Apocalypse Cocktail Lounge: I'm a Junkie

Ever since last week's WSJ essay on Iran and the Apocalypse, I can't read enough on the topic -- I'm riveted. It's not because I want the End of the World to go down...quite the opposite. I'm trying to understand why anyone -- regardless of their religious beliefs -- would want to vaporize the world, float up into the sky and watch sinners/infidels burn in hell. I've yet to be successful. Even salvation does not sound nearly as much fun as what I've got going on in the coming weeks and months: Caroline's first day of preschool, dinner plans at Toro, tickets to Keane, Baby Bags' arrival, the weddings of Brownguy and T-Bag (not to each other). These zealots need to HOLD. THEIR. HORSES. Or get out more often. Make some plans. Live a little.

So, over a glass of Cavit, I put together this little Apocalypse round-up. It is conversation fodder best enjoyed over cocktails -- some of it's frightening, some is straight up hilarious -- all of it's unimaginable.



Ahmadinejad Gives me the Willies
I watched the Mike Wallace 60 Minutes interview with Ahmadinejad twice last night and I can't get over how much the dictator looks like Patrick Dempsey rocking a Zeke beard.


But that's irrelevant. I was disappointed that the interview never got into this guy's wild-eyed desire to bring about the end of the world by fueling the chaos in the Middle East. Wallace questioned Ahmadinejad's nuclear intentions and challenged comments he'd made about ridding the world of Israel and the U.S. but he never once questioned Ahmadinejad's Apocalyptic agenda -- an agenda the Iranian president has made no secret of. Last year, he personally supervised construction of a massive mosque and prayer halls to accommodate the throngs of Shi’ite muslims who he expects will flock to Iran for the return of the Hidden Imam a.k.a the Islamic Messiah "within the next two years." Then again, Ahmadinejad seemed more likely to bust into the African Anteater Ritual than give straight answers. While the interview on its face was unrevealing, the dictator's beady eyes told the real story. The man scares me -- so much so, I had an unsettling dream after watching him. I was driving to Panera and spotted him walking down the middle of Route 53, right along the double yellow line. As he got closer to my car, I could see he was looking right at me and I wasn't able to turn my head or my eyes away. I woke up with my heart beating out of my chest. While the dream seemed silly in the light of day, I still plan to sleep with the light on tonight.



”You’ve Got a Better Chance of Seeing Jesus"
It's not only Shi'ite Muslims and Iranians who are courting disaster. Seems the Evangelical Christians in this country are wicked pumped about the possibility of Armageddon via nuclear annihilation too. While they look much goofier than the Muslim extremists, they are infused with the same brand of zeal that compels terrorists to whip up bomb juice in a bottle of saline solution.

Ordinarily, this wouldn't be such a big deal. However, the religious leaders -- powerful lobbyists for the Christian right -- are bringing the Armageddon agenda to the White House, politicizing "end times" like gay marriage and stem cells. They believe prophecy should play a role in foreign policy decisions and have the means and will to make it happen.

For instance, John Hagee, an influential pastor of one of those stadium-sized mega-churches in Texas, specifically believes that Israel must strike Iran's nuclear facilities in order to move things along. He is using his best-selling book, “Jerusalem Countdown,” his internationally broadcast TV talk show, and viral marketing offered by a network of mega churches to mobilize popular support for a war with Iran. Holy ass.



I don’t care if your Messiah is Jesus, the Hidden Imam or the Hamburglar. When Apocalypse-courting zealots have the ear of U.S. policymakers, it may very well be time to reset the Doomsday Clock.

Rapture Ready
The Rapture Index is a popular evangelical Christian Web site that bills itself as "a Dow Jones industrial average of end-time activity. The site monitors "prophetic activity" by calculating a global rise in natural disasters, war and inflation. An index below 85 signifies a week of "slow prophetic activity." Anything above 145 signals the Apocalypse is near.

The Rapture Index this week: 160. Hit the deck.

Code Red is Our Hero

("Your toiletries or your life.")

Faster than a Shi'ite Muslim
More powerful than super-hold hair gel
Able to jump hot National Guardsmen in a single bound
It's Code Red!





**artwork courtesy of PhotoShop Savant, T-Bag

Thwarted!

(The terror plot to blow up U.S.-bound airliners with liquid explosives was thwarted, but the threat level has still been raised to "HIGH.")

I don't think I've seen and heard such profuse usage of the word "thwart" in my entire life. Count how many times you see/hear that verb today, you'll be amazed. Things that TSA has thwarted: Carry-on luggage, beverages, shampoo, lotion, sunscreen, toothpaste, hair gel, and lip gloss.

Synonyms for thwart: bar, block, hinder, impede, obstruct; arrest, check, halt, stop; forestall, obviate, preclude; negate, neutralize, nullify; counteract, offset; conquer, defeat, overcome, put the kibosh on. (Merriam-webster.com)

The situation could've been much worse, but don't say that to poor Code Red today.



("Thwart, this.")

Apocalypse Cocktail Lounge: Crazy Iranian President

Break out the Infidel Zinfandel. We’re all going to die. Possibly as soon as August 22nd.

This news does not come from fringe blogs or sandwich-board-wearing Jesus freaks but from the WSJ, some Middle East scholars, and other smarty pants-types whom, up to now, have had a steady record of humorless sanity. To me, it sounds like the cast of Dr. Strangelove is about to hijack the planet with its doomsday machine.

You can read the entire WSJ piece here, but here’s the gist:


(photo: He may look like a swarthy Patrick Dempsey in this picture but don't let that fool you.)

The Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a devout Shi’ite Muslim who not only believes the end of the world is near but that he can speed up the return of the Islamic messiah a.k.a “the Hidden Imam” by launching a catastrophic jihad -- first against Israel (the “little Satan) and then against the U.S. (the “Great Satan”). This guy is supposedly procuring or may already have acquired nuclear weapons that would give him the ability to fulfill his apocalyptic desire to kill all infidels and earn himself a free ticket to Paradise.

The shit will reportedly hit the fan on August 22 or thereabouts. It’s a date that Ahmadinejad handpicked to respond to the world regarding the future of Iran's much-ballyhooed nuclear program. Turns out Aug 22 is a very sacred date for Muslims; it's the anniversary of the supposed "night flight" by Mohammed from Saudi Arabia to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem to Heaven and back again. Thus, some experts are worried that Ahmadinejad's "response" on August 22nd could come in the form of nuclear holocaust against Israel and/or the United States.

Yikes.

Somebody call Jack Bauer. He could take down this lunatic with a few roundhouse kicks and a pocket knife and nobody else would have to get hurt.

Who knows. This could be well-placed propaganda or just an excuse to bomb Iran. I don’t know what to believe anymore so I choose to believe nothing.

In the meantime, I plan to party like it’s August 21st.

Patel-a-Palooza

We attended our first-ever Indian wedding last weekend and I hope it will not be our last. We need to hook up with some more Hindus....these people have got it going on.

Even though there were more than 500 guests at the Park Plaza, James and I were among a small handful of people who did not share the last name "Patel." The bride and groom were both Patels as were hundreds of aunts and uncles and cousins and other distant relatives -- some from India, others from Needham. Apparently, "Patel" is the "Smith" of the Indian world. Jackson is also a common name so when we spotted a placecard with "James and Maggie Jackson" scribbled across it, we assumed there was another Jackson couple in attendance.
We scanned the rows of Patels for another Jackson card. Nope. I was Maggie. This was new. I'm usually "accidental Kathy" in these situations. We rolled with it. James started referring to me as "Mags" and I proceeded to search the cocktail reception for Prabu Prabakhar.


All of the women were dressed beautifully -- saris in vibrant silks and brocades, bejeweled mojaris, jangly bracelets. I was so sour that I didn't get to wear this garb. I love everything about it. I'd been eyeing a sari on eBay but wasn't sure if there were different meanings attached to certain colors and patterns and it would be just my luck to show up in a traditional dress that meant "village whore." It wouldn't have mattered; a few elders still eyed us suspiciously and rightly so. We looked like Indian wedding crashers. I was a self-tanning freak in a blue polyester disco dress. James, in his mismatched suit, was wearing the anti-Caftan. Even so, we were warmly welcomed into the fold as Jackson-Patels...and it was quite an experience.

The only things I've ever learned at weddings were a few crappy line dances. Here, we learned about the food, traditions and music of an entirely different culture. A few nuggets:

FOOD: Until I discovered the Kashmir luncheon buffet in the 1990s, my only experience with Indian food had been the cooking smells that wafted into Planet Records from the old India Quality restaurant in Kenmore Square. The wedding feast made me realize our dining repetoire was severely lacking; it put Kashmir to shame and left us with a mad jones for Indian food that could involve some take-out from Indian Delight in Weymouth this week.

CULTURE: The blessings and rituals of an Indian/Hindu wedding place more emphasis on the joining of two families than the couple itself. While the ceremony remains largely traditional, the reception is more fly-by-night -- a fact duly noted when the groom's parents were introduced to Usher.


MUSIC: Indian techno music. Indian classical meets club. It's the sitar and the tabla set adift on techno beats and electronic samples. Yes. Very Good. Throw in a couple of tabs of Exstacy and you've got yourself a ripper. Not that we would know. Jimmy and Mags did spend quite a bit of time on the dancefloor though, only to be out-stepped by an 80-year-old indian man busting some Michael Jackson moves nearby.

That said, it's clear that we need to bring some new Indian pals into the fray. That's no small task in the burbs, however, as noted by the bride's sister who grew up in "not so diverse" Hanover. In her hilarious toast, she described how her father Mahendra would be at the Hanover Mall and would sidle up to strangers who even remotely resembled someone of the Indian persuasion: "Psst. You Indian?" That said, if anyone's looking for us, we'll be trying to pick up some Patels by the Orange Julius.

Princess Party

We came from near and far -- from the South Shore and South Boston -- to gather on the outskirts of the South End. Joe, all furtive, planned surprise cocktails for his bride at Flash's, inviting all to rally around Jess as she turned 20-15 over the weekend. James and I hailed a magic carpet from the Park Plaza and made it there in time to celebrate with our pal, known and loved by all as "Princessica."


While the party did not feature sparkly tulle and fairy dust like the princess party pictured here, it was equally full of wonder. Before he left, Paul "Drop and Roll" McCuen upped the creative ante. Should he ever see his name in print, he wants any attribution to be prefaced by the adjective "aging _____." We were charged with coming up with a noun but came up empty in the haze of pinot grigio and indian techno ringing in the ears. Sunday brought clarity, however, and it became glaringly obvious: "Aging F.O.P'" -- Father of Princessica.

Happy Birthday, Jess! And thank you, Joe, for a fantastic celebration....and for picking up the tab!

Africa Hot

(According to my digital thermometer, it is 110 degrees in my backyard right now. 1:30 p.m.)

"January 24 2006." I wrote this date in my notebook earlier this year to shut myself up when I started grumbling about the freakin heat and humidity on scorchers like these. On January 24th, it was 5 degrees outside and I was wearing woolen mittens in the house. I had to dress the kids in snowsuit-tipping layers of Gortex just to walk to the car (very time-consuming), and had to chisel a thick layer of ice and snow off the car before we could go anywhere. It sucked. I remember it well.

While it's oppressive outside, it's definitely preferable to be trapped inside with air conditioning than a capricious furnace. It takes two minutes to get the kids ready as they need only wear splashpants and sunscreen. We can hop in the car, crank the A/C and just GO.

Still, it's hard to stay positive when you open the screen door and the "wall of ass" cups your face like a hot, damp towel. It's a drag having to rehydrate after retrieving the mail and it's no fun feeling as if I'm about to burst into flames when I let the dog out.




(This excessive heat is certainly not good for the pugs, either.)





So I'm trying really hard to stay focused on January 24, 2006 because in order to get through days like this, it's imperative to remember days like these.

What a Schmuck

It's always the holy rollers; the exaggerated genuflectors who fall on their knees at the altar, loudly praisin' the Lord -- they are often the most gigantic hypocrites, and even more frequently, the most gigantic assholes. Case in point...the uber-holy Mad Mel.

Last week, Mel apparently busted into the sacramental vino at one of the fringe churches he founded in Malibu, sped off into the night butt-wasted and was pulled over on suspicion of DUI. He then proceeded to launch into this inexplicable rant:

"Fucking Jews. The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world," he barked. "Are you a Jew?" he asked the arresting deputy. When he noticed a female sergeant standing nearby, he yelled at her, "What do you think you're looking at, sugar tits?"

OY.

Considering the steaming cauldron of crazy that is Mel Gibson, I'm surprised this did not come to a head sooner. INGREDIENTS: 1. Mel's father, Hutton Gibson, is a religious zealot and holocaust denier who -- hand on Bible -- believes the 9/11 planes were flown into the WTC towers by an "unknown party" using remote control devices. 2. Mel's dad also founded a fundamentalist splinter church, a sort of Hezbollah for Catholics, to which Mel belongs. 3. A good Christian boy, Mel believes that his wife of 26 years is going to hell because she's Episcopalian. 4. In 2004, he pissed off the chosen people with his portrayal of Jews in The Passion of The Christ but was not widely viewed as an anti-semite...until he outed himself last week.

Tonight, Mel is holed up in rehab devising a better PR strategy. His first mea culpa which stated "I said despicable things that I don't believe" was transparent. Everyone knows people say things when they're drunk that they'd never say when sober. However, what they do say while intoxicated is often what they really think and feel. In vodka veritas.

It's all so familiar. A celebrity behaving erratically around relgious fanaticism. The Cruise must be pumped.

(YES! I'm off the hook.)

Griswalds on the Pond

In search of a vacation vibe, we packed the family wagon to its maximum load capacity and headed to the Cape to spend the day with Katie & Jim N. at their place on Ashumet Pond. We envisioned an afternoon of clean family fun: Listening to WMVY radio on the surround sound, chilling on the pier, perhaps going for a boat ride. But the moment we arrived, our Griswaldian delusions were snuffed out by toddler revolt, with Carrie and Paul rising up in cranky indignation. Caroline's mood plummeted because her juice wasn't cold enough and/or because the wind was blowing in the wrong direction. She insisted we should just "go home" because her day could surely not recover from such horror. Paulie "one man wrecking machine" Jackson took off in his splash pants and refused to keep his lifejacket on. We spent the first half hour trying to keep him from falling off the pier.



Amid the chaos, Katie, looking out over the pond serene as can be, very matter-of-factly said, "These days, instead of getting frustrated, I just have a beer." OF COURSE! It sounded like too easy a solution for unrelenting mayhem but it was quite effective. I cracked a Corona and released its magic into the air. Suddenly, some F-16s from neighboring Otis Airforce Base did a fly over, their timing like the Hallelujiah chorus marking the monumental shift in attitude: The meltdowns ceased, the wind shifted, the juice was cold and Paulie kept his lifejacket on. We went for a few boatrides and were even able to sit down for 3o seconds to enjoy some italian sausages and potato salad. It was then that we waxed philosophical on our newfound solution: Did the Coronas cast a spell over the babies -- or was Mama just buzzed?








Let us raise a cone to the ice cream gods of Ashumet Pond.




Ryan and Caroline engage in a round of extreme ring around the rosy...





...then some yoga.

Thank God It's not the Playoffs

(Photo: "I apologize for my husband. He 's disturbed. He almost married J-Lo..remember? Cut him some slack.")

"Ben Affleck nearly interfered with Angel's first baseman Howie Kendrick on a foul pop near the Boston dugout. Affleck, who was sitting in the front row with wife Jennifer Garner, pulled back and allowed Kendrick to make the catch." -- Boston.com

I like Ben and I like Jen but I -- like any other commonfolk -- would have been ushered from those box seats like a disruptive whino had I leaped -- Peter Deluca-style -- after that foul ball. No biggie as it was not the playoffs but this should serve as a lesson to all who don't want to become the next Steve Bartman.

Paige Carjacked at Suppah Club

(BUH: photo taken by great waitress/horrible photog)

Despite the violent headline, it was all love at Burton's Grille at the Derby Street Shoppes last night. As usual, Suppah Club started out quite mellow and lady-like with white napkins folded in the shape of isosceles triangles on our laps. We swapped harrowing work stories over a nosh of gazpacho and sesame encrusted tuna before degenerating into the typical shenans that accompany these monthly suppahs: We discussed the possibility of growing some khat in ceramic planters on my back porch and we made plans to make like 1991 and invade Jessica's parents house in Marshfield for a wee pool party (complete with Body Bombs) on Saturday.

Paige had an early flight to California the next morning so we walked her out to her fly new automobile -- all luxe and plush, like Paige as a car. Even non-car people like us could not resist the urge to wrap it up in a pink blanket and take it home. Thus, a friendly carjacking, born out of genuine fondness, occurred. Some shameless scenes:



Jess -- a latter day Tawny Kitaen in business casual attire -- strikes a pose on Paige's (car's) trunk.









"HEY! Shut up and drive muthafucka," says Pete, after bumrushing the backseat.











"We ride donkey's in Ireland, for fuck sake," says Nic. "I'm not getting out of the bloody car. Back off! I'm going to Foxwoods." (note: Peeping Jess)













Annie's got the keys!









Sorry, Paige. Don't know what came over us.

Besotted Bags

THE BOSTON COMMON -- There could not have been a more apropos moment to belatedly bestow the Besotted Bison trophy upon Bags, the 2005 recipient of the prestigious softball award honoring the player who had the most intoxicating effect on the team's performance and/or personality.

At tonight's game, Bags jacked four homeruns over the left field fence -- an uncommon feat for this Boston Common field and possibly a Renegades record, according to Jimmy. "There is a short porch in right field but not in left field," he said. "I've been with this team since 1992 and I've never seen that many dongs from one batter over the left field fence in one game."

In keeping with tradition, Bags will be displaying the coveted award in the first-floor bathroom of his Cohasset home. >>>>>

Adding to the evening's jubiliation, WMD had two seeing eye singles in his debut as a Renegade. The budding Besotted Bison strikes a post-game pose here for Caroline, team photog and enthusiastic documenter of all things Dell'Olio.

Tiger Woods Made Me Cry Again

It was nearly 10 years ago that I first heard the name Tiger Woods. James and I had only been dating a few weeks; we were at the Atlantic Cafe on Nantucket playing out a scene that was to become a familiar one in our lives: He was watching a "skins game" over my shoulder on the bar's TV while I rambled into my quahog chowder, completely unheard.

Out of nowhere, James asked, "Do you know who Tiger Woods is?" I shrugged. "I don't know...plays for the skins?" I had no idea who the christ Tiger Woods was or that a "skins" game was related to GOLF. I never watched golf...why would I know that? Jimmy just looked at me with that mixture of bewilderment and pity similar to when someone pronounces Bono, "Bone-o."

I learned a lot about Tiger that day as well as James who got all googly eyed at the mere mention of his name. Some of James' friends even began calling him "Little Tiger" because of his substantial man crush. A few months later, we sat on the floor on School Street and watched Tiger win his first Masters while Mikey C. made us all dinner in his bamboo vegetable steamer. I watched Tiger stroll off the course and hug his dad and -- having learned all about Tiger and his father and their relationship -- I cried. Not a few renegade tears in the corners of my eyes but a full-on meltdown that lasted well past the presentation of the crappy green jacket.

I sorted myself out and it never happened again...until today. Again, I was sitting on the floor. We were waiting out a thunderstorm at Maria's apartment and witnessed the emotional aftermath of Tiger's winning the British Open. His dad passed away two months ago and it hit him: he would not be hugging his father after this victory or any others ever again. Tiger openly sobbed in his caddie's arms, and then again in his wife's arms. I openly sobbed and frightened my children. A few minutes ago, I saw the news highlights and became unglued all over again. Little Tiger, however, was able to hold it together.

Swampy, Swampy, Swampy

A steamy 90-degree evening was well spent at the Sox game on Tuesday night with Pete & Apryl --their first night out since baby Nate arrived two weeks ago. Catastrophic hair conditions prevailed and the swamp ass was as rampant as the phallic street meat and foam fingers. But far outweighing the heavy air: We had fantastic seats, we watched Jason Varitek tie Carlton Fisk's record of catching 990 games, and the Sox won. Some scenes:



(Apryl, Pete, me and Apryl's "hot mama" boobs)

While enjoying an italian sausage and a warm beer on Yawkey, we discussed the fate of a woman we'd spotted on Brookline Avenue. She was wearing fire-engine red yoga pants and sported a flagrant, sweaty camel toe. (there's a sequence of words I hope to never write again) Apryl considered reporting her to the authorities at Cameltoe.org, a non-profit that issues daily reports on the worst of the worst offenders worldwide.





A camera lens-full of Papi Posterior: Every time I tried to snap a photo of David Ortiz for Caroline, he'd give me "the ass."






Take me out to the bald game: Even the hairless suffer the humidity.






We nightcapped with Paul & Maria at Copperfield's, the most unchanged and most puked-in bar in the Fenway area, according to Paul. Here, we decided to launch a write-in campaign to change Jonathan Papelbon's intro theme from "Wild Thing" -- which is too reiminscent of that goofy Charlie Sheen movie -- to "Super Bon Bon" by Soul Coughing. Think about it: The "bon" is already in there, and the opening lyrics provide the perfect gateway: "Move aside and let the man go through, let the man go through." Much more worthy of the wonder boy, don't you think?





A fine photo hijacked by some donkey at Copperfield's.

The Bathouse

The bath house on Constitution Beach in East Boston was slated for completion in summer 2003. Until about one month ago, the "bath house" remained a fenced-off vacant lot full of weeds, beer cans, a random shopping cart here and there, and for a few weeks, a torched futon.

It finally opened this summer to much fanfare. And by fanfare, I mean it was urinated upon and tagged by hooligans almost instantaneously. Then, as if to rub salt in the local wounds, this jive signage appeared on the building. Someone with the most tenuous grasp of the English language could not have fucked this up -- not even diehard EB residents or DCR employees who omit key consonants naturally: "Did ya see what they done to the new bat-house?" Colloquial spelling, bohemian grammar -- call it what you will -- it's offensive. I want to start a clock similar to US Weekly's Suri Cruise clock. How many days, hours, minutes will pass before the spelling is corrected?

(Photo courtesy of JAL, outraged EB resident and pissa spellah to boot.)


**UPDATE: The spelling was corrected on September 1, 2006. **

Donde Esta Mango Salsa

I thought I struck gold at Hannaford's the other day when I saw Big Papi' s image blowing up a jar of salsa in aisle 7. I immediately assumed it was his elusive mango salsa, a top secret recipe that I've been searching for since he mentioned it in his 2005 commercial for Comcast. "I found a great recipe for mango salsa...wooooh, mama!"

But no. The salsa only came in one variety -- corn and bean -- medium or mild. It was fool's gold. I bought it any way and it is actually quite good but, really -- what kind of crappy tease is Big Papi perpetrating here? If he's going to schlep salsa, it's GOTTA be the mango salsa. It's his thing. This only fuels the popular conspiracy theory that like Popeye and his spinach, Ortiz derives his superhuman strength and pin point precision from a deep well of mango salsa. And if this recipe were to get out, it'd be anarchy. He somewhat confirmed this theory when Pedro Martinez was in town a few weeks ago and the two players had lunch together. Papi was adamant that mango salsa not be on the menu. ""No mango salsa this time," he said. "Mango salsa gives you power, and you've got to keep Petey away from power."

Big Dig

Holy shit.

These are the only words I've been able to utter all morning. Out loud. Over and over again. Caroline's been following up dutifully with "Mama, don't say shit. It's bad." But I can't help it. I turned on the TV this morning and saw Big Dig project director Mike Lewis a.k.a "Poor Mike Lewis, smart man unmoored in a sea of boobs." There he was in his orange construction vest, standing behind Matt Amorello who looked like he was going to wet himself. It's a typical scene on the news with all of the Big Dig snafus going down these days but when I read the headline, the needle scratched clear off the record. Holy shit.

I shiver at the thought of how often we all drive on that stretch of roadway. I know I drive it with the babies at least three days a week. It's the only direct connection from I-93 to Logan, East Boston and South Boston. It'll be a total clusterfuck in the city there for days to come but sitting in traffic means nothing next to what happened to that poor woman last night. I'll be thinking of her today instead of road raging over the gridlock.

"Steaming Drunk" Hoff Gets the Boot

JUST IN -- Hasselhoff was chucked out of Wimbledon last week for being "steaming drunk" and starting a "blazing row" with some security guards. This, alone, is fabulously Hasselhoffian. But the 53-year-old actor took it a bit further, reportedly barking at the guards, "Don't you know who I am? I'm the Hoff." Awesome.