Hen Night, Chicken Fight

Before we rehash, I want to make one thing clear: LP’s bachelorette party did not involve dwarves in any way, shape or form. No stripper dwarves, no bowl-able dwarves – there were zero dwarves.

The evening was not without its proper kitsch, however.










The first leg of the celebration -- dubbed "El Pequeno Peter” -- went down at Paige’s house in Charlestown, where alongside the supreme crudites and Mojitos, were some mandatory thong bombs, Latina flavored tunes mixed by MoHo Cameo, and a parrot piñata full of individually-wrapped chocolate penises from Sweet-n-Nasty.

Then there were the props: sombreros, maracas, tiaras and boas – some of which were worn by Brownguy who was merely fulfilling the expectation he set back in college when he squeezed his man boobs into LP’s mom’s disco leotard. >>


<< Hollering back, Goy pulled a thong on over her jeans and ran amok.









Before we headed off to second leg of the party, T-Bag stepped up and held the buurd piñata aloft while Pequeno Pete swung and jabbed at it with a wooden spoon -- quite mightily.

Auntie, high-heeled & pregnant, wins MVP of night >>>



<<Chocopeeps = crazy delicious





After the pinata bashing, we spilled out onto the sidewalk to wait for our ride and were a little shell shocked by the daylight. Also, the harsh light only emphasized my latest self-tanning disaster that had turned my skin into the color of Velveeta. Luckily, it was short-lived because...cue 50 Cent...

Our ghetto fabulous white Escalade limo came rolling down Chestnut Street in all of its tawdry splendor. The mere sight of the great white monstrosity set off an imaginary soundtrack in my head the rest of the evening. Whenever we exited the limo, the opening notes of “Beep” by Pussy Cat Dolls floated up. And whenever we got back in, it was the Beastie Boys’ “Check Yourself before you Wreck Yourself.” We swung by Southie to pick up Nicola and then headed to West Street for dinner and reveling.


In a surprise cameo, Peg and Lisa joined us for dinner. On the flip side, my brother missed a scheduled cameo. He’d fallen asleep only to be awoken around 11 p.m. to a voicemail from me and LP, who were – in his words – “singing, possibly rapping, hard to tell.”


Upon further investigation, I learned it was an obscure rap song from the 80s movie Dragnet. “Well excuse me, copper, mr. crime stopper, what is wrong with what I am doin'? We just like to dance in our goat skin pants, around these ancient ruins.” The reason for this remains unclear but LP's theory is she told my brother to "Get off the hopper" and was compelled to rhyme, almost involuntarily.


I don’t know know when the view changed but after comparing self-tanning accidents with a woman in the ladies room, I emerged to find the dancefloor had morphed into something resembling a giant chicken fight set to music. There were too many limbs and too little rhythm – a phenomenon that occurs when you cram too many white people into a small space with a DJ. Young men in big boy blazers jammed the frequencies and the bathroom line snaked around the dancefloor like a stalled conga line. In short, it was time to check ourselves before we wreck ourselves and roll out. Then, in lieu of a late night dance party at Chez MoHo, some *deleted scenes* and a bottle of vino. Ow, my head.

Afterthoughts: * I hope my self tanner didn’t leave a Shroud of Turin-like imprint on Cameo’s Aerobed * If anyone’s looking for LP, she’ll be sorting herself out at the Betty Ford Clinic for the next 10 days.

I Totally Blew my Diet

Yeah, that's right -- I ate the whole damn bag. I'm a textbook yo-yo dieter and have been engaged in an unhealthy pattern of emotional eating since I had my junk "fixed" at Angell Memorial a few years ago. A number of factors contributed to today's binge, however. First, I didn't get any cardio. It was raining and my mom was hungover. Second, it was a friggin' take-out fest in here and some people who will remain nameless are not big on sharing because of my "weight problem." "Oooh..don't give Vito any chicken cacciatore..he's too fat." For the record, I am big boned and have a slow metabolism. Such negative adjectives only lead to negative self talk on my part and the next thing you know, I'm popping 600 lb Gorilla doughballs like Prozac. So can you blame me for getting my snuggle on with a sack of Teddy Grahams today? As soon as I finish licking the crumbs out of my nose wrinkle, I'm on baby carrots the rest of the week.

"Three Things" Quizzilla

I stole this quizzilla from another website. In its entirety, it features 20+ "three things" and I'll break them up over the next few weeks so as not to overwhelm.

1) Three things I plan to do before I die:
Write a book, spend a year in Italy, maybe raise some Alpacas

2) Three things I can do:
Play the piano (poorly), ice skate, whip up cold hors d'oeuvres on a moment's notice

3) Three things I cannot do:
Sing (well), snowboard, go to bed early

4) Three things I notice/find attractive about the opposite sex:
Eyes, humor/wit, lack of pretense

5) Three books I love:
The Awakening by Kate Chopin, The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway, The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion.

APRIL 19th, 1968

("Happy Buuurrthdaay..." Caroline sings)







(...to yooou." Paulie wields crooked finger inherited from Mama)




April 19th is a date on the calendar that has yielded many landmark events: The Waco fiasco ('93), the Oklahoma City bombing ('95) and the Columbine school shooting ('99). It seems incongruous that it also the date of James' birthday ('68) -- but this is an event that may help combat all the negative energy floating around out there today. Some JimmyFacts: A healing man and an Aries with Libra rising * Has infinite patience but when pushed has been known to cross golf courses to confront loud mouth jackasses * Unbearable winner who is still gloating over taking first place in a Master's tournament pool last week * Bats right, throws left * Scary lucky * Lawn tractors seemingly fall from the sky when his conks out * Sometimes blares Grateful Dead songs on the laptop when I'm trying to watch The Abrams Report * 38 years old today * Grateful TomKitten was born yesterday and did not add one more freakish event to the date of April 19th.

Tour De Crazy II Revs Up

To every season, turn, turn, turn.

It was one year ago this spring that TomKat officially blossomed and spread like a schizophrenic weed through summer and fall.

Then it was as if someone released a tank of Round Up into the atmosphere: TomKat went dormant, emerging here and there for a few staged photos of the couple engaged in uncomfortable PDA or Katie in various stages of balloonage.

(photo: Heir Incubator Katie appears to be carrying sextuplets or harboring a zeppelin >>>)

While many wished upon stars for TomKat to disappear, others -- prone to morbid fascination (myself included) -- were left longing for the heyday of last summer. Who could forget Cruise's Tour De Crazy '05 when the vertically-challenged actor cut a swath of career destruction through media outlets here and abroad. He bashed psychology, prosthelytized about Scientology and generally acted like a crazy person, jumping around like Gollum in close proximity to the Ring at the mere mention of Katie Holmes.

But springtime brings rejuvenation. With MI3 due out in May and his first biological (I use that adj. lightly) child due imminently, Cruise is poised to kick off Tour De Crazy II this spring. And if the early previews are any indication, this tour could be twice as whack as last year’s.

Previews:

-Last month, Cruise rode a motorcycle onto a German television show. He likely regarded Germany as a safe haven to re-enter the movie publicity realm as it is a country that regards David Hasselhoff as some kind of hairy messiah.

-An April 9th Parade Magazine article describes Katie as "walking around looking dazed and vacant." Next month's issue of GQ shows the pair twirling about in the desert, groping one another in testimony to their fake-love.
Random Aside: I've always been suspicious of anyone who is constantly doing PR for his/her relationship. This is a classic example.

-A few weeks ago, the news broke about secret "silent birth" rituals and how Cruise was supposedly having an adult-sized binky made for Katie to shut her up during childbirth.

Then, last Friday, Cruise appeared on PrimeTime with Diane Sawyer. I don't know if his publicist spoke to him sharply beforehand or if he took two Valium with a side of Ritalin, but he was much more sedate than we've grown accustomed to. Nevertheless, he's still juiced up on his own self-importance and comes off as a total control freak. For instance, when he said of the impending birth: “If Katie needs an epidural. She’ll get an epidural." -- I didn’t quite believe him. My guess is that he’ll give her some cupcakes and tell her to keep quiet.

Random prediction: Katie will be post-partum and throngs of “Free Katie” zealots will descend upon Cruise’s home trying to smuggle her some Wellbutrin.

During the interview, Cruise also discusses how the tenets of Scientology helped him overcome a learning disability. He said that nobody should disrespect something that worked for him just because they think Scientology is a pseudo-religion. I totally agree. BUT...Antidepressant drugs have helped many people overcome post-partum depression, ADHD, anxiety and a host of other mood disorders. He should not disrespect what worked for them just because he thinks psychology is a pseudo-science. He loses his right to complain about being disrespected when he's being so blatantly disrespectful. I have nothing against Scientology and I'm quite fond of crazy people, but I can't stand hypocrites.

That said, if Matt Lauer gets to interview Cruise again this summer, I'm going to need a crash helmet.

La Pinata Vacia

At Caroline's birthday party last weekend, there was mucho controversia surrounding the Dora Pinata. While decorating for the party, I hung the pinata from the chandelier so it would hover over the table; I thought it was a festive touch in a room filled with yellow streamers, a Dora cake and "fiesta bowls" filled with Starburst jelly beans. However, James immediately pointed out that it looked like Dora had committed suicide in the dining room. In his defense, it did. But I was confident the three-foot toddlers would appreciate it from a much less morbid angle. They did, and by all accounts, couldn't wait to bust that pint-size seniorita open.

Toward the end of the party, the kids gathered out on the driveway. James held Dora way up high and each child -- already hopped up on chocolate after a mind-blowing Easter egg hunt -- enthusiastically grabbed a string. Caroline shouted "pull! pull! pull! and just like that, they tore the pinata open. Nothing. James began shaking it. Nada. It became abundantly clear that the pinata was empty. Vacia. The kids, while confused, remained huddled in position, waiting for candy and toys to shoot out of Dora's bottom.

"But..but the people at the party store told me it had candy in it," I said to the outer circle of adults, moms and dads who were entertained yet astonished by my cluelessness.

"Hellooo? why do you think they sell the $9.99 filler bags?" said one mama. Filler bags? I don't remember seeing filler bags in the vicinty but then again, I'd been distracted at the store by a lifesize cardboard cut-out of David Ortiz which was, quite frankly, a little unsettling. Also, the clerk at ITZAPARTY made my question seem like some kind of party foul. "Of course it has candy in it. It's a pinata." She told me it had party favors in it too. Clearly, she could have told me it was full of unicorns and fairies and I'd have probably believed her.

Luckily, I'd over-purchased Easter candy. I ran upstairs, grabbed a Ziploc full of individually-wrapped mini Reeses, M&M eggs and Hershey's kisses, ran back outside and without hesitation, flung fistfuls of candy into the air like confetti. Crisis overted.





Here are a few pre-pinata shots of 14 kids -- all under age 5 -- running amok in the backyard. Together, they all created a game that involved dragons, princesses and a pygmy marmoset. Oh and Vito as "Baby Jaguar." I have to tell you, these kids know how to party.

B-Mania

(photo: Pre-show at Orleans with Davis Square riff-raff Tom & Dawnie.)

It's hard not to get fired up for a night out these days, but when the night out involves anything remotely connected to the Beatles, things tend to get a bit bashy. It's a niche joy - like Beatlejuice at Johnny D's, "Breakfast with the Beatles" on Saturday mornings, or wine-fueled sing-a-longs in LP's kitchen. And Beatlemania at the Somerville Theatre on Saturday night fit such niche.

When I first caught this tribute show back in 1987, my friends and I were the youngest people there. Now, 19 years later it was refreshing to note we were still the youngest people in the house. It was a little botox for the soul for us, the oldest people at The Dise.

There was a different vibe to this show, however. It was less loungey, more Star Trek Conventionish with an audience comprised of burnouts and gray-haired hippies shouting out requests at inappropriate moments.

Also, a local group home wheeled in about 10 wheelchair-bound patients and parked them directly in front of the stage, which unfortunately for them, was about as fun as sitting in the first row at the movies. They all looked bullshit. Sitting to my right was Mark, who had an unexpectedly high-pitched voice, sort of like Gil Onwochei from WSC (pow!) minus the bling and jheri curl. He smelled like dry cleaning chemicals.

The band played three sets: 1) Moptop era with songs from Meet the Beatles through Revolver. 2) The Sgt. Pepper/Magical Mystery Tour acid trip phase with the flashy homoerotic duds, and 3) Abbey Road/Let it Be where they all look like different versions of Charles Manson.


As a rule, the band sticks very closely to the script, but that did not stop one gravelly-voiced homeless woman from screaming out "Hey Jude" after every song.

The band ended up playing the song as an encore, right after the lady left the building. Still, while the ambiance was a little rough around the edges, the music was like butter. Huge Highlight: Gorgeous rendition of "It's Only Love," which is one of my all-time favorite Beatles tunes, and "I am the Walrus," which sent my seat-neighbor Mark into a chair frenzy.


<< The dude who played George Harrison flashed his googly-eyed pervy mug at the ladies all night long.

Just a Reminder...

...IT'S FRIDAY.









*Courtesy of Jess

One Month from Today...

What would Jen Walsh have done?

(photo: "Next time, I'll cut you.)

A grand jury has convened in the case of Congresswoman Cynthia McKinney who punched a Capitol police officer that grabbed her after she repeatedly ignored his requests to stop at a security checkpoint at the Capitol building last week. Apparently, the officer didn't recognize McKinney as she strode past the metal detectors and viewed her as a potential security breach. When he tried to stop her, she clocked him, but ironically -- it's her weave that is all out of joint. The representative from Georgia is now saying this was not an incident of mistaken identity but one of racial profiling. Apparently such cases of mistaken identity between members of Congress -- whether black, white, Latino, or Amish -- and security officers are "quite common" but McKinney rather blow smoke instead of accepting any responsibility for her role in the scuffle.



Instead of just apologizing like a big girl and moving on, she is diminishing the very real problem of racial profiling with its dubious application here. This was not some routine traffic stop in Georgetown, but the Capitol Building -- the intended target of hijacked Flight 93. It seems to me McKinney is more pissed off about not being recognized than anything else. She's employing the "Don't you know who I am? defense with an arrogance that comes standard with some politicians who have been in office too long.

In an ideal world, security officers would have photographic memories and would never be in a position where they'd have to question themselves. At one time, we've all wanted to sucker punch that bumbling security guard at our office building who never remembers our faces and forces us to dig through our purses for our IDs when we're rushing to a meeting. The difference is, most people don't sucker punch their workplace security guards -- especially in a post-9/11 world.

In the world of September 10th, one would have had more leeway. For instance, when Jennifer Walsh, having been repeatedly asked for her building ID from the toothless, "blonde-profiling" security guard at One South Station, got fed up and lashed out, "My ID is upstairs with your two front teeth!" Then she jumped on the elevator and rapidly pressed the close door button. He never asked for the ID again.

Rapid-Fire Quizzilla

1) If you could wake up tomorrow in another country, where would you want to be? Italia. Positano.

2) What was your senior prom theme?
"Lean on Me" by Club Nouveau

3) What is your astrological sign?
Sagittarius w/Leo rising. Is there anyone who didn't know that?

4) Title of your autobiography:
Faith & Substitutes

5) What does the shape of a triangle make you think of?
Bert from Sesame Street

Birthday Girl

Look at Miss Thing. She was so worth the 27 hours of labor and emergency C-section. Sweet Caroline turns 3 today and she's coming off a frosting high after two family birthday cakes this weekend. Next Sunday -- the Dora Pinata. Vamonos, amigos!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOVEY!

Donut Holes

The town of Wellesley’s character is under threat. According to town officials, this threat is “all the more alarming because it seemed to slip below the radar.” Although the hysterical language would suggest otherwise, this threat is not an Al-Qaeda cell or a giant Methadone clinic…it’s a Dunkin Donuts.

Some townspeople are claiming the traditional New England -- albeit ubiquitous -- coffee-and-donut chain will tarnish Wellesley’s quaint center of town (i.e, Central Street, which is home to tres chic establishments like the Gap and CVS). I understand that an unsightly neon orange-and-pink sign could blight the landscape but this Dunkies, which is several blocks away from the center of town, is hardly uncouth. It is housed in a red brick building where fresh flowers are displayed in a bay window. Its sign is neither large nor neon but tiny, wooden and understated in black and gold (see photo above). It’s clear the owner considered design and context here -- otherwise, it'd look like this.

The bottom line: You'd really have to make a concerted effort to be offended by this particular Dunkin Donuts.

Still to some town officials, its mere existence, however inconspicuous, will bring an infestation of acrylic nails and gelled mullets to Central Street and cast a grungy pall over the entire town of Wellesley. Perhaps it’s a deluded sense of entitlement or extreme insecurity that leads people to rise up in righteous indignation over a donut shop. I just don’t know. The irony here is that this “call to arms” is all in the name of “character” – and such a graceless, elitist cause indicates quite the opposite. It's petty.

To a rational person, such passion and outcry would be better channeled elsewhere. Are there no real problems to tackle in this town? Have these people ever tried a Supreme Omelet sandwich?


“What this was for us was a huge wake-up call," said Selectman and Big Poser David J. Himmelberger, who is in desperate need of getting over himself. This jerk graduated from UMass Amherst so you know he’s had more than his share of large regulars at Dunkin's rest stops on the Mass Pike. Also, in the real world, a “wake-up” call would be catching your 9 year old consuming a 12-pack, not a dozen munchkins.

Still, it seems these town officials’ main responsibility is to sit around waiting to be outraged by something distasteful. Then, leading by example, they seek to provide a lesson to unwashed outsiders on the importance of character. I think these people could learn something about character from Dunkin Donuts. While it lacks panache, Dunks is not trying too hard to be something it’s not. But this is clearly a foreign concept to this town where some are so obsessed with appearances they’ve lost their grip on reality.