tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137211212024-03-07T18:12:49.354-05:00the pointy universemusings from a clenched soul with a crooked fingerKJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.comBlogger634125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-16045160499860984222013-04-22T15:12:00.003-04:002013-04-22T15:57:00.654-04:00"We Outnumber You"<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Patriots' Day, the best ones anyway, always start at Fenway and end on Boylston Street. It's a quintessentially Boston rite of spring, a day when it's perfectly acceptable to be a little drunk and two hot dogs deep before noon. After the game, you file out and shuffle up Ipswich Street toward Boylston and maybe stop at Bukowski's for one more glass depending upon the crowds. Then you reconvene on the corner of Boylston and Hereford to watch the runners - friends, family or strangers -- take that final triumphant turn onto Boylston where they can see the finish line within reach. It's electric. All of it. It feels like the city is waking up. I love that tradition. Haven't participated in several years but I know I will next year!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So last week. WTF. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It feels like 10 years ago. It's been seven days. How is it only seven days?</span></div>
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I've had all this manic energy. I have been practicing my standard issue therapy -- walking with loud music -- but so many times this week, I've walked in the door only to turn around and head back out again needing to walk some more, turn the music up even louder. Burn this off! </div>
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I thought about starting to run but then remembered that I get tired slicing french bread, so I won't insult the real runners and will stick to what I know. I had to write something out to exorcise some demons.</div>
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Last Monday, we were en route home from the Bahamas and all of us were a little grumpy that vacation was over. Around 3:30, we were in the air making our final descent into Boston and I said to James, "At least we got home without some major news event going down." Cue the breaking news banner flashing across the little seat back TV. </div>
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On 9/11, we were in Italy and couldn't get home for five days. Two years ago, we were in the Bahamas when they caught Bin Laden. And while that was not a tragedy, it still involved chasing a Hello Kitty suitcase around baggage claim surrounded by the National Guard and automatic weapons. </div>
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Now, here we are in a holding pattern over the city not sure if we were going to be able to land. Luckily, we were circling our old neighborhood so we could distract the kids from the screens. "Look, there is our old house!" "There is Nana and Papa's old house. It's such a nice day, maybe we can see Jim and Mike working in the garden." We were the last plane to land before the full ground stop. And cell service was temporarily suspended. </div>
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Deja vu all over again with panic: On 9/11 we couldn't get a call home and had no idea who was on the planes from Boston or working in NYC. This time: Who was at the Marathon today? The Sox game? Too many family members and friends to name. It just reactivated all of those fun emotional souvenirs.</div>
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A few weeks ago I was at the Today Show with Caroline for her birthday. Going through security, Carrie was easily waved through with her cute sign for Al Roker. I know I don't look fierce but I was a bit perturbed by the ineffectual glance at my purse. For those who know me, I'm always packing heavy and this time was no exception; my purse could easily accommodate a small goat. I was thinking, "Rummage, man, rummage!" Recently, I was having coffee with a friend who said he if he was ever going to rob something, it wouldn't be a bank but a Starbuck's. My response was something akin to, "What the hell is wrong with you," but there on the plaza my immediate thought was of how easy it would be to blow this place up. Now, these are two fleeting thoughts from people who don't rob or pillage or blow things up. Imagine what people with actual intentions are thinking? The sentiment didn't linger, but it's always there. </div>
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All of it might make you want to "shelter in place" voluntarily.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But this is where things take a turn. Last Friday, everyone's first priority was taking care of each other. Everyone stayed home, clearing a path for law enforcement to get their jobs done. And in a way, it was some much-needed hang time for most of the city. A snow day. While nothing can take away the tragedy, the way the city, the country, humankind responded brought some comfort. People reacted with love and kindness. (BTW, One Fund Boston raised more than $10 million in less than 24 hours which is amazing. Wow!) </span></div>
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I'm as quick to complain about as I am to defend our Bostonians. Provincial, aloof. Sure, there are plenty of people who live in their bubbles and wouldn't give you a glass of water if you were on fire, but many, many more astound with the depth of their kindness and humanity. They outnumber.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">Lovable actor Patton Oswald wrote a <a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/national/archive/2013/04/patton-oswalt-on-the-boston-marathon-bombing/275015/" target="_blank">very inspiring post</a> on his blog and I'm taking his words "We Outnumber you" as a mantra going forward. An excerpt: "T</span>he vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago. So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear of just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, 'The good outnumber you, and we always will.'"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, on that note, I am starting a list of the good things that happened this week. Feel free to add anything I've left out. </span></div>
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-Dedham artist Peter Reynolds said it best: </div>
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<a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2013/04/16/look_for_the_helpers_mister_rogers_quote_a_brief_history.html" target="_blank">Mr. Rogers' "Look for the helpers" message</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7ma1v0FC7oknVhfuQ4RlNux1vUP5Zl_HiuYqS8scDsvhEi5xB0tp_s_k-8Cy88iTFh5NgE__7MHLcWNn_mYRFdTGLOqGI2a9ZKpxWfr8j1LNZjP7cUxuKFns8hXm0oTJq5b__A/s1600/rene.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7ma1v0FC7oknVhfuQ4RlNux1vUP5Zl_HiuYqS8scDsvhEi5xB0tp_s_k-8Cy88iTFh5NgE__7MHLcWNn_mYRFdTGLOqGI2a9ZKpxWfr8j1LNZjP7cUxuKFns8hXm0oTJq5b__A/s1600/rene.jpg" /></a><rene b="" rancourt:=""><b>Rene Rancourt:</b> A Boston institution. I love that he still tarts up in in a tux, greases up his 'stache and belts out the national anthem before Bruins' games (and no more so than this weekend when the crowd sang with him). I've always had a mild obsession with Rene and I still wonder what he does during the day. What's he doing right now? I met him years ago and he was so effusive and lovely. I had an 8x10 black and white framed photo of him in my living room in my Brighton apartment and it got more attention than if it'd been a piece of fine art. I believe someone once referred to it as "The best f*cking thing I've ever seen." Then one night we had a party and somebody stole it. Who would do that? </rene></div>
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<b>Gov. Patrick: </b> "The grace this tragedy exposed is the best of who we are."</div>
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People rushing to give blood in the immediate aftermath. Spectators helping alongside EMS.</div>
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Unbelievable law enforcement. Who doesn't want to give Commissioner Ed Davis a bear hug?</div>
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<b>David "This is our f*cking city" Ortiz. </b></div>
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<b>Sweet Caroline at Fenway and Yankee Stadium</b> (although my own Sweet Caroline is worried sick that her music teacher is going to make them sing that today. She gets embarrassed). </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/tv-column/post/jon-stewart-stephen-colbert-address-boston-bombings/2013/04/17/da78eba4-a76d-11e2-a8e2-5b98cb59187f_blog.html" target="_blank">Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart</a></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mike Barnicle and Kevin Cullen</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAznrZC6Y5U" target="_blank">This video</a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So much more...Carry on!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A teacher once told me (and I always repeat this to my kids), "Don't let people get you down because they lack imagination." I loved that and it's so true. Don't let the bad nature/evil/doucheyness of others infect your spirit. Don't let the bastards get you down. The only way to beat the bad guys is to rise above them. They are outnumbered! Continued and constant prayers for all of the families and love, light and peace to all. ~KJ</span></div>
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**And BTW, this incident has reawakened my anger over my Rene Rancourt photo. The suspects were caught within 24 hours after FBI video was released so I'm sending out an APB on the PU. I don't want it back, I just want to know why. :) </span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-4427556450316461092012-03-15T11:29:00.002-04:002012-03-15T11:36:40.174-04:00Random Quizzilla<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Happy Ides of March! Feels like a lunch hour quizzilla today...</span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>1. Do you remember the first viral video you ever watched? </b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes. It still makes me laugh out loud, especially the prairie dogger in the neighboring cubicle. I have a day like this at least once a week.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>2. Do you trust your first impressions?</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've learned to. Nine out of 10 times when I take the "benefit of the doubt" route, I regret it and subsequently suffer a visible disdain for other humans. It's gotten easier and I have some helpful hints: If som</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">eone seems to sharpen invisible weapons in your presence - Run. If someone is using the loo in your house and you get the sneaking suspicion they're installing a secret toilet cam - Run. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3. Who’s the biggest DB celebrity? </b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Patricia Heaton. Graceless shitstack. It must suck to hate women so much and be one at the same time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0e0e0e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>4. Write a haiku about your driving skills.</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0e0e0e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Don’t hit that mailbox<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0e0e0e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Panicked curb-grazing sucka<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0e0e0e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Pass the Ativan<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0e0e0e;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0e0e0e; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0e0e0e; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>5. What movie do you find yourself quoting over and over again? </b><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0e0e0e; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0e0e0e; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0105415/" target="_blank"><i>"</i>Singles"</a> is probably the movie I quote from the most. Lines from that movie are on a loop in my internal lexicon. A close second is <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0218839/" target="_blank">"Best in Show</a>." "<i>He went after her like she was made of ham</i>." (Usually said in reference to Vito and his neighborhood paramours, canine or human). And of course, "Jaws." <i>Always</i> Jaws.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-73569029942554232152011-11-18T14:10:00.003-05:002011-11-20T14:45:11.651-05:00Times Like These<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinx81rC86x7M0Wlft2aga2VZF57eeZ_NZaZCyHqGJ5wP3tkZMClIx1uBHIeeFgMm96DhwjLu_9FVImGToaeUNtEIa3OC1b4KYCns6NnsZV8UoSvlXhyjA87j8vDc4h-nuib0AZ1g/s1600/Grohl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinx81rC86x7M0Wlft2aga2VZF57eeZ_NZaZCyHqGJ5wP3tkZMClIx1uBHIeeFgMm96DhwjLu_9FVImGToaeUNtEIa3OC1b4KYCns6NnsZV8UoSvlXhyjA87j8vDc4h-nuib0AZ1g/s320/Grohl.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My hearing still hasn’t returned. I still sound like </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://img2-2.timeinc.net/ew/dynamic/imgs/030408/93210__harvey_l.jpg">Harvey Fierstein</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. I’m still taking ibuprofen for some overall body aches sustained during the three-hour Foo Fighters show at the Garden on Wed night.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was well worth the agony.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the record, the aches and pains aren’t from hurling myself off the balcony onto the hydraulic lift where Dave Grohl performed his acoustic set. (Though if I were more spry, it could’ve happened.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We were an assorted bunch in our friend Andy’s company box. Life-long friends, some random cops, two amateur porn stars that one of our friends brought as dates (“We had to come together, we’re a threesome.” OK.), and a couple in their 60s who were all prim, swaddled in sweaters and suede. All prim, that is, until the Foo’s first chord smacked them upside the head. Next thing you knew they were rocking out huge, as if high on bath salts. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Early on, I was certain someone was going overboard, knocked off the balcony by an overenthusiastic hip check or a flailing limb. For a few songs, I bounced around, white knuckled behind the highest glass partition. But soon I was confident I would float off the balcony, and not crash headfirst onto the unassuming Foosters below. Thank you, high spirits.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve always loved the Foo Fighters but the Dave Grohl issues are well documented. The man is pure energy and hotness. The music was loud, the pace frenetic. The show, beginning to end, was an all-out assault on the senses. Grohl used the whole arena as his stage, granting everyone a piece of his intensity. On the big screen, we got some gratuitous close ups of him, head banging and wailing on his guitar and letting loose his trademark throaty growls. We saw Taylor Hawkins beating the living shite out of his drumkit and screaming into his mic. For a while, we ladies in the front row of the box could only stare, transfixed by rock star magic. We were absorbed into the show and were on the inside of the music looking out. It was getting hot and tingly in there.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLhJ9lUVAJ_pSVdSYCAIYd_roIrtflJdE76KgYGsJTw69l6LlV9Kae7jR2z4819MrWA_Plqx4Mrqm2Pdf1HNjTU5FHhmUi0R2kBM1RC8J7guCrxYxXXkRu8THlfPdiq5liAiVWw/s1600/photo-41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuLhJ9lUVAJ_pSVdSYCAIYd_roIrtflJdE76KgYGsJTw69l6LlV9Kae7jR2z4819MrWA_Plqx4Mrqm2Pdf1HNjTU5FHhmUi0R2kBM1RC8J7guCrxYxXXkRu8THlfPdiq5liAiVWw/s320/photo-41.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woo hoo, rock star magic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJm6TNe_TkloHXf_jubIUVY_5H_7oqMD-FBF6loG4i2C1v7hoE3mkTi9nCewKOOoXktVV0Ibnr719pnDN-L_QHA2RFXc8FAJYqrhbn5Xhg8IiNdXnwZcTnk5WBKxJem4Qdg8xVw/s1600/IMG_0363.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTJm6TNe_TkloHXf_jubIUVY_5H_7oqMD-FBF6loG4i2C1v7hoE3mkTi9nCewKOOoXktVV0Ibnr719pnDN-L_QHA2RFXc8FAJYqrhbn5Xhg8IiNdXnwZcTnk5WBKxJem4Qdg8xVw/s320/IMG_0363.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James has hair<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Soon, however, everyone in the box, even James, had violated the “Hands over Head” rule</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Aside: The “Hands Over Head Rule” was created by my brother several years ago as a benchmark of self preservation. It’s typically applied to dancing, but can be applied anywhere when you're out. The moment you raise your hands over your head, it’s time to go home.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the Herald's early review of the show, the critic wrote something like "It's the 20<sup>th</sup> anniversary of Nirvana’s 'Nevermind,' but when you see the Foo Fighters live, you can't help but think, 'Nirvana who?' So true. Grohl won’t be remembered as the drummer from Nirvana, but as one of the great rock stars in his own right. In 16 years, he’s more than earned that. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>“The fact that he can keep that up is fucking ridiculous.”</i> -- DT on Grohl’s tireless energy. And he never appeared to break a sweat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The songs: A back-to-back trio of some favorites --- “The Pretender,” “My Hero” (which included the loudest sing-a-long I’ve ever heard), and “Learn to Fly.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The acoustic set with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JY8WxH_km0E">“Best of You”</a> (raw and awesome) and “Wheels.” I’d entirely forgotten about the song “Wheels.” You never hear it on the radio and the band said they never play it live because the only people who like it are the Germans. That was proved false. The band said if the audience sang the chorus louder than the Germans, they’d promise to play a small dive bar in Boston the next time they're in town. Apparently, we'll see them at Sully's Tap some time in the near future. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Other favorites: “<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPHzknP7jNQ">These Days</a>,” which Grohl said was the most favorite song that he’s ever written. “Walk,” which is uplifting and a regular on all of my playlists. A bluesy cover of Tom Petty’s “Breakdown” which was absolutely riveting and even had the random cops on their feet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know I’m leaving so much out, there are too many stand outs to mention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There were some long meandering guitar solos that were a bit much, but the high-energy more than compensated for them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The band closed the show with the the rocking, frantic "Everlong." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The chorus: </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"<i>And I wonder, when I sing along with you</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If everything could ever feel this real forever</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If anything could ever be this good again."</span></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This left a box full of concert veterans asking the very same questions.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Breaking it Down</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Without getting all “Nowadays” and “Get off my Lawn-ish” – I will say Grohl does seem like he’s from another time. You don’t get these types of shows any more. Bands don’t put that much effort into it. To play a three-hour show, including a six-song encore on the final date of a long US tour is unheard of. The last time these sweaty, marathon shows were prevalent was in the 70s and 80s when arena rock was mainstream, before Kiss 108 and country crossovers became king. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Earlier this year, Grohl said, “Just because rock ‘n’ roll isn’t No. 1 in the commercial mainstream doesn’t mean it’s gone. All I know is what rock ’n’ roll means to me. It’s this living, breathing thing that you can see in someone’s eye.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s this passion for his music that was so striking on Wednesday night. (And did I mention he was hot?) While the set list was identical to many other shows on the tour, there was never a sense that the songs were well-worn, never a hint of been-there-done-that. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s clear from his energy and enthusiasm that Grohl loves what he does, and it’s clear he wants his audience to share in the love. At one point, he joked: “I hate all this attention. It sucks. Being a rock star is such torture. I just want to go home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After more than a year of touring, they could've easily phoned it in and gone home with zero repercussions. But instead, as a three-year-old Paulie once said, the Foo Fighters always "break it down and bring it home." </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>PU Flashback: Paulie, 3 ½, bringing it home with his best Dave Grohl mugs and moves</b><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Set list, Nov. 16 2011</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Bridge Burning </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rope </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Pretender </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My Hero </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Learn to Fly </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">White Limo </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Arlandria </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Breakout </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cold Day in the Sun </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Stacked Actors </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Walk </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Monkey Wrench </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let It Die </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These Days </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is a Call </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the Flesh? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Pink Floyd cover)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All My Life </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Encore:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wheels </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Dave Grohl acoustic)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Best of You </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Dave Grohl acoustic)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Times Like These </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Dave Grohl solo acoustic into full band)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dear Rosemary </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Breakdown </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Tom Petty cover)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everlong</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-18263451530983530722011-11-16T12:52:00.001-05:002011-11-16T14:09:24.609-05:00Updates: "Keep Calm and Carry On"<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Like intuition, writing/journaling is a muscle that needs to be flexed to stay strong. I sat down a few weeks ago to churn out a post and realized I’d become completely blog atrophied. So, here are a few narcissistic updates to clear the cobwebs before (hopefully) getting back to the business of the PU.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Update #1:</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> I tried to start the PU back up again earlier this year and then kind of puttered out. Somewhere between March and September, I fell through the cracks of society. I spent a lot of time light deprived in my basement office, unshowered beneath a dropped ceiling. There, I toiled away in my little cubby with exposed insulation hanging like a fluffy pink thundercloud over my head. (Good morning, fiberglass.) I shuffled to and from the kitchen for tea refills on the shattered remains of Wii games that have become encrusted in the carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Encrusted</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> because I still can’t vacuum without having to lie down. I got winded slicing a crusty baguette at a friend’s birthday party a few months ago. The physical atrophy remains and is hopefully the next to go.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Update #2</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">: Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been having a ball, living a bit too high on the hog and justifying it like Steve Dunne: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I’m not wiggy. This is hang time. I’m regrouping and thinking about regrouping.” </i> All the while becoming one hot stone pedicure shy of insolvency. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">During the day, I was carrying on like Brett Ashley, enjoying long lunches and day drinking at the Scarlet Oak with my other friends down here beneath the cracks. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Update #3:</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> At some point over the summer, I morphed into Donatella Versace. This video hits a little too close to the mark.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><object height="360px" width="425px"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/><param name="movie" value="http://mediaservices.myspace.com/services/media/embed.aspx/m=50231906,t=1,mt=video"/><embed src="http://mediaservices.myspace.com/services/media/embed.aspx/m=50231906,t=1,mt=video" width="425" height="360" allowFullScreen="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent"></embed></object></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Update #4:</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> So, I was having a lot of fun practicing these avoidance behaviors, knowing full well they were unsustainable. I’ve had up to three jobs, coupled with full-time momma hood. Running frantic, willy-nilly, undisciplined in a non-routine. In a million places at once and never truly “present” in any of them. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Update #5:</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Rotational neglect has its side effects.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I mumble to myself when I’m out in public like some cracked-out degenerate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">It’s been taking an unreasonable amount of mental gymnastics to write a simple paragraph. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Update #6:</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Rotational neglect causes anxiety. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My counselor/energy healer who is like a Cesar Millan for humans has been helping me see the upside of anxiety. Take your natural neuroses and channel them into something productive. If you don’t mix it up now and again, life stagnates and you never leave your comfort zone. I’ve seen what that looks like. It’s cringe worthy.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The freelance lifestyle isn’t working anymore. I need a place to show up, at least a few days a week.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Keep Calm and Carry On”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Sometimes you receive little signs, flashes of intuition, that gently nudge you toward a certain path. Sometimes you get actual, concrete signs that become a new mantra.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Over the summer, I found a card with a portly pug on it. The pug was wearing a sign around his burly chest: “Don’t Feed the Pug.” The photo’s caption: “Keep Calm and Carry On.” I was familiar with the photo because I’ve had an 8x10 glossy of it posted over Vito’s food dish in my kitchen for 5 years. It was the October photo on a 2006 calendar, except the caption on mine is: “Round Mound of Hound.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">“Keep Calm and Carry On.” I liked the sentiment so much that I stuck it on my whiteboard as a wee mantra.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">About two months ago, I got a part-time job at a local make-up and skincare boutique. I’d been looking for a way to supplement my infrequent freelance checks, and honestly, just wanted to have someplace to be other than my basement office. At the very least, I figured being surrounded by anti-aging products would keep the inner hag at bay.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">To the contrary, it awakened her. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The last time I worked in retail, it was 2001. It was pre-kids, pre LOTS of things, pre the past two years of shite. Pre-perspective. So, after spending a few Saturdays being run ragged by a mannerless and self-entitled clientele (a.k.a missing my kids’ games to wait on hags), I realized that this was not going to work. Either that or that I was going to end up going all <a href="http://pointyuniverse.blogspot.com/2007/02/ki-ya.html">Ninja</a> with a bottle of Glycolic Wash on the next person who came in with Wellbutrin eyes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I walked to my car that evening, quietly berating myself for making another poor occupational decision, even a part-time one. I was wondering if I could even trust myself to make the right one; to not waste my precious times on things that are clearly not right. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">There’s a store near the boutique where I covet everything in the front window. They sell trendy clothes, bags, cool jewelry, trinkets, vintage reproductions of old signs, old postcards with kitzy bumperstick philosophy and punchlines: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Childproofed My House But They’re still Getting In.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlNhrVNN4XxET9yJ1qmLJmY-mDNn6P7UzIU83HStwFOmxUI1UUMRnQDLclWQq_cnudzs9Z_goM5mGcqVCQ25Ks5Bn0Kp98QFXdXPXeeyJxG78E8cFcdh5BHi6ZUfz93VVDZxE5w/s1600/photo-40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlNhrVNN4XxET9yJ1qmLJmY-mDNn6P7UzIU83HStwFOmxUI1UUMRnQDLclWQq_cnudzs9Z_goM5mGcqVCQ25Ks5Bn0Kp98QFXdXPXeeyJxG78E8cFcdh5BHi6ZUfz93VVDZxE5w/s1600/photo-40.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">This night, right there in the window, like a blue and white beacon, was a painted sign, blaring my mantra: “Keep Calm and Carry On.” I ran inside and purchased it, along with some vintage postcards. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Keep Calm and Carry On. There is still a certain weariness (as Pablo says) here, but I’m continuing to clear out the cobwebs and get back (as the Beatles say).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">So, PU, let’s try this again...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-73572514573930012652011-11-10T20:52:00.000-05:002011-11-10T20:52:28.194-05:00I'm Tired of Chickens<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; height: 100%; left: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; min-height: 1em; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: auto; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1px; right: 0px; top: 0px; width: 100%;"><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;"> *** A pre-post poem from Pablo Neruda says it all, but I will say it in my own words as soon as possible. More of my own nonsense coming soon. *** </div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;">Excuse the melodrama; I've been drinking. </div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;">I love this.</div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;">"A Certain Weariness" by Pablo Neruda</div><div style="color: black; line-height: normal;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I don't want to be tired alone,<br />
I want you to grow tired along with me.<br />
<br />
How can we not be weary<br />
of the kind of fine ash<br />
which falls on cities in autumn,<br />
something which doesn't quite burn,<br />
which collects in jackets<br />
and little by little settles,<br />
discoloring the heart.<br />
<br />
I'm tired of the harsh sea<br />
and the mysterious earth.<br />
<b>I'm tired of chickens-- (best line of a poem ever)</b><br />
we never know what they think, <br />
and they look at us with dry eyes<br />
as though we were unimportant.<br />
<br />
Let us for once--I invite you--<br />
be tired of so many things,<br />
of awful apertifs,<br />
of a good education.<br />
<br />
Tired of not going to France,<br />
tired of at least<br />
one or two days in the week<br />
which have always the same names<br />
like dishes on the table,<br />
and of getting up--what for?--<br />
and going to be without glory.<br />
<br />
Let us finally tell the truth:<br />
we never thought much of<br />
these days that are like<br />
houseflies or <a href="http://pointyuniverse.blogspot.com/2009/03/saints-camels.html">camels.</a><br />
<br />
I have seen some monuments<br />
raised to titans<br />
to donkeys of industry.<br />
They're there, motionless,<br />
with their swords in their hands<br />
on their gloomy horses.<br />
I'm tired of statues.<br />
Enough of all that stone.<br />
<br />
If we go on filling up<br />
the world with still things<br />
how can the living live?<br />
<br />
I am tired of remembering.<br />
<br />
I want men, when they're born,<br />
to breathe in naked flowers,<br />
fresh soil, pure fire<br />
not just what everyone breathes.<br />
Leave the newborn in peace!<br />
<br />
Leave room for them to live!<br />
Don't think for them,<br />
don't read them the same book;<br />
let them discover the dawn<br />
and name their own kisses.<br />
<br />
I want you to be weary with me<br />
of all that is already well done,<br />
of all that ages us.<br />
of all that lies in wait<br />
to wear out other people.<br />
<br />
Let us be weary of what kills<br />
and of what doesn't want to die.</span></div><div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; height: 100%; left: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 10px; min-height: 1em; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: auto; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 1px; right: 0px; top: 0px; width: 100%;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-73592196397803059902011-10-26T23:02:00.002-04:002011-10-26T23:02:40.423-04:00So Much to SayCan't stay away! Updates soon.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-78364429216183422522011-07-25T16:43:00.000-04:002011-07-25T16:43:55.985-04:0027<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GfC6CCtZjxk" width="425"></iframe><br />
<br />
Another beautiful artist's voice snuffed out too soon. RIP.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-88114461669443314642011-07-20T15:19:00.001-04:002011-07-20T15:20:42.093-04:00Daughta Blogga<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOM-LGsx4owXlzf9ZdA2nHgjFGEeH_8dFnGP0SUlfvrR744NGNewB7VsDnbaZ2Xk2NIbUPBkR_p8_-qyS9v5LOK9hRuDlRRkU35hnTYJE-1d_WjfgkC3gLO6DJlNAgEWQReTiLkg/s1600/IMG00284-20110709-2137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOM-LGsx4owXlzf9ZdA2nHgjFGEeH_8dFnGP0SUlfvrR744NGNewB7VsDnbaZ2Xk2NIbUPBkR_p8_-qyS9v5LOK9hRuDlRRkU35hnTYJE-1d_WjfgkC3gLO6DJlNAgEWQReTiLkg/s320/IMG00284-20110709-2137.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Caroline started her own blog today to document her summer vacation. All her idea...be generous with the accolades at <a href="http://thoseawesomeeedays.blogspot.com/">Those Awesomeee Days!</a> I hope everyone is having a fantastic summer. Will be back soon!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-53434262795422154392011-06-28T09:47:00.000-04:002011-06-28T09:47:00.343-04:00Clamoring out of the Malaise...be back this week with some half-assed manifesto. ~KJ<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-64069496622254081692011-03-28T18:58:00.002-04:002011-03-29T09:22:13.868-04:00I'm Down with GhandiIt was an average Saturday morning; I was shaking the lint from my filthy reusable shopping bags on my way to the market. Caroline always comes to Stop & Shop with me because she likes to use their EasyShop device where she can scan and bag the items herself as we go along. And she knows she can always sneak in a few extra <a href="http://www.600lbgorillas.com/">600lb Gorillas</a> in along the way with zero protest. I like the bonding time and appreciate a shopping experience that affords minimal interaction with the deli counter and cashiers. I hate small talk. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Aside: EasyShop is also the milieu of (mostly) unintentional shoplifting, which is a post for another day. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next to the scanning kiosk, a young woman and her daughter from the Unitarian Church were collecting items for the local food pantry – pretty successfully, considering the towering assortment of groceries stacked around them. Also hulking over them: a 60-ish burly gent who was decked out in burnished denim and enormous white sneakers. His neon white hair was shaking beneath his Sox cap as he spoke with animated gestures. From a distance, he appeared non-threatening, like someone’s grandfather who would jokingly shoot at you with a pricing gun while stocking shelves. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But after a few more steps we realized this man was ranting in the woman’s face, telling her, in no uncertain terms, that she and others of her ilk were going straight to hell.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Caroline and I joined the semi-circle of onlookers who kept their distance, eavesdropping, exchanging glances: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who is this guy and what is his fucking problem? <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were all fidgeting. Do we say something? I have my daughter with me. This kook is probably armed to the teeth! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">FOOD PANTRY WOMAN: "With all due respect, sir, what do you think happens to peaceful, God-loving Buddhists, Muslims, Jews?"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">BIG WHITE SNEAKERS: "They all go to hell too. It’s in the Bible!"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this point, I was convinced John Quinones from “<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/WhatWouldYouDo/">Primetime: What Would You Do</a>” was lurking behind the Cheez-It pyramid with a camera crew. It was hard to believe that a real person could be this mindfuckingly backward. Or so unabashedly obnoxious.<br />
<br />
The woman’s daughter was tentative, but unfazed. She handed Carrie and I a list of items the food pantry needed, which included baby formula, school snacks, and juiceboxes. Heathens!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">FOOD PANTRY: "With all due respect, sir. I disagree. I don’t believe God is religion. He’s larger than that." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">BIG WHITE SNEAKERS: "No! This isn’t a matter of agreeing to disagree! You are wrong! Get it through your head! You’ve been brainwashed!"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Aside: This is a huge pet peeve of mine. The moment someone tells you you’ve been brainwashed, they should be immediately disqualified from any debate. What they’re saying is they’re too arrogant (or naïve) to believe that they could ever (ever!) be unduly influenced, regardless of how long they've been stewing in their own broth. </i>You<i> could be brainwashed, of course, but not them. Never them. They are right. You are wrong. There is no other side. In a situation like this, a true exchange of ideas is impossible.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Food Pantry woman continued to hold her own while this buffoon raved on about the fire and brimstone that await her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I realized this guy is exactly the <b>type</b> of person who Ghandi was speaking about when he said: ”I love your Christ. I do not like your Christians. They are so unlike your Christ."</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><h1 style="color: #003399; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</h1><h1 style="color: #003399; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">FOOD PANTRY: "With all due respect, I disagree."</span></h1><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">It was probably the frustrated pacifist that lives inside my soul, because the words "with all due respect" made me dry heave a little. My words were projectile:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Excuse me, please stop staying that! He’s not worthy of your respect. He’s not trying to have a conversation, he’s just yelling in your face."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She smiled and said thank you. "It's ok." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I turned to Big White Sneakers. My actual words are in quotes, my thoughts in parentheses:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What is wrong with you?” (Dickhead). “You are harassing a woman and a child who are collecting food for the poor! “(Is this how you get your ‘Christ on’?) “What else are you doing today, beside harrassing people?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">BIG WHITE SNEAKERS (he's got black eyes, lifeless eyes, like a doll's eyes): “I support what’s she’s doing, just not what she stands for.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">ME: “Did she ask you?" (You narcissistic pig) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">SEMI-CIRCLE BYSTANDER: (chiming in, thank Christ!) "Maybe your time preaching could be better spent besides, you know, screaming at people collecting food for the poor."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(Yeah!) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A decent pile on ensued, but we stormed away in search of <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Primetime/story?id=128494">John Quinones</a>, almost overturning an Entenmann's table in blind rage. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Caroline said, “Mom, that man was a butt.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Indeed he was, Sweetpea (with apologies to the butts). </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">By the time we were checking out, though, I was still seething, determined to EasyShoplift a juicer and hurl it at Big White Sneaker’s head if he were still there. (also very Christ like).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But he was gone -- probably off to deface some “Coexist” bumperstickers in the parking lot.<br />
<br />
We donated some juiceboxes and <a href="http://www.600lbgorillas.com/">gorilla cookies</a> to the food pantry box. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-401005680766497242011-03-03T10:39:00.002-05:002011-03-03T20:09:16.824-05:00Random Quizzilla<div class="MsoNormal"><b>1. What is your favorite time of the day?</b><br />
Usually the very beginning or the very end, depending upon the day. Yesterday, it was lunch time. Had a superlative lunch and prosecco toast at <a href="http://www.sportelloboston.com/">Sportello</a> with <a href="http://pointyuniverse.blogspot.com/2009/02/war-beast-irony-and-wtfery.html">Doreen</a>, one of my dearest friends, former editor and Eastie cohort who is officially five years cancer free this month. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>2. Tell me about your grandparents.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Maternal grandparents: Aurora (Nana Rora) & Charles (Papa Charlie). Nana Rora worked in town and also cared for my Italian-speaking great grandparents -- Big Nana and Big Papa -- who lived upstairs. Papa Charlie worked as a bricklayer in the Charlestown Navy Yard. Both died very young so my memories are limited (MF cancer). I remember Charlie swirling ice in his drink and always having one of the grandkids on his lap. I remember Nana Rora being glamourous. She wore Chanel No. 5 and was always dressed up, including hair and make-up, even while cooking four-course Sunday dinners. She brought us Jordan Marsh blueberry muffins after work every Monday night. Paternal grandmother: Mary Agnes (Nana Rie). I've written about her <a href="http://pointyuniverse.blogspot.com/2009/02/things-that-come-in-mail.html">extensively</a> on this blog. She went by "Marie" most her life, having told everyone her real name was Marie Antoinette. She always disliked her nunnish name, which certainly didn't suit her. Nana Rie was a single mom who worked as a secretary. She took the train to work every day and once boarded it wearing only a slip because she'd forgotten to put her skirt on that morning. This may have happened more than once. At age 37, she got breast cancer. This was the 1940s when it was a death sentence. She died in perfect health after being struck by a car on her way home from a dance class at age 81.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>3. When was the last time you were truly startled?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">The other day, a freakish wind gust caught the storm door and slammed it so hard against the side of the house that I was convinced (convinced!) it was a home invasion. Shit! I slid across the kitchen in my fleece socks and headed for the back door.<br />
<br />
Of course, Vito was right on it:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you shitting me?</td></tr>
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The V himself was startled moments later when some curious flamingos flocked our front yard. He charged at them but quickly retreated when he realized they weren't dispersing the way seagulls do on the beach.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1jIy0SnM7YGfPDU_8uGO_4yMemA8mF7jhQOob8EBtj_7075m9diML7nP6oMhM4D4jegSsvuiyRuWlbcXNI-I1330DXdqSci9kWS5yYmeDX9lnmpMLr7BFTRXAnxtND5-FElQdQ/s1600/IMG_9971.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1jIy0SnM7YGfPDU_8uGO_4yMemA8mF7jhQOob8EBtj_7075m9diML7nP6oMhM4D4jegSsvuiyRuWlbcXNI-I1330DXdqSci9kWS5yYmeDX9lnmpMLr7BFTRXAnxtND5-FElQdQ/s320/IMG_9971.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WTF.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>4. How have you changed in the past year?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm more of a morning person and a homebody these days. I still love to stay up late and get out on the weekends, but during the week it's like <a href="http://www.mayslesfilms.com/films/images/greygardens/greygardens.jpg">Grey Gardens</a> in here. The house would have to be on fire to get me out the door after 6 p.m. on weeknights -- except for Flash Mob rehearsals, of course.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>5. Name something thing you consider a "bonus" in your life.</b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Having some friends who are musicians. Winning!</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-30235463986064465212011-02-25T16:28:00.004-05:002011-02-25T20:50:48.275-05:00The Lure of the VelourSo we're finishing up school vacation week here on the South Shore. Mentally, though, I’m still planted on an overstuffed green velour reclining sofa, doing shots of Trader Joe’s corn and chile salsa.<br />
<br />
Backstory: We packed the wagon and headed north to visit the Kielys in NH where they rented a house for the month. Both families were in dire need of a change of scenery on many levels. The only view from our front windows is of our retired neighbors Lou and Nancy going to and from dinner every night. We also needed a respite from Sponge Bob, Wii and Webkinz. Dr. Nic needed to get out of Southie after a menacing encounter with a DB neighbor who accosted her for trying to park in an unmarked spot on a public street that he'd claimed as his own. She said no and he threatened her. She had the kids in the car with her so she had to subvert her instinct to leap out, rip off his windshield wipers and beat him with them. She managed a "You're pathetic," before pulling away. She will flier the neighborhood upon her return to let everyone know there is a DB living among them that threatens women and children. <br />
<br />
So, the fresh mountain air and plentiful parking were like nature's Ativan. <br />
<br />
Their house is nestled on a scenic notch just south of Conway and surrounded by lush forest and snowy trails. Its wrap around deck and glass walls offer sweeping views of the White Mountains and look out over a steep hill dotted with scrubby pines. [This paragraph works best when read with a British accent.]<br />
<br />
We were surrounded by all of this beauty and peace, but the strongest lure of all was the lure of the velour. Two hulking green velour reclining sofas served as the center piece of the living room, dwarfing everything around them. You know what I'm talking about. Those inertia-inspiring behemoths, the staples of <a href="http://www.boston.com/realestate/news/articles/2007/02/04/to_the_man_cave/">man caves</a> and your auntie’s parlor in Saugus. Many come with snack trays, remote caddies and cup holders. They feel like they should have a hot tub as a trundle. For aesthetic reasons, they're not something you’d ever have front and center in your home. But, now I’m not so sure. I may be a changed woman.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sit on me.</td></tr>
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We had no set plans for the weekend but, depending upon our whims, we had an ala carte menu of winter recreation at our disposal. We could ski, snow tube, ice skate, snowshoe, etc. But the wind was off the Beaufort scale; it brought the trees to their knees, and randomly hurled large chunks of frozen snow in your general direction. In short, you needed a rubber ski mask if you wanted to keep your face.<br />
<br />
I generally don't engage in anything cold and outdoorsy if it’s under 40 degrees. I’m an apres-skier. I prefer skating in a rink. Snowshoeing – not so much. But, when you're with the kids, you suck it up like it’s your job (because it is your job.)<br />
<br />
All of the kids were dying to go outside and play in the snow. They dressed in their snow gear in lightning speed and bolted outside with James and Paul K. right on their heels. Nic and I were a little more leisurely in getting suited up. I spent at least 10 minutes trying to find my high-powered mittens in our 10 bags of gear. I had one boot on when everyone came running back inside all torked up. <br />
<br />
Paulie, effusive: “That was the best time I’ve ever had in my life!!” James came in behind him looking sheepish, but laughing.<br />
<br />
Apparently, they were playing on some sleds out back when Paulie disappeared over the top of the hill and slid almost all the way down on the seat of his snow pants. He finally stopped after softly crashing into some small cone-bearing tree. <br />
<br />
James scaled down the hill to retrieve him, thinking he was probably traumatized. Nope. He wanted to do it again. <br />
<br />
My generalized anxiety disorder and I are grateful not to have witnessed this. Especially less then 2 months after the <a href="http://pointyuniverse.blogspot.com/2011/01/7-minutes-in-hell-aka-first-night.html">First Night travesty</a>. James said they never thought he was in any danger but were mildly horrified by his velocity.<br />
<br />
<i>Aside: Of course, I started to unravel into a Sonny Bono-Michael Kennedy mindset. But then I didn't want to turn Paulie's "best time of his life" into a lesson on the ill-fated deaths of celebrities. I was also reminded that the sledding experiences of my youth amounted to coasting down a short hill in a vacant MassPort lot that dead ended into a fence separating the lot from the Blue Line tracks. </i><br />
<br />
Still, something shifted. I'm not going out there to frolick in the snow. I'll have a stroke watching them teeter on the hill top. We decided the Dads and the kids would play outside for a bit, then we’d all go to lunch.<br />
<br />
Nic and I set up shop on the recliners with some tea. We opened all of the blinds and let the mountains in. And then we unwittingly let the recliners in as well. While we were getting deep into the <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/craic">craic</a>, Nic kept getting distracted by the show on TV. <br />
<br />
NIC: “What the ffff…? What the feh…? What the feck are we watching? What is this shite, Kate?”<br />
<br />
On the screen, Bruce Jenner was polishing a remote-controlled helicopter. We’d stumbled upon -- as the Church Lady <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/213306/saturday-night-live-church-chat">recently called them</a> --"the Holy Trinity of Sluts." It was a Kardashian marathon. Within moments we were transfixed, then catatonic. I don't even know how many episodes we'd watched when everyone came thundering back inside and found us strung out on the recliners like a couple of junkies.<br />
<br />
<i>Aside: It's not the first time something like this has happened. Last year, I got sucked into a Stars Wars LEGO Wii game. James returned home from work early to find me jumping around, still with bedhead and in PJs, looking like Gary Busey. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>JAMES: What are you doing?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>ME: Trying to get to level 5. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>JAMES: What?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>ME: Return of the Jedi. </i><br />
<br />
Conclusion: Recliners = Ass Velcro. They also make you susceptible to reality shows produced by Ryan Seacrest. And you may find yourself barking at your kids to fetch your credit card from your bag ('cuz you're not getting up to do it) so you can order some <a href="https://www.pajamajeans.com/flare/next">Pajama Jean</a>s. <br />
<br />
I snapped out of the recliner spell after uttering the following sentence: “I’m craving a SlimJim. We may have to stop at the Mobil Mart.” <br />
<br />
We all went out to lunch and had a big feed. Nic and I thought we'd completely recovered but then ordered salmon and steamed vegetables because it looked so good when the Kardashians ate it. Jesus. We had a couple of goblets of wine, steeling ourselves for whatever outdoor activity lay before us. <br />
<br />
We asked the kids: Tubing? Skating? Hay rides? Nope. They wanted to go to the arcade and then back to the house. Apparently, they were under the spell as well, having planted themselves on the reclining sofas earlier that morning. The lure of the velour. <br />
<br />
The Dads and the kids went to the arcade. Nic and I went outlet shopping a little drunk. Once we got back to the house, we all gathered together on the recliners and ended up ordering take-out that night.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-26490202264887789382011-02-09T13:55:00.001-05:002011-02-09T13:55:32.640-05:00"Colder than a Midget in a 'Frigerator"<iframe width="480" height="295" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5N1Im1xbjWQ?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br />
<br />
This is awesome. Megan McGlover, I hear you! <br />
<br />
(hat tip: Bridget Duffy & Susan Howard)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-46509682007658162762011-02-04T13:37:00.005-05:002011-02-04T14:12:32.279-05:00Check Your Baggage, Fear the Brownies<div class="MsoNormal">‘My Room, My Rules” – Caroline is coloring in a sign that she’s written in bubble letters on a piece of construction paper. My little fascist has also compiled a visitor sign-in sheet to post outside her door that warns: “Keep Out, Evil Maniacs!” (a.k.a Paulie’s friends). She’s frowning, bearing down on the crayons as if she’s had to resort to making these signs, as if she isn’t enjoying every moment of this perceived unrest. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyvYjqP9JvZLSkirIP9VKsK41bW8RVUgedYVBmw-G1PgCl2fIidnjW7iOY7FPC_1JQz4ywShy3pHpyJGXx7izOgsvJxS13NOmAEqKPxBaq3CWgbRboN48jDRAYcV_z4kmrh9ZUg/s1600/Carrie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyvYjqP9JvZLSkirIP9VKsK41bW8RVUgedYVBmw-G1PgCl2fIidnjW7iOY7FPC_1JQz4ywShy3pHpyJGXx7izOgsvJxS13NOmAEqKPxBaq3CWgbRboN48jDRAYcV_z4kmrh9ZUg/s400/Carrie.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't mess with me.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is my daughter. She loves rules and loves to enforce them. While she shares my general sloppiness, she doesn’t appreciate any loose interpretations of rules -- written or unwritten. She gives me shit every day for not hanging up my coat. Last week, I had to drive her to school and the bell rang when we were about 10 feet from her classroom. She immediately did an about face and started running up the hallway, “I have to go get a tardy pass from the office.” “But we’re right here,” I said. “No, Mom, I have to! It’s the rules,” she yelled over her shoulder, her backpack careening from side to side. I’d like to think I bear some responsibility for instilling such a fierce sense of right and wrong, but it’s really just her nature. I’m sure it’s largely the result of having a flaky mother. Despite our differences, we fall into a groove. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
****<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She’s finished coloring her sign and is gearing up to go play in the slush.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Mommy?”<br />
<br />
“Yes, my dear little fascist.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m thinking I should become a girl scout.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I froze. She may as well have said, “I’m thinking I should get a lower back tattoo.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><a name='more'></a><br />
For the first time, I realized I needed to "check my baggage." The term is from a parenting book I've been reading on and off for about four years. It's about not letting your own personal experiences seep into your kids' experiences.<br />
<br />
****<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I joke about Caroline being a fascist, but she’s 7. I am emotionally scarred after experiencing the wrath of a true fascist during a short-lived stint in the Brownies in third grade.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Looking back, I’m not even sure if the group was a legit member of the Girl Scouts organization. It was more like a generic off shoot to keep kids out of their parents’ hair. We didn't sell cookies. We didn't earn badges. We had some jive-looking uniforms, purchased in bulk -- sleeveless, brown sacks with brown or orange turtlenecks worn underneath. If my scanner were not broken, I would share this spectacle. Most of us looked Amish, except for some of the 9-year-olds with boobs (there were several, one of whom was driving a car by age 11 --a post for another day).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our troop started out fine, but quickly deteriorated when our leader Mrs. T. had to go in for surgery and her despotic, keg-shaped assistant ”Bindy” took over. Bindy was a graceless loudmouthed woman of 30, about 4'11'', with a greasy black bob. Every day, she wore a hooded Eastie sweatshirt and elastic waist jeans She began her iron-fisted reign of terror in the fall of 1979 with her equally-scary daughter Denise by her side. Denise's main role, as far as I remember, was to confiscate people's Doritos.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Aside: Bindy reminds me of David Sedaris’ <a href="http://www.brittybooks.com/the-understudy-from-when-you-are-engulfed-in-flames-david-sedaris">story</a> about his sadistic babysitter Mrs. Peacock. Mrs. Peacock was able to act somewhat normal in the presence of Sedaris’ mother, but the second his mom left, Peacock made the kids scratch her back fat with a monkey paw backscratcher and fetch her soda and chips</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Our first order of duty at Brownies was to help Denise learn some disco dance steps for one of her dance classes. Bindy pointed at us with her middle finger, spitting Dorito bits through her yellow teeth: "Don't screw it up, girls! Don't screw it up!" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Bindy was also parsimonious with the craft supplies. I don't know what she did with the extra supplies she absconded with every week, but I know she used to make Kleenex box cozies for the church bazaar, so that is one theory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That Christmas, we were making ornaments to deliver to the local nursing home. Bindy passed out styrofoam rounds and sprinkles and hoarded the remaining glitter, felt squares and pipe cleaners. "Just make Christmas cookies!" she barked. Sure enough, one of the nursing home residents tried to eat one of the ornaments and accused us of trying to poison her. We were asked to leave. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest of the year, we spent our meetings scrubbing the classroom and making useless crap with popsicle sticks. But the absolute nadir was the camping trip. It was like <a href="http://www.filmreference.com/images/sjff_01_img0130.jpg">Deliverance</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was only an overnight trip and was probably no farther than Saugus, but it was many worlds removed from reality. About 10 of us stayed in a ramshackle cabin with Bindy and two chain-smoking teenage chaperones who were even nastier than she was. There was one bathroom.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a long hike in the woods (in jelly sandals) without sunscreen or water, we were dying for lunch. But there was no lunch. We just hung inside watching TV. A couple of hot dog-free hours later, a few of us helped ourselves to some Devil Dogs in the kitchen. Bindy caught us and said since we spoiled our lunch, there wouldn't be any lunch at all. What?! It was almost dinner time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was outraged. <i>We are on a camping trip and there will be no hot dogs? Are you shitting me? </i>I think it was contrived. I don't think Bindy or her scrubby minions knew how to light the charcoal grill (it remained unused the remainder of our time there.) Dinner consisted of a slice of Wonder bread with a stingy slab of peanut butter and a warm cup of lemonade. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We could smell the burgers and dogs from neighboring camp sites and our stomachs turned over with hunger. We bonded together: <i>Should we sneak out? Try to smuggle some grub in a flashlight like the Bradys did in the Grand Canyon?</i> But we were was too scared to move. And too hungry to be denied any more food.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, there were no hot dogs. No campfire songs. No games. Bindy sent us to bed at 8 p.m. I was salivating over a pack of raw hot dogs I could see glistening in the moonlight on the kitchen table. They were floating in their own salty broth and hadn't been refrigerated. I didn't even care.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 10 p.m., Bindy got annoyed that we were talking too much and made us march in a circle for what seemed like hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s like we're in 'Annie,'” my friend Danielle said and started crying. Bindy finally fell asleep sitting up on a filthy futon. One of the 9-year olds with boobs snuck a loaf of Wonder Bread into the sleeping bag circle and we devoured it. The next day, I crawled across the threshold of my house and kissed the kitchen floor. And ate until I passed out. <br />
<br />
<br />
Mrs. T. returned to the Brownies the following fall, but none of us from the camping trip re-signed up for the troop. We remained war buddies, however -- the only Brownie troop to ever experience the fascist regime of dirty Bindy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I had to check my baggage. Our local Girl Scout troop is legit and is lead by some kind and maternal women that I'm well acquainted with. A Bindy couldn't exist today. You couldn't get away with treating animals the way Bindy treated us. Luckily, the only thing we have to worry about today is pedophiles lurking in the bushes while we're out selling cookies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-91020291030270185712011-01-27T07:55:00.002-05:002011-01-27T08:02:57.299-05:00Hello, My Deer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div><br />
<div style="font: 12px/13px verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; text-align: center; width: 408px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 20px;"><div><embed flashvars="&p=d3f95467a3bcb5a986d1c5&skin_id=801&host=http://www.onetruemedia.com" height="310" name="FLVPlayer" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" salign="LT" scale="noscale" src="http://www.onetruemedia.com/share_view_player?p=d3f95467a3bcb5a986d1c5" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="312" wmode="transparent"></embed><div style="font: 12px/13px verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 15px; text-align: center; width: 312px;"><a href="http://www.onetruemedia.com/landing?&utm_source=emplay&utm_medium=txt0" style="text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Make photo slide shows at <span style="text-decoration: underline;">www.OneTrueMedia.com</span></a></div></div></span></span></span></span></div></div>Whenever I catch a flurry of movement, a flash of fur out of the corner of my eye, I have a mini-heart attack. Even after six years, the thought of roaming wildlife still freaks me out a bit. When I let Vito out early in the morning or late at night, I still stand at the front door with a hockey stick ready to chase off on any renegade coyotes looking to snack on my little pork chop. The vigilance has not waned. Get off my lawn! For the past two seasons, we've had a family of six deer traversing the woods and brook behind our house and they're so much fun to watch. Yesterday morning, I caught this curious little one out of the corner of my eye. Instead of having a panic attack, I calmly reached for my camera. I think I've had a break through.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-35505892872140299712011-01-25T09:48:00.002-05:002011-01-25T09:54:22.361-05:00Mista Steamy<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So this is what happens after a year's worth of inertia. I ripped up my forearm in a senior citizen yoga class last week and am back in the land of limited motion. I can't even ball up my left fist in blind rage. Exercise-wise, I've been taking baby steps so as not to pop an implant, so this pathetic injury is all about being woefully out of shape. These days, I get winded playing Wii and almost pass out after vacuuming a small room. So I'm on the yogi DL for the week. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the meantime, I figured it was high time to venture back into the steam room. The steam room and I go way back. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back in the day, I would slip unnoticed into the steam room at the Boston Harbor Hotel during lunch hour. Today, in the post 9/11 world, you can't even breach an office food court without getting tazed. Several years ago, I'd go for weekly steams at the local spa where you got your own private bath and unlimited (+free!) use of the spa products. I'd steam it out, then moisturize myself to within an inch of my life with their $400 body cream -- Kanebo Sensai Premier. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We became Y members a couple of years ago so we go there now. It's a beautiful facility and while the community steam room is no frills, it's clean. Mostly. But I knew it would be different from my past experiences when I spotted</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> a woman eating a tuna sandwich in the neighboring sauna. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still, the Y steam room was especially dear to me over the past two years when I was going through treatment. It was a perfect place for visualization exercises. I'd set up shop on my soggy towel and would envision myself sweating out cancer cells. The only downside was feeling self conscious when other people were in there with me. There's no need to make idle chit chat w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">hen you're sweating out toxic waste. But it's even worse when you're bald and disfigured and just want to be invisible, an apparition in the fog.</span><br />
<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An advantage of working from home though, is that I can avoid the throngs at the Y and sometimes even get the steam room all to myself. Most days, I find myself steaming among the elderly and Moms with jacked-up Madonna arms, taking advantage of the free babysitting. That's all well and good. However, I also have a nemesis. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of my neighbors is kind of a middle-aged version of "The Situation." He's one of these guys who finds it physically impossible to keep his shirt on. He mows the lawn shirtless, even if it's 50 degrees. In the summer, he shuns his backyard and deck, props himself up on one of those rubberized chaise lounges from the 70s and sunbathes close to the street. We see him all over town and he's a pleasant enough guy, just a little creepy. I once saw him leering at a table of young women at Uno's. Leering at Uno's. Really? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And as much as he can't keep his shirt on, he can't stay out of the Y either. He is always there. Always. And he frequents the steam room. We'll call him Mr. Steamy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Aside: Not to be confused with Mr. Steamy dryer balls, which I have an unhealthy obsession with and will discuss on another post.</i></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The last time we had an encounter in the steam room, my hair was in nascent stages of regrowth and I was bird-skinny. I looked like Gollum wearing a furry bathing cap. There were several people in the steam room that day and I sat on the far end, just wanting to close my eyes and do my visualization</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then I heard him:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Hey, is that Kate over there?" </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fuck. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"How you doin? You look good. You feelin good? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then he proceeded to move over closer to me and ask if i had any recipes for stuffed mushrooms. </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It happened a few more times, but now I make sure his car is in his driveway before I venture over to the Y. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Earlier this week, I suited up and headed to the steam room. Sure enough, rounding the corner in full peacock strut -- Mr. Steamy, mindlessly fumbling his dryer balls. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I did a mini cannon ball into the jacuzzi, splashing an older gent who muttered "Jesus" under his breath. Sorry.:) </span><br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr. Steamy was heading in for a steam so I waited it out in the jacuzzi for a bit. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When it was safe, I opened the door and walked in on a what felt like a scene from a mature porn film.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There were two older ladies exfoliating each other with sea salt from a Ziploc bag. Another older man "Lou" was dropping some fragrant essential oils around the floors. Then, lo and behold, Mr. Steamy comes back in with a vial of clear liquid that looked like some kind of lubricant. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Heyyyyy! Kate! How you doin? Long time, no see. (slaps my back). You look good. You feel good?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the women held out the Ziploc bag and asked me if I wanted some sea salt. She was gracious, but I just can't participate in public exfoliation. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mr. Steamy walks over to the place where Lou was dropping his oils. "Ladies,Lou, try this..it's really strong eucalyptus. A little different." Mr. Steamy adds his concoction to the already overwhelming sinus-clearing cocktail that Lou had thrown down. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh, that's delicious," said one of the ladies, still rubbing herself silly with sea salt.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Delicious. No..no..no.. it was like homemade tear gas! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was getting dizzy and anxious. The exact opposite of my intent. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was time to blow out of this new age whore house.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Does anyone know how much it costs to install a steam shower or infrared sauna in the house? The kids don't need to go to college, do they?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-69158216713887146922011-01-14T11:23:00.001-05:002011-01-14T11:27:32.931-05:00Random Quizzilla<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It felt like a Quizzilla Friday today. It's high time -- the last RQ was <a href="http://pointyuniverse.blogspot.com/search?q=random+quizzilla">Oct 2008</a>. Let's do this thing. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>1. Do you hoard anything?</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Free perfume samples. It's the French whore in me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>2. Name five things that annoy you: </b> Platitudes, guitar solos lasting more than 6 minutes, Eeyore-esque FB statuses about aches and pains, xenophobes, the Olive Garden.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3.</b></span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> What is t</span></b></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>he last song you had stuck in your head? </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the better part of a year, I (and several pals) have broken out into the theme song from “What Up With That” from SNL, not unlike Kenan Thompson does in the skit. Watch this<a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/132878/saturday-night-live-what-up-with-that-paul-rudd"> clip</a> and try NOT to sing it the rest of the day.</span><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>4. When was the last time you slept on the floor? </b></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At Dreama's apartment in Manhattan last year. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>5. What is your one of your favorite Urban Dictionary words? </b></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPYZpwSpKmA&ob=av2el">Rick-Rolled. </a> ** </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">**If you clicked on the link, you've just been <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=rick+rolled">Rick-Rolled.</a></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b><br />
</b></span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-35325413739359709632011-01-13T09:38:00.000-05:002011-01-13T09:38:14.215-05:00Overheard in the KitchenJAMES: Paulie, next weekend is a long weekend.<br />
<br />
PAUL: I know. It's Martin Luther King weekend.<br />
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JAMES: Do you know who Martin Luther King was?<br />
<br />
PAUL: (disdainfully) Of course I do, Dad.<br />
<br />
JAMES: Who was he? <br />
<br />
PAUL: A pirate!<br />
<br />
The "duh" was palpable in Paulie's response. After being corrected, however, he realized he was thinking about Christopher Columbus -- also technically not a pirate, but more understandable with all the ship imagery and pillaging and such. It's a good thing they are learning about MLK in school this week, because this moment, in a different place, could rival the time Caroline told the cashier at Whole Foods that she had yellow teeth.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-76904245599793685702011-01-06T13:58:00.004-05:002011-01-06T14:16:32.190-05:00"Ooh Hoo Makin' Money!"<div class="MsoNormal">The attendant at my regular parking garage looks like <a href="http://davidquanstyle.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/pat-morita.jpg">Pat Morita</a> and I’m a bit obsessed with him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I see him twice a week or so, whenever I have meetings in town. Without fail, he approaches my car, a burning cigarette in one hand and a wad of cash in the other. He hands me my parking stub and cat calls: “Ooh hoo! Makin’ money! Makin’ money!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(What?)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Does he think I’m some pantsuit prostitute? After a few times, I realized this was his trademark greeting, a pep talk of sorts to all us morose corporate souls, dragging our wheelie laptop bags behind us like balls and chains. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today, a young man reeking of high finance (and failing to look hip in a fedora) looked affright as he grabbed his stub and quickened his pace to the stairwell. Rookie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How long ya stayin, lady? Pat Morita says, as always.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I lie and say 30 minutes because I don’t want to leave my keys and get blocked in by the phalanx of cars and SUVs that will end up packed into every last inch of this garage by midday. I made that mistake once and will never do it again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ok, see ya latah,” he says</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pat waddles back to his tiny office, no bigger than an outhouse. It has a small microwave with a piece of charred bubble wrap hanging over it. A Healthy Ones frozen lunch sits on top of the bubble wrap next to a frozen 12-ounce Mountain Dew.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This garage is insane. It operates like a nightclub – one out, one in -- with a “bouncer” standing by the ticket gates, waving in cars when spaces open up. I use the word “spaces” somewhat tenuously. Spaces are irrelevant here. Cars are packed end-to-end, almost all the way to the exit for most of the day. A line starts forming outside early and usually doesn’t subside. I’m sure they’re violating all kinds of codes, but I don’t care. Nobody cares. It’s the cheapest garage downtown. To get a rate this low, you’d have to park in the Seaport and then cringe in that icy head wind (hag face) over the Fort Point Channel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you get blocked in, though, you need a crash helmet and nerves of steel when it’s time to leave. When you return for your car, Pat Morita dispatches his posse of attendants who look like A Tribe Called Quest. They fan out with pockets full of car keys and snap into action, moving the other cars around to dig yours out. This is no small feat. These guys must be masters of sliding block puzzles. They’re doing 18-point turns, swearing at each other, screeching in chaotic unison, like bumper cars trying NOT to bump each other. Sometimes alarms are set off, and I’m sure there have been accidents. But most of the time they get it right. Even though it's terrifying to behold. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The garage has been here as long as I can remember and the city has really morphed all around it. I’m surprised it hasn’t been replaced by luxury condos or a Chipotle. They must doing something right. Still, it looks as out of place as I feel these days wandering around town. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I worked here, it was a giant construction site with a lot of jackhammering, dust and detours. Now, it’s almost serene, walking down pretty, tree-lined streets that don’t dead end into <a href="http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/235602/glory-hole-method">glory holes</a> (and having work days that don’t end with me drinking cheap wine out of a shoe at <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/weggies-pub-boston-3">Weggie's Pub</a>.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I'm happy to be back in here and makin' a little money (Ooh hoo!) from time to time. Even Pat Morita is happy -- almost jolly -- in his work, even in his little outhouse office. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of the day, I retrieve my car and Pat’s still there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi, lady! You make money today.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I did.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good, good! Ya gotta make money! See ya latah!"</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I climb into my unblocked car and maneuver my way down the ramp, trying not to sideswipe any cars illegally squeezed onto the median. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then it hit me. “Makin' money” is not about Pat’s customers at all. It’s about him! It’s like his own personal ka-ching. Every time he hands out a parking stub and crams in another car, he’s raking the cash in hand over fist. Makin’ money! Likely a lot more than most of us. Good for you, Pat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I caught sight of Pat in my rearview mirror, I swear he rolled up a dollar bill and began to smoke it. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-52206187214380469062011-01-03T13:35:00.005-05:002011-01-03T14:00:27.971-05:007 Minutes in Hell (aka First Night)I've always found New Year’s Eve to be a collection of common disasters and I tend to avoid crowds whenever possible. But my kind neighbor gave me 10 First Night Buttons and some VIP passes and it was 50 degrees outside. So, in a moment of holiday cheer (or weakness), I indulged my delusions of family magic in the city. I pictured us drinking hot cocoa and watching fireworks. I thought the kids would just love walking in the Grand Procession alongside some of those crazy large-headed puppets shooting laser beams into the sky. The plan was drama free: Caroline, Paulie and I would meet KT and her three kids on the BPL steps at 3 p.m. see some ice sculptures, perhaps get some faces painted, watch the freak parade, and be home by 6 p.m. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7tZKQVhw0201meEoggS950Q6TDBQ3h48LAgRVMsX-ehaz1XAsgcBDXjubIvNDRqBLeh_PU2SNZj5U4LDg5cES3Bmwn7stBojHlSDBZG2TwoOV_boIAxlUay0nfKacukF-F13sw/s1600/photo-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb7tZKQVhw0201meEoggS950Q6TDBQ3h48LAgRVMsX-ehaz1XAsgcBDXjubIvNDRqBLeh_PU2SNZj5U4LDg5cES3Bmwn7stBojHlSDBZG2TwoOV_boIAxlUay0nfKacukF-F13sw/s400/photo-14.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Visions of face painting danced in their heads. But it was not to be.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Within moments of meeting, however, KT and I realized we should've just gone to the W for drinks, instead of wandering into this Copley Square clusterfuck with five young kids.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was madness. It appeared that all of New England had converged on Boylston Street to take advantage of the balmy weather. It was nearly impossible to keep the kids herded into our own personal space. Worse, my kiddos aren't city savvy yet. Without hypervigilance, they would wander into intersections, or stop short on a crowded street, sending disgruntled revelers veering into filthy snowbanks to avoid tripping over them. This year, the sidewalks were narrowed further, partially roped off with yellow "caution" tape because of the ever-present threat of getting impaled by one of the death icicles dangling perilously from the buildings' underhangs. Every now and then, one would smash to the ground and it was like a window had fallen out of the John Hancock tower. Mad crowds, hypervigilance, death icicles. Happy New Year! What the hell were we thinking?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghRzQgoqoVx5mFai_Bx0y9wDM76c_Kzf6aVx6Flapwkl5N-KSM9sn11v0uXrWzkfViwiT6IJXqYcq-MhwqJPUCHigAqgwE2bEWHJS-26HYvJ4TmjWx9sx1THXJXMtvV_WDru1og/s1600/photo-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjghRzQgoqoVx5mFai_Bx0y9wDM76c_Kzf6aVx6Flapwkl5N-KSM9sn11v0uXrWzkfViwiT6IJXqYcq-MhwqJPUCHigAqgwE2bEWHJS-26HYvJ4TmjWx9sx1THXJXMtvV_WDru1og/s400/photo-10.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think Paulie knows the day is going to suck. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><b>What the hell were we thinking, part 2</b>: We purchased vuvuzelas for the kids. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The First Night vendors are the creepiest lot, likely part of some prison work release program. And probably pedophiles. Another charming thought: Pedophiles selling light-up butterfly wands and disco ball scepters to legions of young children in crowded, chaotic places. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">First Night was not a great place for young kids, and certainly not for my generalized anxiety disorder. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We walked up to the Hynes Convention Center in search of face painting. Instead, we were accosted by a salesman who asked us if our basements were waterproofed. We then learned that the line for face painting snaked around the entire convention hall. We decided to get the hell out of there. "Hey guys! Wanna go see if the ice sculptures melted?" </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a 30 minute, two-block pilgrimage back to Copley Square. It was a challenge not to lose the kids in the throngs. The whole way, we were barking at them for their lack of spatial awareness. "Use the buddy system!" "Don’t space out on the escalators!" "Look out for that mailbox!" "Watch the light pole!" "Don’t blow the vuvuzelas in Starbucks!" I was starting to believe that people who leash their kids aren’t insane. Finally, I just held onto their hoods.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2uKwtt-geXpE-Y4cSDiRe0axqjlOmiPO6XS43jyilyYehgFESyni3gLIHmz_oSjG6gkh1bB0flrg4UuU_lkG5RVKg2do9z0A7fAeQzIlE5s6JdaIxv1DwO0dzOMPZst7dZ9rxQ/s1600/photo-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA2uKwtt-geXpE-Y4cSDiRe0axqjlOmiPO6XS43jyilyYehgFESyni3gLIHmz_oSjG6gkh1bB0flrg4UuU_lkG5RVKg2do9z0A7fAeQzIlE5s6JdaIxv1DwO0dzOMPZst7dZ9rxQ/s400/photo-12.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hold on to your hoods! Let's get some street meat!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b>And we thought the afternoon was bad so far? It hadn't even begun to suck!</b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Everyone was starving, so we got some fried dough and street meat and gawked at the sweating ice sculptures for a bit. A couple of police officers asked if the kids wanted to sit on their motorcycles. Paulie stood beside me eating a basket of chicken fingers, while the girls climbed into the seats. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEho5o-ioxyd28lBmr1SVOXlEFNj2j8fkLlu_2rHPeioVNz07fg2PWVCd5e_XjNR76Urc7O5jGQWjQyPLG5ybTfHwq6-KF6Zc2Q9P7iYZ__aQAwJC6tIZnQKouCGoaVcrMrO7RUg/s1600/photo-18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEho5o-ioxyd28lBmr1SVOXlEFNj2j8fkLlu_2rHPeioVNz07fg2PWVCd5e_XjNR76Urc7O5jGQWjQyPLG5ybTfHwq6-KF6Zc2Q9P7iYZ__aQAwJC6tIZnQKouCGoaVcrMrO7RUg/s400/photo-18.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was the final photo of the day for reasons that will become clear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I snapped a photo of the girls, then went to grab Paulie’s hood and he was gone. GONE! I looked left, looked right, I spun around. He was nowhere to be found. We all started spreading out, calling his name. I told Caroline to stay with KT, and I ran up and down the sidewalk with my hair on fire, peeking in between the throngs of people. All I could think was: This is how it happens. In a split second. Someone took him. He couldn’t have gotten out of sight in two seconds by himself in this huge crowd. With every frantic second that passed, it became more real. I was shaking and running amok, screaming his name in a voice I’ve never heard before. He was not anywhere in the immediate area. I started running back to the police officers but was mobbed by Samaritans wanting to help: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What does your son look like? What was he wearing? How old is he? </i>By now, I was hyperventilating, trying to get the words out: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Patriots sweatshirt. Brown hair. He’s 6.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Thankfully 10 –year-old DT (smart ) said “He was eating chicken nuggets!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of the Samaritans yelled out: “I just saw a little boy in a Patriots sweatshirt with chicken nuggets. I think he was up by the bus stop, just past Clarendon Street!” This was a block and a half away. We all took off – KT, the kids, the Samaritans. I was still convinced somebody had him. I was in a full-on panic – an epic fail in the cool head department. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then beautiful words from DT : “I see him! I see him!” Then we all saw him at once. He was standing with a man, a woman and their two young sons, still holding his basket of chicken fingers. I screamed his name and he spotted me and ran to me crying. The Samaritans and the young family that was watching him all broke into cheers. I broke into convulsing sobs and just hugged Paulie for about five minutes. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve always told the kids if they get separated from us to find a policeman or a woman with children. But this woman found him first. She spotted him walking down Boylston Street, looking scared and totally lost. She had the presence of mind to just stand with him there and not move, "<i>We are going to stay with you right here until your mom finds you. She is definitely looking for you."</i> <b>She also shared a simple but brilliant tip. She writes her cellphone number on her kids’ arms so they can have someone call if they get lost. </b>Paulie knows my cell phone but couldn’t recall it in the panic. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>How it happened</b>: Apparently, he spaced out and started following a woman who had a similar coat to mine. I just can’t believe how far away he got in so little time. This whole ordeal went down in about 7 minutes, but took about 7 years off my life. </div><div class="MsoNormal">The single worst moment I’ve ever experienced. I don't even know what we would've done if KT and the sunshine band weren't with us. Thank you, my friends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Caroline, who was also shaken, piped up: “Quick! Let’s get out of here before someone else gets lost.” Best idea we'd heard all day. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we got home, James tried to talk me down, saying it probably happened to about 100 people that day. And that at least it happened in 2010. True. Best NYE ever: At home, everyone safe, watching Taio Cruz sing “Dynamite” in Times Square with Caroline and Paul in a bear hug on my lap. And a gigantic goblet of red wine on the coffee table. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-86035076199810479692010-12-28T10:59:00.000-05:002010-12-28T10:59:40.416-05:00Scenes from the Blizza<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>For hours, we sat slackjawed in front of the TV, Wii, and iPad. Then we figured out how to turn Apples to Apples Disney Edition into a drinking game. Some gratuitous shots from a serious snow day:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYUvIqzRqV-B3YyNax8YQ69aPEPj1nBblxmqwJ3PIQX1ZsMIOrxjoUWcSEV8EOuNHb6HHCPtAkUeS39aubYIuDcnKRd23cqyH5rgXeLPbLZZAsSoeVVpC_iAp8c3GXjvLSox5LQ/s1600/IMG_9842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYUvIqzRqV-B3YyNax8YQ69aPEPj1nBblxmqwJ3PIQX1ZsMIOrxjoUWcSEV8EOuNHb6HHCPtAkUeS39aubYIuDcnKRd23cqyH5rgXeLPbLZZAsSoeVVpC_iAp8c3GXjvLSox5LQ/s400/IMG_9842.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James tackles the heartattack snow while Caroline pelts him with icy snowballs and Vito<br />
hampers progress.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGqLo7Nxv1SUGhGhCiyFbiZSheTwoD5-TmmzJo77MGRN1ulgTIJdD_sIDrlmd72kNkoy7eWEel47MWKvp4u9MVmKAqqehK_Kt-KdisfgZFkdnHAeZdPtWyUrFudc3VVUREvC4oA/s1600/IMG_9846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaGqLo7Nxv1SUGhGhCiyFbiZSheTwoD5-TmmzJo77MGRN1ulgTIJdD_sIDrlmd72kNkoy7eWEel47MWKvp4u9MVmKAqqehK_Kt-KdisfgZFkdnHAeZdPtWyUrFudc3VVUREvC4oA/s400/IMG_9846.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">James scares the shit out of the photog.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIHaFsQ8v5zIo4iY8ZdiYnpQDdrqsZJvgg8viexixuLq5YIczez5uwgXDEyD6lstu-kk2QyKTZPZqZm2Wqas1pET9ZP6J1wXIOv_it8HJvPhJMCnmN8DEYoW-bZfUfro68dGLUw/s1600/IMG_9851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWIHaFsQ8v5zIo4iY8ZdiYnpQDdrqsZJvgg8viexixuLq5YIczez5uwgXDEyD6lstu-kk2QyKTZPZqZm2Wqas1pET9ZP6J1wXIOv_it8HJvPhJMCnmN8DEYoW-bZfUfro68dGLUw/s400/IMG_9851.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vito cools his junk on a snowbank.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj24cRRi-7kL6bQHAYKMnTEhUOkq2nq-CdcHde-Q5cg7NpqfIeMqsJZnepUAdyOMec7waBo5T4cIyP1-eUTw0i8C3zfL1eAF0fuE6I26J2llLDQCEq-YY11FD4KZLuaO1Ov3M95Ag/s1600/IMG_9864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj24cRRi-7kL6bQHAYKMnTEhUOkq2nq-CdcHde-Q5cg7NpqfIeMqsJZnepUAdyOMec7waBo5T4cIyP1-eUTw0i8C3zfL1eAF0fuE6I26J2llLDQCEq-YY11FD4KZLuaO1Ov3M95Ag/s400/IMG_9864.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seriously?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrl6dIVwhtbD23nMSBFAKO8e9PG5Zr76Xj3bch69ldGhzLMRw92izlonkNzn3_NPp57QKMujpBhhU-WdjcbazA0ZJmh3dTmRg8wpag1yEmXfTXIv0EkmW-BFtFs7VleqQA6KcK4w/s1600/IMG_9868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrl6dIVwhtbD23nMSBFAKO8e9PG5Zr76Xj3bch69ldGhzLMRw92izlonkNzn3_NPp57QKMujpBhhU-WdjcbazA0ZJmh3dTmRg8wpag1yEmXfTXIv0EkmW-BFtFs7VleqQA6KcK4w/s400/IMG_9868.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No creature tracks yet.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MnvAqNjGNY7DD8zOr1k2UlegKmrEuaYskmQWo5tCz1esARdy3qbpqSlQzJlHZ00F2OE05RLo5Jn-vJeLMT4BXwxeRkWSKuQ9dCOdoWC-9hEIirMJg-6-qMychqbFHk7DEjAeQg/s1600/IMG_9852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1MnvAqNjGNY7DD8zOr1k2UlegKmrEuaYskmQWo5tCz1esARdy3qbpqSlQzJlHZ00F2OE05RLo5Jn-vJeLMT4BXwxeRkWSKuQ9dCOdoWC-9hEIirMJg-6-qMychqbFHk7DEjAeQg/s400/IMG_9852.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunny-sitting: One of the rare shots of Zippy that doesn't include Vito trying to wheelbarrow<br />
her cottontail.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEPqcSQIMTIavBbo7goAmYouaA3j1OoPu4naudGvoY2qF7-On33UDR_Z2bLe_-pCnuVn8N1WL39FBCS6oEghEuUfZXcD3sXM_RAGHbHcsObiBONTdOBjCEV4ASFZvSJouREeIQg/s1600/IMG_9859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEPqcSQIMTIavBbo7goAmYouaA3j1OoPu4naudGvoY2qF7-On33UDR_Z2bLe_-pCnuVn8N1WL39FBCS6oEghEuUfZXcD3sXM_RAGHbHcsObiBONTdOBjCEV4ASFZvSJouREeIQg/s400/IMG_9859.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were balls and gravy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69aO4D-i8vh0RvThL0xrkq-qkde1pLc0qrG5EnxZYyfhnLcHulOqkln6FpzWykeyXkqMeykPq4cKvVlrsBZPlaxkl5LBV3Njxqliz-GLafghXRJ8q1WWWe1YG9m4Ssyj5jjbHVQ/s1600/IMG_9807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69aO4D-i8vh0RvThL0xrkq-qkde1pLc0qrG5EnxZYyfhnLcHulOqkln6FpzWykeyXkqMeykPq4cKvVlrsBZPlaxkl5LBV3Njxqliz-GLafghXRJ8q1WWWe1YG9m4Ssyj5jjbHVQ/s400/IMG_9807.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And snowy trees.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJDTiAJ9UO2VM-7JtbkDUWKXkI3OWR2LDuJtEfi5NTV5jTKuADO6YZNdd5EFUoYE-8ngfEDIStTefvkYN-GDfxGdu6CU7tCl-VHy12KnuHpUDkP8bvTE4RGr-eCOkSMVVwIYkYA/s1600/IMG_9806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimJDTiAJ9UO2VM-7JtbkDUWKXkI3OWR2LDuJtEfi5NTV5jTKuADO6YZNdd5EFUoYE-8ngfEDIStTefvkYN-GDfxGdu6CU7tCl-VHy12KnuHpUDkP8bvTE4RGr-eCOkSMVVwIYkYA/s400/IMG_9806.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And more snowy trees. Pretty.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-27042592785668859592010-12-23T20:29:00.003-05:002010-12-24T07:21:41.170-05:00Get Drunk on the ChristmasHappy Holidays to all! Vito is going to reward everyone now with 30 seconds of uninterrupted eye contact. <br />
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<div><embed src="http://www.onetruemedia.com/share_view_player?p=cfe757914d9fb4e8ec37d7" quality="high" scale="noscale" width="408" height="382" wmode="transparent" name="FLVPlayer" salign="LT" flashvars="&p=cfe757914d9fb4e8ec37d7&skin_id=701&host=http://www.onetruemedia.com" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed><div style="margin:0px;font:12px/13px verdana,arial,sans-serif;line-height:20px;padding-bottom:15px;width:408px;text-align:center;"><a href="http://www.onetruemedia.com/landing?&utm_source=emplay&utm_medium=txt1" target="_blank" style="text-decoration:none;">Make an on-line slide show at <span style="text-decoration:underline;">www.OneTrueMedia.com</span></a></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-67004252825751675412010-12-20T11:53:00.000-05:002010-12-20T11:53:31.662-05:00Word of the Day: Frottage<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1r0CVv10jthV-J8RNZru8CJROW9CZ1p_VCsmozRhY8_M36q4asLwsmuRW2ABaQFgVQSfMLC4f9ZG-YdhsrQYtDVIsMidhXjT1KS3p5osRIcXEWaNWWzHEpGplySltuOUqzFzAw/s1600/the+dream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1r0CVv10jthV-J8RNZru8CJROW9CZ1p_VCsmozRhY8_M36q4asLwsmuRW2ABaQFgVQSfMLC4f9ZG-YdhsrQYtDVIsMidhXjT1KS3p5osRIcXEWaNWWzHEpGplySltuOUqzFzAw/s320/the+dream.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"I love living in Manhattan so much that I don't even mind it that much</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">when strangers dry hump me on the subway." - Dream</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friend Dream came to town to celebrate the Sag/Cap birthdays and within minutes our pre-<a href="http://beehiveboston.com/">Beehive</a> conversation turned to the phenomenon of Frottage. From the french for "rubbing," Frottage is basically the act of dry humping unsuspecting people in crowded spaces. Apparently this happens often in NYC and in larger cities, usually in night clubs or on the subways. And while it's not accepted, it's by no means uncommon. Dream said the "frotteurs" as they are called, "just get on you on a packed subway car and there's no where to go really." In her case, she stomped on the guy's foot but it only seemed to encourage him more. "He was like a golden retriever on my leg." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dream did a little investigating and learned that Frottage was recently added to the DSM as a legit psychological disorder. I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">n fact, the frotteurs prefer it when the humpee is an unconsenting stranger. I can't imagine a scenario where anyone would welcome some gyrating intruder -- and definitely not on public transportation! <i>Thanks for that! Would you like me to buy you a donut with sprinkles at the next stop? </i></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In all my years riding the T, I'm thankful that I never experienced this phenomenon, but I'm shocked that I have never witnessed it. A large sweaty person fell on top of me on the Green Line once and lingered for what seemed like an unreasonable amount of seconds. Another time, a dude who looked like Richard Simmons sat across from me on the train wearing short mesh gym shorts. Seconds later, his junk was weaving out of one side like a charmed snake. I've definitely seen and experienced the occasional grope, but a full-on dry hump? No.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently, some well-trained "subway" frotteurs have honed their skills to the point where they are so attuned to the clickety clack of a train on tracks, that they can convince their unwitting victim that "maybe it is just a duffel bag." Not all of these renegade rubbers are men, either. Many women are part of the movement as well, according to one of their</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Facebook pages.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This <a href="http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=2234702589">FB site</a> is UK based and features hilarious </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">descriptions of different types of "frotjects." I've pasted them into the post below. Study the list. The next time you're in a crowded space, you may realize that jogging stroller behind you is not a jogging stroller at all! It could be a "The Blitzkrieg." We're pretty sure that Dream got "Bus Stopped." </span></div><blockquote><!--StartFragment--> <div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'DRY HUMP'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The canine approach, favoured by those new to the practice, used openly on friends, usually in a pub or club. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">One grabs the subject of the frottage (the Frotject) and while maintaining a firm grip with your arms on any available encirclable appendage they possess, repeatedly hammer your pelvis against their leg.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'THE RAA THRUST'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A more subtle approach. Perfect for drinks parties and when amongst new friends. Facing, and in close proximity to your Frotject, ensure you have a G&T in your left hand and your right hand in your trouser pocket. Whilst making the small talk, crack a ribald joke or comment and laugh obnoxiously loudly whilst simultaneously arching your back away and thrusting your hips forward into the Frotject. (Good Frommonts ((Frot comment)) to accompany the thrust are, 'COME FAR?' and 'LOVELY DAY FOR IT!'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'THE BLITZKREIG'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A lightning attack on unsuspecting prey. Perfect to use on the beautiful stranger on that darkened dance floor. Gains maximum frottage for minimum slappage with strangers. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Circle your frotject without making any obvious advance in their direction, gradually edging closer (similar to stalking wildebeast). Place your innermost advance to be situated immediately behind the Frotject. Under the play of grooving to whatever godawful song is lacerating the tender ambience of whatever sticky floored, red wallpapered, jug filled lounge you may find yourself in, raise your arms and, similar to the raa thrust, gyrate and thrust your crotch into the callipigian rump found in front of you. Immediately spin away to absorb yourself anonymously into the crowd to assume your innocent dancing.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'THE BUS STOP'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Queuing for drinks at the bar, bank queues, standing on the tube. The most reckless of frottage involves a long contact frot, probably the most sensuous of frots on strangers. In a busy bar queung for drinks, one may engage themselves to press overly far forwards and 'hold' themselves against the back of the innocent frotject ahead of you in the queue. If any protestations of contact occur, the offence is easily palmed off to the people pushing behind you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'FENCING IN'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A skillful dance of the frotteur, dancing with your chosen partner guide the frotject towards a wall and keep bumping and grinding whilst pinning them against said wall. Great for turning that innocent boogy into something far more sinister.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">'COWBOY'<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">One of the more rambuctious approaches to frottage. straddle your prey while they unsuspectingly take a break on a chair/sofa and ride the frot.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment--><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-35012594315135680632010-12-13T12:49:00.001-05:002010-12-13T13:00:57.749-05:00No longer a misanthrope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50LARJxf5jXNBwU9g6p4F8ov1VXv9Jl3yk1u1oV6HyjnW6NLPOZPVOYIfU9xGa8X5KoZCwcTAjuTd9J6FHg2SRX4JjS3TYBDlEvDcY3A0qMjFuccSqiCNkd66U4O6oaMjdJr5BA/s1600/photo-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50LARJxf5jXNBwU9g6p4F8ov1VXv9Jl3yk1u1oV6HyjnW6NLPOZPVOYIfU9xGa8X5KoZCwcTAjuTd9J6FHg2SRX4JjS3TYBDlEvDcY3A0qMjFuccSqiCNkd66U4O6oaMjdJr5BA/s320/photo-6.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Euphoric.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><div style="text-align: left;">Not Paulie. Me. I am officially no longer a misanthrope. My faith in humanity has been shored up by some extraordinary kindnesses over the past two years, often in unexpected places. This weekend: another testament to the random kindness of strangers. Caroline and I had our girls' night at the Nutcracker a few weeks ago (thanks, Momma!) and Paulie and I had our own night out at the Bruins on Saturday night (thanks, Michelle P!). We went super premium in the plush <a href="http://www.tdgarden.com/premiumclub/index.html">Heineken Boardroom</a>. Before we sat down, Paulie plotted his mission to get on the Jumbotron and I lingered by a carving station with a glass of pinot noir. A group of men sitting in the front row saw Paulie and I trying to find a seat. They all got up and rearranged their row so we could sit in the leather club chairs right up front. Though he was the youngest kid in the Boardroom, Paulie got everyone on their feet, led the "Let’s go Bruins" chant and got up on the Jumbotron twice before the game even started. He treated our seat neighbors to his best Rene Rancourt impersonation, complete with fist pump. Then he removed his yellow Bs cap, placed it over his heart and belted out the National Anthem. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYD8M9TzYZ6NAhpaTtHgye3ij5s4plMYOWP6hjXNh0TMP5vJdngqnbJiroIQxDgHJPLdj4ABC2leYER6DfiPf4ijcoN04-Lr5q7_rBFKdYq0benTStxy6Muff_Fi-qwpbx7Yaow/s1600/photo-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFYD8M9TzYZ6NAhpaTtHgye3ij5s4plMYOWP6hjXNh0TMP5vJdngqnbJiroIQxDgHJPLdj4ABC2leYER6DfiPf4ijcoN04-Lr5q7_rBFKdYq0benTStxy6Muff_Fi-qwpbx7Yaow/s400/photo-7.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 15px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Lord of the Jumbotron</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was heartwarming to see strangers enjoying his company, *appreciating* him and being right on board with his passion and silliness and incessant toasting with Sprite. He told his new friend Jack that his favorite player was Tyler Seguin and that Tim Thomas rocked. Jack disappeared for a bit during the third period. When he returned to the Boardroom, he handed Paulie a bag. Inside: a brand new Seguin shirt from the Pro Shop. Still flying high from his third appearance on the Jumbotron, Paulie became positively elated. I thought he was going to faint. I teared up and thanked Jack for his generous gesture. He waved it off. "Merry Christmas! He's a great little guy!" <br />
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There's a lot of good will floating around out there lately. I need to plug into it. I love the stories about people buying coffee for the drivers behind them in line at the Dunkies drive thru. I may have to start drinking coffee again. <br />
<br />
And more good will. Last week, a local company, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/BrownstoneInsurance?v=app_4949752878">Brownstone Insurance, </a>pledged to donate $5 to Paula's family for every person who "Likes" their Facebook page. Watching that number go from 12 to 1,200 within an hour of posting...let's just say I haven't cried that hard since the Apple store replaced my shattered iPhone free of charge even though it was past warranty. Unexpected places. Not a misanthropic bone in my body.<br />
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So I'm on a MISSION today to do a random good deed. Any ideas? </div></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit13Bdpukm_Srv6Oa8_UjUtDBn2eYkcZTwjjqddTs9rsuUDPzbGez0uBgBLPNN_EBKUI7kou08VHIrJGsXcZeQbIWPbfClVjDbmUq_vDq4aj7qrDEpHoexC7IiRHObnn3rwVAyHg/s1600/photo-8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit13Bdpukm_Srv6Oa8_UjUtDBn2eYkcZTwjjqddTs9rsuUDPzbGez0uBgBLPNN_EBKUI7kou08VHIrJGsXcZeQbIWPbfClVjDbmUq_vDq4aj7qrDEpHoexC7IiRHObnn3rwVAyHg/s400/photo-8.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boulos and I in the Boardroom</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13721121.post-44305787534320708992010-12-08T16:03:00.000-05:002010-12-08T16:03:50.402-05:00Lennon, man<object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EqP3wT5lpa4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EqP3wT5lpa4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="<$BlogSiteFeedUrl$>" title="Subscribe to my feed"><img src="http://www.toprankblog.com/tools/graphics//feed-icon.gif" style="border:0"/></a></div>KJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10816760337027692727noreply@blogger.com4