"40"

(Buon Compleanno!)

I started calling Ernie Bean "Ernesto Beanini" after Roberto Beanini's character in the movie "Life is Beautiful." He wasn't as much of a spaz as Roberto's character but his love of life and fervent belief in the beauty of it was just as palpable.

Many years have passed since the days we'd go to the movies at Kendall in groups of 10 and then shoot pool at Flat Top Johnny's. But things are even better now than then: Ernie turns 40 this Saturday. Right now, he's living in Australia (alas, no dancing at Paradise Cafe this year), but the key word is living, living, living. And living well and healthy. Sometimes we forget just how significant this is. I can’t tell his story as well as he can. That said, raise a toast to Ernesto Beanini this week, but most important, visit Bean Down Under, read his story, and blow up his comment box with birthday wishes.

The Last Supper...

...for awhile at least. On Saturday, we headed out for a farewell nosh with EPB who is leaving us on Wednesday for Brisbane, Brizzie, Brizvegas. (I’m memorizing the Australian slang dictionary on Koalanet. I got through letter B so far.)

Waiting for Toro to call, we hung out at EPB’s apartment around the corner. A former bagel shop, his place is the perfect blend of cool and cozy and being there really highlights your shitty taste in home accents. B-Mac was resplendent in chartreuse, a tribute in tincture, perhaps, to EPB's bitchin kitchen of the same hue. When our table was finally ready, we bogged into a smorgasbord of mini burgs, chick peas with chorizo, sea-salted veggies and a Flintstonian rib-eye that fed all four of us. My bottomless glass of Albarino saw me through when these three figjams began swapping anecdotes of their athletic glory days. After dinner, we headed to Stella for the standard unnecessary nightcap and then back to EPB’s for yet one more.

Last week, I was reminiscing about EPB's random inebriated phone calls from our less tethered days. In these calls, usually from someone's roofdeck or a bar, EPB either beckoned us to join him or to share something hilarious that had just happened. Those moments are few and far between now that we're clucking around our suburban hinterland in concrete flip flops. But yesterday, the phone rang at 4:30 p.m and I heard the familiar voice of a spirited, togged up EPB on the other end. His friends had taken him out for a boozy brunch and they were holed up at Fritz."Hey, I'm at the Chandler Inn." It made my day. Had it not been for the bonzer of a playdate I had going (body bombs into the pool!), I just might've fired up the station wagon.

We can't pop down for a weekend or a spontaneous swing-by but keep those calls coming -- and emails, of course. Luckily, EPB has started up his own blog. Bean Down Under which he will update regularly (or I will hound him relentlessly). Safe travels, EPB! You will be missed more than you know.

(What's wrong with this picture? James + curb = looks like Shaq)

(B-Mac attack)



(Shriek!)

Scenes from the Urban Canyon

There’s nothing like getting your hair done when you’re suffering from a mad case of the Hags. (Symptoms : Overall feelings of haggishness, corpulence. Crows feet - pronounced. Skin – pasty.) But it was tough for the Hags to bring anyone down this weekend. The SUN was out. Bulky outerwear was not required. The Red Sox SWEPT the Yankees for the first time since 1990 (and made HR history…that was insane!).

I wanted to skip – all giddy and gay -- down Newbury to my hair appointment. I had to downgrade to a shuffle, however, as the sidewalks all over the city were busting at the seams and were not conducive to strides or skips. Street musicians and artists were peddling their wares on every corner. A pack of elderly women was doing Tai Chi --- inexplicably -- on the corner of Dartmouth and Newbury which created a serious bottleneck. I was actually getting sweaty as I made my way to the salon. I had an overwhelming urge to ditch my black sweater and jeans for a sundress but there was a line to get into H&M, the only place I could afford an impulse purchase.

I let it go. It was finally above 60 degrees. This-is-why-I’m-hot. Embrace it. After downing an entire liter of spring water, I told Maria, my hair stylist and sister-in-common-law, that I was rendezvous-ing with EPB and Code Red at the Urban Canyon a.k.a the roofdeck at the Rattlesnake later that afternoon. Maria – always a conjurer of random cool stuff -- produced a GC to the Snake circa 2001. You can understand why this GC sat dormant in her wallet for six years. The food at this place is awful but it’s the perfect setting for certain situations, i.e, watching the Sox game outdoors in an uncrowded setting with cocktails.

Pointy Note: EPB -- pictured here -- is moving to Australia in June to work for at least one year. He’ll be firing up his own blog “Bean Down Under” soon so we can keep tabs on his adventures among the wallabies. Some friends of his who have lived there said kangaroos on the golf course are regarded with the same indifference as pigeons on the Boston Common. I can’t wait for his first posting which will likely involve giggling and the uploading of kangaroo photos to his BDU blog. It’s only a matter of time before the Aussies start calling him Joey.

Anyway, EPB was telling Annie and I the story of how whenever his parents go out to dinner, his 79-year-old father always thinks someone at the restaurant “looks familiar” and he can’t help himself from striking up conversations with these familiar-looking strangers, regardless of how obscure.






Less than a half hour later, in a seemingly unrelated incident, EPB pointed to a very tall, very young waitress in gaping fishnet stockings. “That waitress looks really familiar.” Right. Sure. “Seriously. I’m not making this up. She really does. I think she’s from Weymouth.” OK. He was adamant and was on the verge of betting cash-money that the woman -- if not from Weymouth --was from definitely Quincy or Braintree or Hingham or anywhere within a 10-mile radius.

Sure enough, he stopped the woman, confident in his point. “Excuse me, where are you from?”
Was it Quincy? Braintree? Weymouth? Hingham?

Nope. Ukraine.

After Annie and I stopped laughing, he said he said he was glad he didn’t know her after all, referring to her “skanky tights."

Oh man…EPB….I’m going to miss you so much!!