie told me earlier this year, “Just remember Bags a true Renegade doesn’t go home until the cooler is empty.” Well said James, since you served as a great mentor and as a besotted bison who knows the true meaning of being a Renegade.

Cream Shop Friday: Fajita and Rita

An hour ago, I was sitting in my car doing a phone interview and sharing a sopping, overly-cheesed chicken fajita wrap with Caroline when I heard the news: Rita is still 24 hours from making landfall but her effects are already being felt. In New Orleans, three levees were breached and the city was flooded all over again. Living in a log cabin in the backwoods of Vermont with no plumbing no longer seems twitchy and disturbed.

Cream Shop Friday is a feature on this blog detailing the biggest distraction of the week.

WHITE STRIPES@OPERA HOUSE

(photo: Mezzanining with Meg and Jack White tearing it up on stage in the background)

The last time I was at the Opera House was in 1987 for a Replacements show and so much has changed since then besides my age. Here are just a few of the many differences:

1987-parked in the "abandoned lot" across from the dilapitated Paramount theatre for free. Pre-show involved drinking partially-frozen Bud Light from a can in my friend's beige Impala that took up three parking spots.
2005-the "abandoned lot" is now high-end parking for the Ritz, Hyatt and several area restaurants. Pre-show involved dinner at Silvertone and cocktails at West St.
1987-Opera House was in complete disrepair and smelled like a bowling alley. During shows, the balcony kind of swayed as if it may crumble into the orchestra pit at any given moment. Very few gigs were booked there because it was stinky and dangerous.
2005-Opera House is beautifully restored to all of its glory. Major bands and several Broadway shows like Hairspray are booked through the next year. We sat in the mezzanine section of the first balcony; it still kind of sways but everyone in the house was standing and stomping along to Meg's beat, just because it was impossible not to.

Hurricane Mania

(photo: Rita barrels toward Texas, eerily following the poor people Katrina chased from New Orleans)

I had to remove my earlier post on Katrina ("Katrina and the Waves") because of the tragedies that followed the storm. But I wanted to repost a portion of it because of Ritaand her ensuing mayhem. According to the National Huricane Center, New England is "statistically overdue" for a major category 3+ hurricane. I learned my neighborhood is far enough inland whereas I wouldn't be clinging to a piece of driftwood after a storm surge, but the carpeting in my cellar would be completely ruined. We've apparently entered a 20-year cycle where the warmer waters in the North Atlantic will produce more intense storms, more frequently. However, what we've seen with back-to-back category 4s and 5s in the Gulf is - according to the NHC - unprecedented. Of course, this brings all kinds of sane/insane theories to the table. Some people attribute this phenomenon to the melting of the polar ice caps. Some credit the first signs of the Apocalypse. Of course, one mendacious "Christian" org is blaming gay people for the natural disasters. What I want to know is whatever happened to that El Nino phenomenon that caused such a shitstorm so many years ago? Here's one theory.

While I certainly don't want Boston to be wiped clean off the eastern seaboard, I must admit I get as frothy as Todd Gross at the prospect of a big storm in Boston. The few hurricanes I've seen (or remember) in my lifetime have been so unspectacular that I only remember events surrounding them and not the actual storms.

1985 Hurricane Gloria - In Boston. Hugely-hyped storm that would have been entirely forgettable had it not been for my neighbors -- the Screaming Brancados -- leaving their masking tape Xs on their windows well into the 1990s. Also remember WBCN playing "Gloria" by U2 and the Doors ad nauseam.
1991 Hurricane Bob - On Cape Cod. A friend named Bob fashioned a superhero's cape from a floral twin sheet, ran around the streets as "Hurricane Bob," and proved fiercer than the storm.
1996 Hurricane Bertha - Hunkered down at the Warren Tavern and Sully's in Charlestown.
1996 Hurricane Edouard - Self-marooned on Nantucket. Jen and I, with our hair inexplicably in braids at the Muse. We earned ourselves the nicknames Ginger and Maryann among co-workers for not making it into work the following Monday. The frozen "Hurricane Eddie" cocktails at the Muse were much more memorable than the storm.
1999 Hurricane Floyd - In Boston. Floyd was barreling up the coast with predictions of a direct hit on my wedding day. The storm caused high anxiety and some wind gusts that, while wimpy, made for some very cool b&w photos.

Google-Imaged: Ernie Bean

I always knew Ernie was an old soul but according to his Google Image, he is also a very, very, very, very old man.

Dark Side of the Sun

Courtesy of my good friend Colleen, an Aquarian whom I credit for my astrology obsession, here is a humorous look at the shadowy side of the sun signs. While it's intended to reflect the negative zodiac traits of the men we love, I think a lot of it could apply to the women as well.

ARROGANT ARIES will tell you how much he loves you, but in the same breath, that you must be eliminated because you are getting in the way of his plans for total world domination. He will also leave his dirty socks around and burn the toast.

TOTALITARIAN TAURUS will boast and brag and bully you into submission, but just one little word of sarcasm from you and you will find him balled up in the fetal position crying in the closet. Also, a Taurus can't have sex without picking a fight first.

JABBERING GEMINI will steal your money and then help you look for it. Also he'll make up wild stories about your alleged bisexuality and tell them to his friends. A master of miscommunication, he'll keep you home alone, by the telephone, waiting fo his call.

CALLOUS CANCER will give you a gift and then make you pay for it, not with money, but with sexual favours, emotional blackmail and pieces of your soul. An expert hostage taker, a Cancer uses self-pity and sarcasm to torture his victims and rap them in a prison of low-self-esteem.

LAZY LEO will do everything to woo you ... date you, charm you, move in with you, impregnate you and spend Christmas dinner with your family, yet, while filling out a job application, still check the box that says his status is "single".

VENGEFUL VIRGO will turn up his nose at your taste and then slowly begin to mold you into his vision of the perfect woman. You can never please him, but if you try to leave, he will stalk you for the rest of your life to try and get you back.

LASCIVIOUS LIBRA is the first to tell you "I love you but I¹m not in love you." He might as well pee on your leg and then tell you it's raining... soon you get the sense he/she are keeping their options open in case someone better comes along.

SCHEMING SCORPIO is voted most likely to try and convince you to have sex without a condom. Later on in the relationship, he will also try to convince you that having three-way sex with a hired prostitute is the only way to save your relationship.

SILLY SAGITTARIUS will chase you and woo you until he has pierced you with his arrow of love. You'll soon realize you are just another pelt on this hunter's belt after he tells you all about his plans for his next romantic conquest, shortly after having sex with you.

CAPITALISTIC CAPRICORN will coldly pretend he is in love with you, as long as you are useful to him in terms of social or business connections. This social climber doesn't want a girlfriend; he wants a pretty parrot with no mind of her own who faithfully repeats what he says.

ASSININE AQUARIUS will go on for hours and hours about your deep connection as soulmates then forget your birthday. Easily distracted by pretty colours and shiny things, this flighty man is easily led astray by other women.

PIOUS PISCES can only be described as "Christ without, Satan within." This long suffering martyr has a Ph.d in co-dependency and knows how to reel women in with shiny promises. However once you take the bait, you are trapped forever in the belly of the beast.

Code Red Bayou Bound

Code Red is heeding the call and heading off to Louisiana for a few weeks to help quell the media storm that has followed in the wake of Katrina. Best of luck to Annie. We're so proud of you! Don't drink the water and steer clear of Rita.

Google-Imaged: James E. Jackson

While James has several Google Images, THIS GUY wins the showcase. The James E. Jackson pictured here is a member of a delightful correspondence program known as "Prisonerwrites.com." As an inmate at an unknown maximum security prison, James E. Jackson is available as a prison pen pal for anyone who wants to chew the fat with a dangerous criminal.

Google-Imaged: Auntie, WMD

The alter egos of WMD and Auntie are unsuccessful musicians, according to their Google Images. However, WMD's goes by the nickname "Malcolm," which is slightly less rock-n-roll than WMD. And Auntie would never be caught dead with a punch-bowl hairdo.

Google-Imaged: SCOTT BROWN

This is the result returned from Brownguy's Google-Imaging himself this morning. While the photo does not resemble our Scott Brown in looks or stature, it certainly does in affiliation. If you look closely, the Scott Brown in the photo is a member of the "International Dutch Oven Society."

"Are these guys really good at dropping farts in bed and flailing their rancid sheets for a waft at their own stench," asks the Brownguy. "Are they married? or happily single to enjoy the stink all to themselves? So many unanswered questions."

I can attest that I've been married to an enthusiastic member of the DOS since 1999.

SIX YEARS

(photo: "Rum and a Jheri curl" The Js circa 2000 on Nantucket)

Six years. So many songs back and forth. I don't have the presence of mind (or the mind) to write a song so I'll use Chris Martin's for today, a message, for Jimmy.

Cream Shop Friday: Google-Imaged

(photo: Result returned after I Googled-Imaged myself)

OK..I found this a few weeks ago when Brownguy, LP and I were Googling ourselves but stumbled across the photo again today and it sent me right into the Cream Shop. I was then inspired to Google-Image the inspiration for Cream Shop Fridays. Di is joined by Judy and Chery Schwing here in an undated photo.

Cream Shop Friday is a feature on this blog detailing the biggest distraction of the week.

Pointy Joke of the Day

Q: What is Bush's stance on Roe vs. Wade?

A: "I don't care how people git out of Louisana."

-posted by "Anonymous"

SUPPAH CLUB ENDURES

Because life should never get in the way of a cocktail-fueled chin wag, Suppah Club roared back to life with a vengeance last night, swooping onto the patio of the Red Fez in the South End. Even with 50 percent of members in attendance, it's clear the monthly event will endure, because an evening spent with friends is aways an evening well-spent. Buh.

That said, I foolishly forgot Ernesto Beanini's cell phone number and was unable to lure him to the chin waggin, even though he lives but minutes away. Sorry, Mr. Bean.xo

A Special Kind of Jackass

Driving to my Panera satellite office this morning, I was stuck in traffic on Route 53 behind a hulking green Escalade where - featured in prominent red lettering - was the beat slogan: "Don't like my Driving? Dial 1-800-Bite-Me." This was not a traditional bumpersticker but an actual license plate posted above his regular plate. It looked like it took a great deal of time and effort - involving specialty tools and screws - to affix this ridiculous sign to the rear of the car.

My question is what kind of a loser a) seeks out and purchases such an item, and b) dedicates a copious number of hours to rigging up a special platform for it on his/her automobile? The size of the Escalade is already suggestive of a deficit in one's life (or anatomy) but it really takes a special kind of jackass to drive around with something so intentionally antagonistic -- in Hingham, no less. I hope he drives into Boston and gets carjacked.

Time Off to Write

(NANTUCKET - "I can barely recall the 'little people,'" says WMD, pictured here on hiatus earlier this summer)

WMD has been enjoying the spoils of and squandering the royalties from his wildly successful guest blog appearance on the Pointy Universe. But it's time for him to get up off of th'Adirondack chair and start brainstorming his next topic.

Also, this is an open call to anyone who wants to post something, be it a philosophical tirade, an obscure drink recipe or a dirty joke. I know Bags has a Renegades roman a clef buried just beneath the surface. Anyone else? Just email it to me.

Sheepish Prank

(photo: "BRAAAA.")

For the second straight year, some buffoons have stolen a sheep from the Natural Resources Trust of Easton, dressed it in a bra, and left it inside of a dorm at Stonehill College.

Whether this is some Greg Bradyesque prank or flagrant bestiality is unclear but the poor sheep is reportedly "skittish" from the incident.

It's just plain odd. I'm well aware of the petty thievery and drunken tomfoolery that occur in college but I never recall any livestock being involved. One time, a coveted stool was stolen from a frequented establishment but it was returned the next day. Another time, there was the straight up larceny of a leather jacket from a pickled townie. The jacket was never returned, not because the offenders wanted it or lacked remorse, but out of the fear of being knifed.

Regarding the Stonehill perpetrators, the campus police chief said, ''This type of behavior is not consistent with the college's values nor does it represent the overwhelming number of compassionate students who make up our community." Clearly this man was not on the force when my brother and his cronies lived in the basement of Casino Hall.

Evening with Pats & Nortons - LOVELY

(photo: Yet one more reason why the Pointy Universe needs to hire a photog.)

One moment you're in your pajamas sharing a yogurt with Paulie, the next you're in the backseat of an Infiniti sipping Sauvignon Blanc on the way to the Patriots' opener. So was the scene that unfolded late yesterday afternoon. Spontaneity is an elusive concept for us these days so for such improbable events to transpire the way they did was no less than shocking. We are indebted to Krissy and Matt for answering the call. And to the fabulous Norton brothers for carting us to and from the game. As we enjoyed a lightning fast tailgate at the Honeydew (aka Mr. Donut) lot, conditions quickly ripened for a sparkly good time..and it was.

Watched Green Day perform "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" which was fantastic and Ozzy Osbourne whose performance was like a presentation on the effects of degenerative disease.



James and I climbed to our seats in the farthest corner of Gillette Stadium and into an alternate universe packed with formidable-looking, belligerent Raiders fans. They turned out to be ok and quieted down considerably watching their team get their shiny silver bums kicked about the field. At half-time, I made my acquaintance with an Italian sausage, hung out with Pete and Apryl, and got creeped out by a back-tickling brother. "Sooo, do you guys like to, you know, party together."

It was halfway through the second half when I found my Cream Shop Friday feature sitting on the seat in the row in front of me.

Cream Shop Friday: Randy Moss

(photo: Randy Moss cozies up to Jimmy)

As I returned from enjoying the half-time show of italian sausage and Pete's brother, I saw the face and 'fro of Jimi Hendrix staring at me from the seat in front of us. I found that to be odd but was quickly informed that the mask was in fact the mug of Randy Moss, not Jimi or Bob Marley.

CHOOCH

SB's perfect use of the word "chooch" in his comment earlier compels me to put the word into colloquial circulation. I haven't heard the word uttered since I accidentally dropped a jar of vinegar peppers on my Uncle Johnny's patio after he warned me the lid was on too tightly and I couldn't handle it. "You're a little chooch, Kathy." I was nine.

For those without verbally-abusive Italian relatives who can't remember your name, here is the definition:

Chooch (n.) -- Italian slang for hardhead, blockhead, or any of a number of similar insults pertaining to one's obstinance or limited use of common sense.

"There is no convincing that friggin' chooch."

(source: Urban Dictionary)

Bye, Little Buddy

Bob Denver a.k.a Gilligan died of cancer at age 70 last Friday. All well-intentioned klutzes, including myself, will miss him. He is survived by three children and his wife, DREAMA. If Gilligan's Dreama is 1/8th of the person our Dreama is, we know he lived a happy, exciting and vivacious life. Or, as WMD duly noted, if Gilligan's wife was 1/8 the person our Dreama is, it is probably what killed him.

NAIL BUFFS

(photo: Shading ourselves from the excessive fluorescent lighting inside Lauren's Nails that shines brighter than 1000 suns)

The other James in my life and I were able to silence our barking dogs and get the pedicures we've been trying to schedule since July. While I waited to meet Jim outside of Lauren's Nails on Newbury, a very, very tan man in an American flag tank top ran up to me with a seemingly urgent question: "Hey, do you want to buy my truck?" I told him I couldn't drive, which is 70 percent true. But the question will go down as the second most random comment every uttered next to: "I like potatoes. Potatoes make me happy" that was whispered conspiratorially at an ATM on the Vineyard in 1996. No stranger to odd encounters himself, Jim shared a recent one with a "very hot Brazilian man" who tried to pick him up on the Blue Line. Jim, a married man, turned him down but was subsequently busted trying to take a photo of him with his camera phone.

While picking our colors, we ran into "T" -- sans piece -- but looking fantastic nonetheless. We chatted briefly as she had her feet loofahed. Annie made a pit stop here too, humoring us by taking the above photo. While the pedis were sub par and the dizzies at Lauren's inexplicably charged Jim an extra $5 for a nail buff, we recovered, all too aware that these were good problems to have in light of the week. We moved on to Stephanie's and Jurys where we discussed some curious developments in the old neighborhood. Furio the 4'11" Italian man who used to drink a quart of Bud every afternoon and then pass out on his lawn chair behind his tomato plants, has begun wearing tight t-shirts and hanging on the corner for hours at a time. He's usually sweeping or hosing down the sidewalk, but sometimes he just strikes a pose against the telephone pole. We'll be investigating this on the Pointy Universe. That said, Jim headed off to London for two weeks and I back to burbia indefinitely.

Cream Shop Friday: Vito Keeps Safe Distance from PetFence

(photo: "He did it, Mummy." Caroline is both distracted and in shock over Vito's meteoric success with the PetFence.)

It's official. The bumrushes are over. Vito has accomplished his greatest feat yet, proving once and for all that he CAN change. Caroline and I were walking on the sidewalk just outside the PetFence boundary. Vito sat on the driveway. Landscapers were mowing the lawn at the house across the street. He barked from the driveway. Three kids on scooters passed by, Vito stood up, barked, but did not advance from his position on the driveway. I don't want to celebrate prematurely but this is definitely a crucial breakthrough. Kudos, Vito, Kudos.

Jeudi Triste

"Sad Thursday." I had to remove my Tuesday post on Katrina because while the storm itself paled in comparison to the hype, its aftermath has proved tragically otherwise, as has the pathetically sluggish response. This blog is intended to be a light-hearted distraction from occurrences like these but I am going to indulge just three thoughts.

1) Water. I don't understand how this country has the power, resources and cash to rebuild the infrastructure and political landscape of Iraq and Afghanistan but cannot figure out how to get some potable water to New Orleans and surrounding towns after four full days.

2) Looting. I'm tired of hearing about the "moral bankruptcy" of looters when a giant percentage are "looting" for milk, baby formula, groceries and medicine because they have to. They've been completely abandoned and people are dying unnecessarily all around them. Of course there are the jackasses going after HDTVs and diamonds but they will likely die from dehydration after all that heavy lifting anyway.

The "big question" on every news station today was posed as some great philosophical conundrum:

Q: If someone you loved had a heart condition and needed their medication to live, would you steal it?

A: I would hurl a trash barrel through a Walgreens window in a heartbeat. I don't know ANYONE who wouldn't.

3 Cruel Irony: Almost 8,000 National Guardsmen from Mississippi and Louisiana who are working so hard overseas, trying to do the right thing, are now compounded with horrendous worry about their families at home -- who have been so worried about them for so many months. And they're powerless to help them. The city is in complete anarchy and it all seems so unnecessary.

This situation in New Orleans is sad and terrifying and shows just how prepared we are for the next terrorist attack. You can make donations here.