LET'S DO THIS THING!

(Brownguy and Keri got engaged this weekend)

It's hard not to get a little choked up about this one. Brownie & Keri got engaged, and Emma is going to have a new dad. They have officially joined the line up of the Matrimonial Dream Team of 2006 and will be suiting up in Dec 2006.


(photo: Perhaps there was something in the beer at the Cisco Brewery?)

It's a great match. For one thing, Scott and Keri are both compassionate and versatile. Brownguy is notoriously frugal and anal (in an endearing way) but can also be this guy. On the flip side, Keri -- and Dawnie too -- share this elusive multi-dimensional quality, for they too can be cool and grounded and then kick it like this. It's the Yin Yang - things in life are not completely black or white, and one cannot exist without the other. This is the very foundation of "getting someone." And if you have that, you have everything. Congratulations to Scott & Keri! We look forward to visiting the future home of many a good time as well as the cleanest bathroom in the history of Massachusetts. Cheers!

Cream Shop Saturday: Did I Miss 60B!?

Irony: I forgot to post Cream Shop Friday, the feature on this blog that details the biggest distraction of the week, because I was too distracted by a looming deadline for an "ultimate roadtrip mix" contest created by Cameron Crowe and VH1.


(photo: Cameron Crowe, Geek God)

Code Red, Di and I went to see "Elizabethtown," Crowe’s lastest film, on Friday night at the Boston Common theatre. The movie was great, but I wish it had been a cinematic miniseries instead, if such a thing existed. But I get it. I cannot fathom the impossibilities involved in boiling down a character-driven story into a 120-minute movie. I’d rather write a 20-page paper than a five-page paper. Anyone who’s been misunderstood and/or screwed themselves via the spoken word understands this concept.

Cameron Crowe has never conformed to the traditional “build him up-knock-him-down-save-his-soul formula.” His movies are unplugged; they explore the less traveled path of characters’ quirks, neuroses, and unparalleled joys. Often, the central character is not slouching toward some glorified redemption, but a smaller, invisible victory, the kind where in seemingly insignificant moments, entire lives turn.

In Elizabethtown, these classic Crowe moments appeared in numerous scenes, quotes and ideas. There are to many to get into so I'll sum them up stream-of-consciousness: Drew’s collection of “last looks” – a facial expression flashed when someone has no intention of setting eyes on you again. Misguided souls who give themselves “permission to be pre-occupied” instead of participating in their lives and relationships. Beer bottles clinking in bathrobe pockets during a hilarious hallway hug between Chuck and Drew. Drew’s mom tap dancing and telling an anecdote about a drive-by dry hump at her husband’s funeral. Claire letting Drew know that “people are much less mysterious than they believe themselves to be.”


(photo: Chuck spots Drew in the lobby the morning after their hallway moment)

However, one of the most uproarious moments occurred in a scene where Drew walks into a room where 15+ cousins-nieces-nephews under age 8 are going buck wild. He pops in a videotape Claire gave him "for the kids." On the tape, a man in a hardhat -- part Bob Vila, part Hulk Hogan -- appears in front of a regular looking house. He introduces himself and informs the kids that the home behind him has been infested with termites. He then tells the kids that -- if they promise to mind their moms and dads -- he’ll blow up the house. The kids are silent, catatonic and amused...and pleading with their eyes, YES! BLOW IT UP! YES. "Ok, let’s blow this puppy up," the man in the hardhat says. The house blows up and the image is replayed over and over again. The hardhat man’s ghostly image appears in the raging flames, laughing. I do the scene no justice as you’d have to see it firsthand to truly appreciate it. I was laughing so hard tears were rolling down my cheeks. It was so much better than Caillou, say.

The only thing that drove us mad was Orlando Bloom's Tom Cruise-like, baying-at-the-moonish shenanigans. He was overacting, jutting his limbs every which way and carrying on like Jerry Maguire or David Aames when he needed to be Lloyd Dobbler, Steve Dunn or William Miller. "Did I miss 60B!? DID I MISS 60B!!??" was "Show me the Money 2005." However, we learned that Tom Cruise actually produced the film so he was probably controlling Orlando’s mind. Our bad, Orlando.


(photo: Ladies & gentleman, I would like to ruin this guy's career.)

Busted

(James and Vito are caught - in flagrante delicto - on the living room floor)

If you've been to our home, or even been within earshot of James, you know all about his contempt for Vito. It's an ill will he's all too enthusiastic to vent about and he is opportunistic and unyielding in his scorn. Even an offhanded "Vito's so cute" from a passerby will bring on an unwarranted, "You want him? Take him!" When not yelling at him, James addresses Vito as "pain in the ass" and "worst dog ever." I know James gets frustrated sometimes as he never signed up for a Diva Pug. Vito is as tough as he is tubby and loveable. He scratches at the fridge if there is leftover chicken inside, he whines incessantly and has a 100-decibel snore that rivals a mid-sized ride-on lawnmower.


(photo: "Bring it on, ottoman.")

It is a well known fact that the opposite of love is not hate -- it's indifference. And James is anything but indifferent toward Vito. One night last year, I returned home from a dinner out to find sliced bananas (unpoisoned) in Vito's food dish. Vito loves bananas and I did not put them there. The other night, I caught them lying together on the living room floor watching Monday night football. Vito was snoring loudly and his massive head was nestled against James' side. Unfortunately, while grabbing my camera, I woke up Vito and ruined the shot, but you get the gist.

Scituate Soiree

(photo: Birds)
Everytime we go to Jess' & Joe's house, we end up dancing. The day they moved in, we sat on the bare floors, drank champagne and listened to Quarterflash on vinyl -- and some other bad 80s tunes that compel you to bust it. Since then, Whortleberry Lane has hosted numerous events from the Bags' wedding afterparty to dinners and cookouts, and each time -- long before conversation has grown tiresome -- we dance!

For this fall cocktail party, Jess suggested the guests tart themselves up a bit. My eBay liquidation sale of 2004 left a giant sinkhole in my wardrobe that I’ve yet to backfill. Beyond suburban sweatpants and mom jeans, I’ve got few swishy threads with which to festoon myself. But, hanging in the back of my closet, I found my sparkly disco frock that I wore to one of Auntie’s 70s parties in Charlestown in 1999. I have been dying to wear it ever since, and -- in an unintentional foreshadowing of dance moves to come -- I pounced on it with a sweater.


(photo: Fast forward to later that night: LP & Annie demonstrate a perfectly synchronized helicopter move, circa 1977)

The 10-minute journey to Scituate was a nailbiter. I swerved around some roadkill on my favorite backroad and was trailed by a Norwell cop for two miles. Then, after an over-enthusiastic left turn onto Whortleberry Lane, I nearly side-swiped a car of fellow partygoers. We both parked at the end of the street. Instead of taking a baseball bat to my headlights, they kindly pointed out that I was blocking the driveway of one of Jess' bellicose neighbors.


(photo: Code Red, Di and Goy share a tender moment)

From there, the night twirled on effortlessly. I learned about the Darwinistic phenomenon of "Suicide Squirrel Season" from Jen; an occurrence I found intriguing having come face-to-carnage with a flattened rodent just moments earlier. We gathered around the dining room table, catching up with all of the BUUURDS. Dawnie and I were enjoying a fine chinwag over some Slim Jims -- and then, bearing iPods and vodka, the to-be-Dell'Olios arrived...



Suddenly PYT was playing and there was a mass exodus from the kitchen to the dance floor. WMD began whipping up a high-octane vodka concoction that was simply yet aptly labeled “The Dell’Olio." He passed the drinks around in red keg cups -- lighter fluid on the disco inferno ignited by LP’s iPod.

Shortly thereafter, the hallucinations began, appearing in shadows cast by Tom’s burgeoning ‘fro.





Tom tries to deflect blame, insinuating the Bee Gees' apparition is bouncing off the glare from LP's glossy mane.


Di spots the Bee Gees in a ray of moonlight.

From there on in, the night was a blur of white polyester and back beats. And out of the swirling lights, a new noun was born.

The Dell'Olio (n). A Bee Gees roofie; a hallucinogen.

Here are some photos before the evening was hijacked by the freaky-deaky visions of the Gibbs brothers who oddly enough resembled Brownguy, Tom and Bags. (Is it just me who sees that?)


The ladies


Bride sandwich


Dell'Olio-ed.


You come to me on a summer breeze...


Funbag Love.


Tart me up.

SNF artwork courtesy of Tom Haley

Cream Shop Friday: SHOCKER!

Stop everything and grab a cocktail! I don't know quite how this happened. Maybe it was the afterglow of Mike D.'s wedding, maybe it was the power of the shocker, or maybe it is simply meant to be. Pete proposed to Apryl...and she actually said yes! Congratulations to our good friends, the only people who can have an intelligent conversation about the "correct" way to smuggle drugs over a post-wedding brunch. They are hands down the most fun couple in the Greater Boston area, possibly Massachusetts. Rumor has it a papier-mache moose was involved in the proposal and to that I say...of course there was. That's the best thing about Pete & Apryl. They conform to no formula or standard, they don't subscribe to tired tradition. They are who they are and they are like nobody else. Slainte!

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

Insert Wedge-Heeled Boot in Mouth

I should know better. I violated a cardinal social rule; one of the most elementary kind; one that distinguishes us from the animals. For a highly intellectual story I'm writing on wedge-heeled boots, I headed to an event at a boutique on Charles Street to interview the owner about Rafe boots. I dragged Code Red along with me, knowing her passion for footwear coupled with my penchant for complimentary martinis and cake would make for a lovely evening. The PR girl introduced Annie and I to the owner -- a voluptuous pregnant woman in a black and gold empire waist dress. Always hoping to personalize interviews, I said. "Oh! When are you due?" The lilt in my voice hadn't even subsided when I realized I'd made a terrible mistake. The entire store silenced around me. "Oh. I'm not pregnant," the owner said. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I saw Annie drop the boot she was inspecting and stick her head in an oversized Balenciaga bag.

Making matters much, much worse I became shrill with apology. Luckily, the owner possessed better social skills and appeased me, informing me she'd just had her second baby and that someone had made a similar comment earlier. At this point, the entire store had witnessed the exchange. The only way I could have made the moment more awkward would have been to ask if she'd carried the baby in her ass.

So we did a lightning fast interview but instead of staying for the free refreshments, I just looked at Annie, who read my mind: "Let's get the hell out of here." I've never speedwalked on Charles Street, but we hustled to a slow jog to the Harvard Gardens and went into recovery mode. Even Annie noted the woman looked "very pregnant."

Still, in my defense, my judgment was clouded by an incident over the summer when the wife of a friend told me she was "hurt" that I didn't inquire about her pregnancy. This woman, who I see maybe once a year, had always been on the heavy side. Since I had not heard she was pregnant -- from her or anyone else, I decided not to ask. After learning she was upset by this, I thought I'd made the wrong decision. But after last night, I stand by it. It's always better to err on the side of clueless.

DRINAN DAY

(photo: We're married!)


(photo: Oh my God. We're married.)

EDGARTOWN -- Neither monsoons nor windswept drizzle could stop this party. When it looked like the nuptials may be a total washout, we learned from the bride & groom that timing is everything. Mike D. & Gen -- two soulmates who after loving each other most of their lives were finally able to get it together this past year -- exchanged vows RIGHT ON TIME – weather notwithstanding, weather rendered totally irrelevant.

The tents at 148 Main were not uprooted by high winds and the accompanying atmosphere of carnival rolled along effortlessly beneath them with a feast for all the senses. The music was live, the food was succulent, and the spirit of good friends -- old and new -- was ablaze, with everyone throwing shapes on the dance floor around the newlyweds. Of course, the bottomless glasses of vino were consumed en masse and by night’s end, I was transformed into a mercurial flower child named Poncho. Luckily, I was in very good company -- even Jimmy danced to “Feverrrrr” when a wedding guest took the mic.

It was merriment at its finest, as it always is with this particular crowd.

After the band’s last song, everyone headed over to the Wharf to continue the frolic. And since nothing says love and fidelity like a good old-fashioned barroom brawl, one was conjured up -- as if by sorcery -- as a wedding gift for Mike D. While simpler mortals who view this world in black & white would have seen this as a downer, for Mike D., it was the cherry atop his ice cream sundae. “That was grrreat. That was awesome,” he said to his bride, shortly thereafter. Indeed it was Mike, and thanks. A lifetime of happiness to Mike and Gen. xoxo

And now for some snapshots...


Somewhere out there, someone is in possession of the "after" to this lovely "before" shot of Katie, me and Apryl.


With our Mike D., any dance moves that begin this way...


...inevitably end up looking something like this.


Drunkety Drunk: J&K are on their way to the Wharf but my alter-ego Poncho, in a glassy-eyed trance, pipes up "Let's go ride ponies in the rain!"


Apryl's SHOCKER!!! Oh..hello Peter.

MY LIFE IS BULLSHIT: A Blog from Vito

In honor of Vito’s 3rd (21st) birthday today

OOOOOOH. Lucky me. Some friggin' birthday - Thanks. How about throwing me that stick of pepperoni from Tutto Italiano instead of this lame appearance on your blog that nobody reads? First of all, look at this picture of me. I look friggin’ ridiculous. I’m already the laughing stock of the neighborhood because of this foolish collar. Now I'm the laughing stock of the blogosphere because I don't have opposable thumbs and can't upload a decent photo of myself.

Speaking of situations-no-win - Xena and Zeus, the pugs that live around the corner -- we used to hang out. You know, nothing serious, a little bum sniffing, a little frolicking around the rhododendrons. Last week, I heard them chugging around the corner like the tugboats they are, and I hid like some kind of girly poodle-chihuahua mix. If they saw me in this Mickey Mouse PetSafe collar, they’d laugh their fat, wrinkled asses off and I wouldn’t blame them. It’s humiliating. This collar has put a Golden Retriever-sized dent in the formidable street cred I’d carved out here on Brookwood Road. Everyone here knew I was from the mean streets of Eastie. There were pitbulls in my old neighborhood and FYI – they were all scared shitless of me.

Believe me, I’ve outwitted the PetFence system before and will again. First there was the “lightning strike” that disabled the fence back in August. HA! It was ME! But then Carl from PetSafe, who smells like a sex offender, came back and rebooted the system. Last month, I chewed the PetSafe collar in half, rendering it useless. But Jamie called and – lo and behold - Carl came running like a sycophantic Beagle in candy-apple trouser socks. I’d chomp that guy’s friggin’ kneecaps off if I could reach them. So here I am, on my 21st birthday, feeling like a complete buffoon. Meanwhile, I’m sleeping with one eye open because Jamie hurls king-sized pillows and shoes at me all night long, carrying on like a madman about how loud I'm snoring. FYI - I don’t snore, I snort. It's a pug thing. I'm bracycephalic.

In addition to being short-nosed and asthmatic, there is the day-to-day crap I have to endure: Caroline thinks I’m her own personal pack mule. I’m overweight for Chrissakes. I’m sucking wind after one lap around the kitchen island. I can't take it. All I want is to sit on the couch, eat a few baby carrots, and if that round kid Paulie throws me a few nugs of Pirate’s Booty, great. But not for nothing -- how about throwing me some parma proscuitto every now and then. My life is bullshit. All I want is all of the food in the house. I want to sleep in the big bed upstairs and be Lord of the Manor. I want Jamie to hand feed me bacon and pepperoni. It’s not too much to ask on one’s 21st birthday.

Cream Shop Friday: Trailer Crashers

Bags' exorbitant amount of free time has sprung forth the most disturbing Cream Shop Friday to date and he doesn't even have a starring role. Click here to watch SB and WMD in Trailer Crashers, a quick film that almost made LP wee her knickers and displays many, many reasons why WMD should never go blonde. Oddly enough, SB looks completely natural.

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

Regression & Nostalgia in Charlestown

There is a fine line between nostalgia and regression. And last night in Charlestown, a perfect balance was struck between the two. It was the most joyful, and well-attended Suppah Club since its inception in February 2005 and there was much to rejoice about: LP's engagement. Annie's triumphant homecoming from New Orleans. She's returned gracefully disease-free after schlepping through muck in the Quartier Francais (which Annie notes is French for "petri dish."). Paige's new Charlestown apartment with a guest bedroom reserved for boozy pals and Strawberry Shortcake slumber parties. And the birthdays of lovely Libras Auntie and Goy.



For this month's dinner, Di -- aka Marc Jacobs' beatch -- chose the Warren Tavern because the fall always recalls fond memories of Charlestown during a time when we were the mouthy riff raff hogging up the pub tables on Wednesday nights. Sitting around the "big table" last night, it was difficult not to reminisce about crisp October evenings past when we would gather in the same spot to watch playoff baseball (and eat baseball sirloin). The nights where we'd stumble up the hill to School Street and try to pry Mikey away from his vegetable steamer for a spontaneous dance party. The mornings where we'd wake up on the futon on Eden Street clutching a chicken wing, regretting the late night Chinois. Those were the days of not-so-long-ago. Then, jarring us from our nostalgia, the solo guitarist that Jamie hates more than Peter Wolf (who "ruins everything") began maiming a Weezer tune and we decided to take off.



But like many evenings past, we opted for a completely unnecessary "nightcap" at Sully's. Home of high profile stabbings and embarrassing karaoke moments, Sully's is the consummate "one more stop" that solidifies the next day's hangover. The place appears even seedier in the grainy photos captured on Goy's camera phone.

In the above photo, Auntie & LP appear to be rolling a joint. I appear to be slumped over in the shadows. Perhaps the caption for this photo should read: "One drink away from dangling ourselves over the railing at Flagship Wharf to see if Nomar and his uncle Vinny would rescue us." Sometimes regression is good for the soul.

CAR CRUSH

The Pointy Universe is proud to post LP's inaugural guest blog.

While stuffed inside a Boston Coach van with six colleagues on a return business trip from NH yesterday, my coworker pointed to a cheap-looking, white, 1990’s era convertible haulin’ arse down Route 3 with the word “COBRA” sprayed across its bumper. “Cobra?” she wondered aloud, “What the hell’s a Cobra?”

Tears welled as instant recall brought forth the image of my favorite childhood car, the 1976 Ford Mustang Cobra II, white with blue racing stripes down the center. It was the very same car driven by Jill Munroe, played by Farrah Fawcett on the original television series, “Charlie’s Angels”. As I super-hi-speed-talked my way through a discourse on the Dream Car/Dream Show combo crush that preceded the 1987 Volkswagen Cabriolet /“Can’t Buy Me Love” phase of my life, I soon realized that my fellow passengers were too young, too old or too uneducated in the fine art of 1970’s pop culture to appreciate my fervor. Or, perhaps they were scared of me. Probably the latter.

Nonetheless, inspired by the coincidence that the Creator of Pointy Universe has a namesake who starred on Charlie’s Angels, I decided to pursue this topic for my inaugural blog article. (Y’all will have to wait for “Spawn of Spears” or “Why I Hate Britney”.)

God, I loved that car and I loooooved Charlie’s Angels. Like most girls that grew up in the 70’s, I wanted to date a Duke and be an Angel. That car was extra special to me because my friend Barbra’s* mother had the very same one and I got to ride in it quite frequently. In that car, I was Kelly Garret (Jaclyn Smith) herself: nestled into my pleather bucket seat, ponytails waving in the wind, metal lunchbox full of secret files and a pistol packed into my Holly Hobby bookbag. Didn’t matter to me that on the show Kelly actually drove a plain ol’ yellow Mustang and not a Cobra, for I was 8 years old and had no time for such trivial details. Furthermore, none of my friends’ moms had yellow Mustangs, so... My own mom was driving a Celica and dad drove a Slimemobile, a.k.a. green Monte Carlo. [Shudder]



As a child, my cousins and I would play Charlie’s Angels constantly. (If you can imagine the flowers we are holding in this goofy picture were guns, then this might have been the cover shot for our own show.) I was always Kelly, the one faithful Angel that lasted throughout the show’s entire tenure and the only one to have her own clothing line at K-Mart. Karey was Jill, as she was blond and second in line, age-wise. We made Lisa play Sabrina, mostly because she was the smart, quiet one who didn’t protest. Also, her parents wouldn’t let her watch the show thus she really didn’t have any input into her own dialogue and Karey (Jill) and I (Kelly) could boss her around and tell her what to say.

It is important to note that Sabrina drove an orange Pinto. Not a dream car. Sabrina really did get the short end of the stick on that show. Never pays to be smart, sassy and brunette if you’re in 1970’s TV Land. Don’t know what “Scarecrow’s” Mrs. King drove, but hopefully it was cooler.

Eventually, when her work for the post office required a more practical, less “flashy” means of transportation, Barbra’s mom sold that Cobra and bought a station wagon. My heart broke that day and perhaps there’s still a small scar. My cousins and I left the Angels behind along with our Shawn Cassidy posters and took up playing video games and watching MTV. Dream cars have come and gone since then, but these days I’m just praying that none of our friends sells out and buys a mini-van, the anti-dream car. Meanwhile, my tired 1999 Accord is subjected to daily curbside abuse with its potential towing, parking tickets and the chance that those Southie punks will leave another “ass dent” in her flank. Might be time to test drive a Mini-Cooper.

*Not to be confused with Peg's friend Barbra whom SB hit on in a dimly-hit hallway at LP's college graduation party.

Cream Shop Friday: Mushy as Mashed Potatoes

(photo: "LP, I love you more than bunnies," says Di, who's gone completely gooey in the wake of LP's & WMD's engagement)

What the devil is going on here? Di, an accomplished writer and editor, has sent us into the Cream Shop this week with churchy phrases about LP and WMD like "they're sure to have a beautiful life together with all this love and support at the foundation of their union." Her words conjure up images of LP & WMD ascending into heaven wearing peasant blouses.

Di self-prescribed her own ass-whooping to ward off the sweetness and light but moments later, she was distracted by pretty butterflies. Now she's dotting her "i"s with little hearts and will wear nothing but pink. She's even thinking of replacing next week's Warren Tavern Suppah Club with a Hello! Kitty sticker party!

Full Disclosure: If you read my entry on the engagement, you may find it a bit mushy, but it's all true. I admit it...sometimes when I look at LP & WMD, a string instrumental of Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors" strikes up in the background. The next thing you know I'm hanging all over Colleen & Jonesy like a shorter, older Katie Holmes talking about how we're all family. (BTW, we are.)

The irony is Lauren and Mike aren't mushy people who invite this kind of unbridled goo. It's just when something truly fantastic happens, we seek out different ways to express our feelings; we use words, phrases and gestures we wouldn't normally use to distinguish the significance of the occasion from other events. In short, we're more honest - even at the expense of appearing too sentimental. LP & Mike: Feel free to go upside our heads if all gets to be too much. Just know it's coming from an honest place. We will shoulder the goo, we will be mushy so you don't have to be. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish my unicorn collage.

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

A Very Special Goy Blog

"Chronicle of a Matchmaker"

by Goy

Over the last few days I have been receiving emails and phone calls from the lady owls giving me praise and thanks for introducing the young couple to each other. Although I did do the initial introduction after my "naughty party," I cannot take all the credit. I thought I would send you all flying down my memory lane of how these two great souls met and became soul mates.

After many non-business related conversations with my BCBS rep for Legal Sea Foods, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Dell’Olio may in fact be a suitor for my ever so deserving Little Pete, until he broke up her with before he met her. I believe his fear that I was such a prestigious and well respected client that if for some reason the match up did not work out, it may in fact tarnish his highly regarded reputation in the insurance world - which is ever so important. This of course was all before even meeting LP.

The nail was in the coffin now, he was all done. Until…one fateful Sunday SAC and I were invited by WMD to a Patriots game in the BCBS box. Well before my easily persuaded husband even met WMD, he was exuding excitement that LP may meet this chap someday and 413 would have his butt in the BCBS box every home game. It was love at first kickoff when SAC laid his eyes on WMD. I believe he added this to my tedious list of things to do for that week, “introduce the man with the football tickets to LP.”

I already knew how fabulous Mr. BCBS was, but it was also confirmed in my mind when he gave us the VIP parking passes that were his and he parked with the other commoners. But still, the introduction was a year away from the game.

Now you all remember the fabulous wedding of the 413 Beaudin and I am sure that you will all recall that LP was stunning that night (as was Auntie). As I dragged myself to work that Monday, I got a call from my friend asking how my weekend went. Alas, here is the sign I had been looking for. Funny you should ask, I said and was bold enough to forward a picture of LP from the wedding. IMMEDIATELY, WMD told me that he would be at the Beer Garden on Thursday and that I should come for a couple of pops with my pal from the picture. I had my “naughty party" after work and was exhausted. I called LP on my way home and told her that I was going straight home. My ever so gracious pal said that was okay. I then called SAC and he gave me am ASS kicking over the phone and basically told me to suck it up for the sake of LP and WMD. They needed to meet!!! We needed them to meet!!!

WMD declared that Lauren was "definitely not a butternut" and as a result, two amazing friends of mine will soon be Mr. and Mrs. Garlic and will go on to have a lifetime of bliss. I would like to formally congratulate Lauren and Mike on their engagement. We have now gained yet another wonderful addition to this cult of friends (my mother’s description of us) that is more commonly referred to as the Owls. May you have as much laughter and happiness as you both bring to our lives.

One more thing. Let us all give thanks to AC from BCBS. Because if he didn’t suck ass as an Account Manager causing me to go to his boss to seek out a rep that could actually communicate, I would never have met Mike. The real kudos should go to AC, maybe he knew what he was doing after all.

Smooches,

KC AKA GOY

Spawn of TomKat

Good God -- it's pregnant.
The seventh seal has been opened.

A PERFECT UNION

There is breaking news in the Pointy Universe and the news is wildly superlative. Lauren and Mike -- otherwise known in the P.U. as LP and WMD -- got engaged in Newport over the weekend. While this development is sure to be a euphoric ride for the newly betrothed, it will also enrich the lives of their vast circles of friends who love them. To see these two together is to see true happiness, soulmates, and a bond that transcends any cliched idea of what love is. Love is LP and Mike. On their own, they are the kind of people you feel lucky to know and have in your life. Together, they radiate this sentiment and it touches everyone around them. Love & congratulations to you both.

U2@Garden: I'm Still Levitating

Please forgive the hyperbole but last night was quite possibly one of the most uplifting evenings of the decade. Not only were we toasting some fabulous news, but U2 played one of their best shows since the 80s. Maybe it was hearing Ms. Sarajevo or maybe someone slipped me a mickey. All I know is I left the Garden feeling lighter and when I woke up today, I was still levitating like Mikey Carter.



The first time I saw U2 was in May 1983 at the Orpheum and the intensity of the show picked me up, shook me, and threw me back down - forever changed. Since then, I've seen the band upwards of 30 times. Each show, in an of itself, was an amazing, singular experience, but when the band connects with the audience on the level it did last night, it becomes something truly magical.



Set list from u2setlists.com City Of Blinding Lights, Vertigo, Elevation, The Electric Co. / Bullet With Butterfly Wings (snippet), The Ocean, I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, Beautiful Day / Many Rivers To Cross (snippet), Miracle Drug, Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own / The Black Hills of Dakota (snippet), Love And Peace Or Else, Sunday Bloody Sunday, Bullet The Blue Sky / The Hands That Built America (snippet) / When Johnny Comes Marching Home (snippet), Miss Sarajevo, Pride (In The Name Of Love), Where The Streets Have No Name, One / MLK (snippet)
encores: The First Time, Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses, With Or Without You, All Because Of You, Yahweh, 40

"Richie Rich Should Be My Yotch" by WMD

When asked to guest blog again, I didn't really know what to write about. I was too busy at work and couldn't take the time to think of something. Then I thought, how great it would be to not have to work at all. How great it would be to be rich, not just rich but filthy rich.

I've told LP before that I may seem like a nice guy now but if I ever became obscenely rich or famous I would be the most obnoxious individual in the world. I would take kids' ice cream cones from them, laugh and dump them in the sand at the beach. I would do this because I could buy my way out of anything. Watching their parents sell their dignity, Haha..Muuaahaahahahaha...Oh, that's right, I'm not rich, I digress. I would not do that (yet).

Well why the EFFF am I not rich?! This is a riddle for the ages because all signs point to where I should be eating gilded meatball subs for dinner with Diet Bud BOTTLES not cans.



I've segmented why I should be rich into two main categories; Abilities and Business Ventures:

ABILITIES:

- My mastery of stupid trivia involving bad TV or
movies: Surely if the appropriate Jeopardy categories
were available, me knowing that Crazy Cat was one of
the Hekawi Indians on F Troop and being able to rattle
off 217 quotes from "Big Trouble in Little China"
would have me kicking that record-breaking nerd's ass from last year.

- My ability to turn any movie title into a porn movie
title in under 4 seconds. Example, The Constant
Gardener = Constance the Hardener. Wedding Crashers =
(you don't want to know). I don't know how this could
make money but it's got to be there somewhere.

BUSINESS VENTURES:

- Selling "If money can't buy you happiness, you're an
Asshole!" bumper stickers. The more you think about
it, the more foolproof it is. Money may not be able
to buy love but if it can't buy you happiness, you
need to be smacked. These should sell out quickly,
buy now.

- Selling the rights to my "Office Bytchzlap"
campaign. Tony Robbins type motivators get mad money
to come in and boost moral for Corporations.
Companies can do the same (for only my nominal fee)
by designating one day where you as an employee get to
bitch slap or "Bytchzlap"(patent pending) a fellow
employee for being stupid or obstinate. Fund-raising
can also be done in the form of selling "Bytchzlap"
coupons. (This is just in time for this year's United
Way extortion rituals at corporations throughout the
city.)

- Greeting cards from Single Heterosexual Males:
Until the lovely LP tambourined her Siren Song to this
slack jawed youth, I was one of these for the past few
years. This is not an Anti-Gay venture, not at all.
If you are gay, please buy my cards, your money may
smell better but it spends the same. My startup
resources included gay personnel in the form of my
friend Kenny at work. When I explained the dilemma
of trying to pick out a bereavement or wedding card
that had less than 37 flowers and and the word love
written 15 times, his response was a laughing "it
sucks to be you". From there, an industry was born.

- Nantucket/Newport Dog Rental: Let's face it, these
areas are packed with guys trying to have a reverse
naked chicken fight with girls. Put Brad Pitt
engulfed in flames next to one Screech Powers with a
yellow lab puppy and girls would not even notice our
Mr. Pitt. My business is to seasonally rent out
puppies for these vacation spots. Our inventory
consists of only Labs and Golden Retriever puppies
under 8 months old. The price is high but our
satisfaction polling showed not one complaint.

- Last Business Venture: To bring back the Shamrock
Shake. Charge five dollars. I'd pay it and I know at
least 50% of you reading this would do the same.

In closing, with skills and ideas like these, I can't fathom why I haven't hit it big... Wait, yes I do know... I wore gray jazz shoes and a thin leather tie to my High School Junior Semi Formal. Nothing good
could EVER come of that.