Gone to the Beach

The Pointy Universe is on hiatus for the rest of the summer. See you in the fall!

Rotational Neglect

"Rotational Neglect" is a term that KT brilliantly coined to describe the practice where in trying to do everything, you're never giving 100 percent to anything and as a result all areas of your life suffer a little. I've been deep into this practice the last few weeks having lost my regular sitter/magician while gaining two new work projects. This was mayhem-inducing enough not to mention the staggering social calendars of preschoolers and trying to find time to squeeze in some Griswaldian summer adventures along the way. The PU has certainly suffered the effects of rotational neglect -- perhaps the most -- because currency is a blog's oxygen. To neglect a blog is to kill it (zero flags!) and that is not something I want to have happen here.

So I'm switching gears from RN to Serenity Preservation for the next few weeks.

When I boarded the ferry home from Nantucket a few weeks ago, I was surprised at how territorial I was of my own peace of mind, of the serenity I'd earned during four fantastic days on the island. The ferry was nearly-empty except for some loud and annoying French passengers who -- despite having the entire boat at their disposal -- decided to sit on top of me and pepper me with questions about Cape Cod. They even asked if I would point out the Kennedy Compound to them when we got close to Hyannis. Serenity threatened. I was offended. As far as I was concerned, I was still on vacation. I excused myself, grabbed my bag and walked to the opposite side of the boat. I pulled out my giant sun hat, put my feet up and read my book the rest of the journey.

I feel like I have to do that for awhile. Unplug. Step away from the computer. That said, I'm going to take a wee hiatus from the PU. A few weeks or so. The summer is a sea of endless distractions as it is and I'd rather be silent than make small talk for the sake of staying current. I hate small talk.

Aside: We're in the process of finding a pup tent and decent life jacket for Vito so he can come to the beach with us. When that happens, I can guarantee there will be a video posted up here similar to this one.

In the meantime, it's only appropriate that my last post for awhile contains the crappy low-res slideshow of the Nantucket trip --the 10th annual! This year's trip was most certainly in the Top 5. Even with bony cheese haters along for the ride and Kid Rock's abusive texts, it was all about hanging with the burds and mainlining Coronas & Prosecco on the beach. Viva la vida! (BTW, I planned on using that song as the slideshow's soundtrack but thanks to the sphincter that is DMR-protected music, it was not possible. I think I found a decent alternative, however). Enjoy!

Make an on-line slide show at www.OneTrueMedia.com

At Last

(There he is)

Dylan James Haley reared his sweet head -- which will surely sprout a mighty 'fro one day -- on Friday. Per happy text messages and picture mail, all is going well. Congratulations, Tom & Dawn! We love you!

Random Quizzilla

1) If you could move to another continent to just chill out for one year, which one would you choose?
I want to say Europe but it'd be impossible to just chill out. Probably Australia because you'd get to experience the other side of the world without language issues. It seems like a great place to unplug, not to mention all those puddle-jumping excursions to the Kingdom of Tonga.

2) Which browsers do you use to surf the Internet?
Safari, Firefox

3) On a scale of 1-10 (with 10 being the highest), how much do you know about the history of your country?
Sadly, only 5-6 on a good day. While I know certain topics fairly well (certain wars, other events shoved down our throats in elementary school), my knowledge is far from comprehensive. Of course, I've retained all things trivial and useless like a song about Betsy Ross (inexplicably set to the tune of Battle Hymn of the Republic) that I learned in the 5th grade. Thanks, Sister Albert!

4) Finish this sentence: Love is...
...the best and worst thing that can happen to you, a simultaneously euphoric and eviscerating experience. All good. And so not.

5) What are your plans for the 4th of July?
The annual beach party/cookout with a big bonfire, baked beans, and street dancing with the kids, probably to a continuous loop of Rihanna and Chris Brown. Then, island bound for a few days.

Disconnected

Today my parents are moving to a sweet waterfront condo that we will reap the benefits of for many years to come. Of course, they're in the downsizing phase which means they sold the house where I grew up. Such an event would normally send me into a downward spiral of excessive sentimentality, but it hasn't. I am (sort of) a reformed nostalgiaholic. I don't remember exactly when I had my epiphany and realized that all my whitewashed memories only got me into trouble, but since then I've been all about moving forward, and when looking back, doing so without becoming consumed by emotion. Still, with this life event, I anticipated some sadness. We went over to the house to help move some boxes and do some final purging of personal relics that had been collecting dust in the attic since I moved out 16 years ago. I walked through the empty, echoey rooms with 34 years stuffed into cardboard boxes. I looked at the sparse walls with tiny holes where pictures once hung, all too aware that Lois wasn't about to rush in with a can of spackle. I waited for the feeling to wash over me, and it wasn't nearly as bad as expected. I almost felt disconnected.

I think there are several reasons for this. First, the new owners are my dear friends JAL and Mike. I know they'll take amazing care of the place and we'll have many new memories there. Second, the house had gone through so many incarnations through the years. Every time you'd leave for awhile and return, the inside of the house was different -- some of the rooms rendered unrecognizable due to my mother's admitted addiction to furniture rearranging. Sometimes the dining room was the living room and vice versa. Sometimes the walls were different colors. Sometimes it took 15 minutes to find the relocated boxes of cereal. When I left for college, I knew my U2 and Cult posters were being peeled off the walls before I hit the Mass Pike and being replaced by watercolors and guest soaps. So, knowing the place was going to change again was really no biggie -- and I still get to visit. Nostalgia nipped in the bud.

But then I was blindsided. We headed over to the new condo where Caroline and Paul had set up a picnic blanket on the floor. We had some D'Parma's salads, enjoying the ocean air. We talked about how nice it'll be to have dinners here, how the kids will love the pool, etc. Then, Lois said: "Oh, we have a new phone number." I pulled my cell out to program it in and saw the old phone number there: 617-569-5438. It's the phone number I'd had all my life, the numbers that dialed home even when I no longer lived there. I was suddenly paralyzed by sentimentality and couldn't bring myself to delete it. It took awhile, but I finally did it. It was the old struggle, overcoming a connection, this time to a now disconnected phone number. 617-569-5438.

Those Polarizing Pink Hats

(Red Sox fan and good sport Anne Houseman loves her pink hat and is no longer afraid to wear it)

Check out my article in today's Globe on the entire pink hat controversy in Red Sox Nation.  The message board discussion is a doozy as well. 

Keeping it Epic

When taking in the SATC movie, the last thing you'd want to be part of is a cliched sundressed quartet click-clacking your way into the Boston Common theatre.  That was one of the excuses bandied about as four of us sat on the city sidewalk, conjuring some epic and soaking up the late day sun with al fresco cocktails.  Should we scrap the 4:55 movie all together and just plant it right where we were until our 8 p.m. dinner reservation? It was tempting. At 5:05,  we decided we'd better woman up and get ourselves to the movie, lest dinner -- this month's Suppah Club -- become an event, a vodka-drenched one on an empty stomach with shoes gone missing.  A very good call.  So, we saw the movie, which was what we expected -- four episodes in a row, meow, meow, meow. However, it sort of brought everyone down a bit, which was very unexpected. We slogged off to Ivy in a haze and were seated next to a bachelorette party with a giant inflatable pink penis (that had a face) as a centerpiece. Needless to say, it took awhile for our somber waiter to deliver the dirties.  From thereon -- all hopped up on olive juice -- it went all heroic and silly around the edges.  For whatever reason (maybe b/c of the neighboring inflatable and the fact that I possessed a video) there was an engaging discussion about this thing.  Absolutely mesmerizing.  The South Shore's proverbial American Beauty plastic bag.

The Truth, the Big Ticket, the Answer

For many years, the only member of the Celtics I could identify was Paul Pierce, and that was only because of his terry cloth headband.  We'd gone to a few games in recent years but the only excitement among the fans seemed to be who could act like a big enough donkey to get on the Jumbotron during commercial breaks.  I felt like such a geezer looking around at these fools thinking that most of them were not even born when the team was all about greatness.  

(DBs in full regalia)

Then came the sounds of things turning around -- like this exchange between Caroline and Paul a few weeks ago after Paul mistakenly referred to Kevin Garnett as "The Truth."  

Caroline: "No, Paulie. Paul Pierce is the Truth. That's KG, he's the Big Ticket." 

Paulie:   "Oh yeah."

Treat these kids to a Duck Boat parade immediately!   

The last time the Celtics won a championship, I was in the 10th grade. That's tough to reconcile. On the radio this morning, there was a lot of talk about the spirit of 1986.  About how Danny Ainge's ability to create this team sprung from his being a member of the 1986 team. How he never became so enamored with talent that he forgot about character -- a great message that translated, albeit 22 years later.  

 

Then of course, there is the downside of winning: The DBs who destroy things.  When did people begin rioting out of joy?   Never, in a state of jubilation, have I felt compelled to uproot a mailbox and overturn some SUVs.  In 1986, (Granny alert) the only potential controversy around the Celtics celebration involved forged early dismissal notes to guidance counselors and some contraband wine coolers on the Green Line.   

I'm half inspired to excavate my moth-eaten "Beat LA" t-shirt (with "Sweet 16" on the back) from the shopping bag archive, but don't want to smell like a basement. But, to echo KGs joyful declaration last night: "Anything is possible!" 

Tim Russert

On Friday, I was driving home when I heard the news about Tim Russert. I almost careened into the some hedges off 53 and had to pull over. The sadness is still here this morning. Someone described his passing as "unjust" and that seems the most fitting term. I saw a recent interview with Russert where he said the coverage of the 2008 election ranks up there among the most exciting moments of his career, how he felt it a privilege to be a part of history in the making. His spirit was uncontainable, like he couldnt believe he got to do what he did for a living. While witnessing history in the making is a privilege, recognizing your own good fortune as it's happening is a true gift -- the very definition of happiness. I hope that is a comfort to his family, that he knew he was lucky. And, in my opinion, nobody in the news business was more deserving. In a cynical, increasingly mean-spirited profession, he was tough but always maintained civility. Always. A true gentleman. There will never, ever be another Tim Russert.

Boulos Turns Four at Humid Carousel Extravaganza

(Can I borrow a copy of your "Hey Soul" classics?)

Paulie turned four yesterday with much fanfare at the Paragon Carousel. After attending a birthday party there last year, it was the only place he'd even considered celebrating his 4th. We like it there too --  it's a quick hit -- 11:30 a.m.-1 p.m., ride the carousel, sing Happy Birthday, pack it up, pack it in. Like always, however, the Nantasket rotunda was a house of joy and pain.  First, it was the swampiest day of the year thus far -- 90 plus degrees with all manner of species swarming toward the beaches, spawning clusterfucks at every turn.  Second, there was some kind of car show going down right in front of the Carousel which hogged up parking spaces, created a detour, and brought an audience of what one party parent described as "a giant mid-life crisis in a mesh trucker hat." Lots of full-body tattoos and blaring of the Scorpions.  Anyway, to make matters worse, this party was organized by the inept Jimmy & Kathy show.  As we unpacked the car --Spiderman cake, popsicles, coolers full of water and juiceboxes, etc. -- we realized we'd forgotten the Spiderman paper plates, utensils and napkins.  James and SAC quickly scurried to scrounge some generic, institutional replacements off nearby Nantasket vendors.  Luckily, the beach traffic and car show detour delayed the party guests a good 30-40 minutes so they wouldn't be forced to eat with their hands.  But that quickly became irrelevant as the pizzas we ordered didn't show up until after the party was over.  Needless to say, by 11:45 a.m., many of us were looking for something stronger than Poland Spring.  The popsicles melted, the cake was a bit congealed, and many parents experienced sweaty vertigo after too many go-rounds in the humidity. But, beneath the shady rotunda, all the kids were completely unaware of the MF mania going on behind the scenes. They came to get down. To them, it was all about riding the carousel until they couldn't see straight. They couldn't have cared less about solid popsicles and utensils.  Once again, a lesson in Zen from a group of four-year old sages.  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PAULIE!   

Random Quizzilla

1) When was the last time you had 'surprise fun' ?
Surprise fun has been a regular occurrence these days from the early-evening beach hang to the mid-week sausage festival. Last Friday was another example. On a whim, JAL and I decided to meet up after work at LTK for drinks to celebrate the real estate transaction of the century that involves JAL moving into my childhood bedroom.  The evening swelled into a “sort of homecoming” gathering with endless plates of grilled shrimp and dirty martinis. EPB, who  is back from Down Under, is temporarily perched high above the Seaport in a corporate ivory tower. He and some of his boys (included two Owls) joined us as did Mike P, Cameo and Code Red. P also stopped by "for one" while awaiting a ride to his 15th college reunion.  But by 9:30 he was still enjoying a Stella Artois in a chalice "garnished with the body of Christ." After dinner, I had a very pleasant ride back to the burbs on the Greenbush where I discussed the phenomenon of New England Reserve with a very, very baked 17-year-old surfer dude who'd just moved to North Scituate from LA.  

2) What was the last email forward you received that actually made you laugh out loud. Who was it from? 
It was from Bags. The subject line: "Vindicated." It was a link to this article in Maxim where readers voted Wally the Green Monster "the #1 Mascot deserving a groin punch."  Needless to say, this write-up made Bags happier than a rousing match of lawn darts.

3) On average how good are you at keeping a secret? 

With other people's secrets, I am a vault.  With my own, not so much.     

4) When someone smiles at you, do you smile back?
Of course. Only a total DB wouldn’t.

5) Using 20 words or less, describe your first driving experience.5
Donuts in the parking lot of the Revere Showcase Cinemas

Pass the Torch

(Mama!)

On a harried and unshowered afternoon about three years ago, Nicola and I were pushing double strollers around Castle Island in an incoherent trance, bonding over a traumatizing evening involving FeverAll suppositories and cracking up, tears rolling down cheeks, over imagined sound effects. Back at Nic's, we plied all four babies with Goldfish and blueberries and lamented the fact that we couldn't even finish an afternoon glass of Mother's Little Helper. It was a time when we were straddling the ridiculously thin line between sanity and postpartum craziness, self-proclaimed “poor little bastards” with Boudreau’s Butt Paste in our hair.


That's when Nic declared that one day we'll be beyond this, things will be easier. "We'll be showered, sitting on our arses, drinking wine, and it'll be someone else's turn." Indeed, the ceremonial suppository torch was passed after the Bags' family's 2006 night with toiletries from Brooks but this past weekend at Jen's cocktail baby shower, we realized that the day has dawned. Things have gotten easier. There we were in the South End: Showered, sitting on our arses, and drinking vino as we watched Jen open gift after gift of bewildering babyware, mistaking several items for puppets. (“Exactly how many puppets did your register for?”) Nic, Code Red and I sat back in cockeyed rebellion, running a commentary like these guys, fancying ourselves pass-out-on-the-roofdeck hilarious. We've come a long way but are still capable of regression when in the company of Jen, etal. As she opened up some receiving blankets, I recalled the evening we took a corkscrew to a bottle of balsamic vinegar, having mistaken it for pinot noir. Then we considered putting Ollie in the Baby Bjorn and heading to Beehive. What a fantastic night all around.

Still --even more evidence that the day has dawned – a Memorial Day cookout at Jess’s house, a true Babypalooza, with LPD, Jess and Auntie fostering chaos on a baby blanket. For us, it was the first year we didn't have to worry about the kids eating pine cones. They were actually able to help out and party with the beautiful wee ones and enjoy them as much as we did. This also maximized everyone's enjoyment of the yodeling pickle that Bags brought. I had to Google it the next day to make sure I hadn’t dreamt it. I didn’t. And it sounded just like this. Best of all, in the spirit of cooperation, all mamas and papas were able to sit on their arses, finish their wine and enjoy some (with apologies to LPD) fantastically plump, moist & juicy steamers. Thanks Jess & Joe!

Enjoy a crappy low-res slide show of a superior afternoon.

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

A Prayer for a No-Hitter and Tickets Gone Missing

(photo: Boston.com)

I spent most of the ninth inning last night in child's pose. James wondered when I'd become a muslim. I was reducing Jon Lester-related anxiety at the time -- not actually praying -- but then I figured I might as well while I was down there. I wasn’t alone, either. The entire crowd at Fenway rose up and the camera zoomed in on many fans with hands literally clasped in prayer for a no-hitter. A few weeks ago, I interviewed Michael Borer, an author and sociologist whose book "Faithful To Fenway" was published last month. He writes about the Red Sox as a religion with Fenway Park as the church. How Red Sox fandom is a unique form of worship and devotion, unlike any other in sports. It's alway been this way for New Englanders but since 2004, it's reached a fever pitch: The fairy tale endings, the dramatic come-from-behind wins, the term "walk-off" homerun entering the vernacular, etc. And then there are the heartwarming cinderella stories. Last season, we prayed for rookie Clay Buchholz who went on to pitch a no-hitter in his second major league game. Then, just when you couldn't up the emotional ante any further, enter Jon Lester. The babyfaced 24-year-old who battled back from cancer to win the deciding game in the World Series. Now this! Let's sing some hymns.

But still, Borer explained, our lingering angst is likely an enternal flame. Regardless of the overwhelming sense of things turning around, we’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop --so we pray. As everyone knows, Lester triumphed last night and our collective heart stopped racing. But if it caused so much anxiety for fans, I can only imagine what it must’ve felt like for him. A friend was recently talking about the element of loneliness in any kind of accomplishment. That element could not have been any more apparent last night with Lester. James pointed out how none of his teammates would talk to Lester or even glance in his general direction in the dug out. Even on the mound, with everyone at the park chanting his name, he was – as the forever quotable Cliff Poncier once said -- “a self-contained unit, a solo arstist.” Having the presence of mind to finish the game and not, say, collapse into child’s pose on the mound was a accomplishment in and of it self. As long as we don't get too used to it.

In smaller Sox miracles, we headed to the game with P and Maria last Friday night. Pre-game, we jammed into Eastern Standard seeking shelter from the awesome windswept rain until learning the game was postponed until the following evening. So we decided to go have dinner at Cambridge 1 (crazy delicious pizza pie) and then head back to P and Maria’s to watch the Celtics. We hailed a cab, but within a few seconds, P somehow realized that our four Sox tickets had fallen out of his pocket during the slow jog to the cab. We pulled over and he ran back through the throngs to see if he could find them. "Say a prayer to St. Anthony," he said, invoking the patron saint of lost things. He was half-kidding but the rest of us remained skeptical that he'd find them -- especially on a rainy windy night amid a major exodus from Fenway. But he did. They were lined up -- all in a row -- in the middle of Boylston Street. Well, three out of four of them, the fourth likely carried off on the tire of a passing car. Not miraculous, per se, but considering the elements -- pretty wild.

Pissing off the Geezers

(New Kids, aging well)

Just a few weeks ago, I was so blissfully unaware of my own age that I unwittingly referred to a woman younger than me as a "cougar." Today, I'm all too aware of my own geezerhood. It started with the New Kids kicking off their reunion tour on the Today Show this morning. I was too old for them the first time around and find this whole reunion to be an affront to my magical thinking. My babysitter, who is 10 years my junior, was all juiced up, recreating some dance steps for Caroline and Paulie that she used to perform in her room when she was nine. I jumped into the fray and tried to bust into that New Kids/Bobby Brown hybrid dance move that LPD and I used to do at 19. Caroline immediately shook her head and deemed it "ridiculous." (Aside: James can just keep quiet about my dancing ability as I've seen photos of him from the early 90s and he looks like one-half of Kid 'n Play.) Keeping the spirit, Katie (sitter/magician) and I put on some PM Dawn and enjoyed some Milanos. She further showed her youth by sharing a dream she had last night about being on a date with David Archuleta from American Idol, one that possibly involved a double deuce of malt liquor. I continued to show my geezerhood as my dream last night was that the new Target planned for my town opened a year early. I was so over the moon about this that I was the first person at the store. And for some reason, everyone that worked at the store was wearing a red gymnast leotard. No more Nyquil on the Rocks!

A Mexican Hangover for Mothers' Day

A rained-out Renegades game became a Mexican springboard of sorts for some spontaneity and long overdue Taylor time. Under the auspices of Mothers’ Day, we conjured up last minute sitter/magicians and --beneath an antique KPMG golf umbrella – scurried down Gloucester Street to Casa Romero (Cafe Rodriguez). It was pouring outside but down in the public alley it was all about free flowing albarino, cactus-stuffed chicken medallions and disordered piles of refried beans. Muy bien.

We discussed the Mothers' Day Q&A sheets sent home from school:

Teacher: “What did your mother like to play when she was a little girl.”
Paulie: “Nothing! She was just a tiny girl and she was very, very chubby.”

We sat next to two inebriated yet jolly young women -- relentless utensil droppers who told us four times they'd just returned from Asia. One of the ladies snapped our photo while giving a mini-lecture on flash photography. "That’s great, please don’t drop Chubby's camera."

We enjoyed our standard unneccessary nightcap at Sonsie where we proceeded to rearrange furniture and create a barrier between us and a gaggle of manorexic svengalis.



"di pa-ta-ta!"






"Say 'Son-say'"

Random Quizzilla

1) What kid of music do you listen to while driving?
It’s been well-documented here that my kids stuffed some nickels into my car's CD player and cigarette lighter so I haven't been able to hook up my iPod or Sirius or even listen to an old mixed CD recently excavated from the glovey (dated Feb 2000/titled “Busmalis” after the character on Oz). So, I usually listen to the radio, mostly 'FNX, The River and 'BOS. If you're forced to listen to the radio in your car, you may have noticed that 'BOS recently changed its format. They undoubtedly took a cue from marketing geniuses behind 93.7's totally random, DJ-free experience designed to compete with the iPod (only if your iPod has excessive amounts of Steve Miller and other hideous strains of Redneck rock). Not good. But, BOS isn't totally random, it's totally 90s and is clearly targeting my demographic of nostalgic 30-somethings. Now, I can put on some old tunes, get down and wallow in nostalgia with the best of them, but this format is not working for me. It's not so much a feel-good nostalgia as an anxiety-producing one. It's like a Proustian memory for the ears. Driving to Dunkins, suddenly having an out-of-body experience from 1995: Gavin Rossdale's voice, feeling slightly anxious and hungover. Moments later, snapping out of it: Thank God that now is not then -- and holy crap, it's way too early for Screaming Trees.

2) When was the last time you were on a train?
Yesterday, we took wee brown ones into the city on the Greenbush Line. Overall, it was a very pleasant experience except for a couple of cackling ladies behind us who talked about Edy’s Slow Churn ice cream the entire ride in.

3) What is the most frequent letter of the alphabet in your whole name (first, middle, maiden, last, etc.)?
Frigging “A”

4) What is the last "silly" photo you took of a person, place or thing?
There are a several silly noun photos. Here we have BG and Paulie at the Playwright on Saturday afternoon. And you can't see it in the picture, but BG is wearing a donkey pinata shirt with "I'd hit that" beneath it. Fantastic. Other recent silly photos of note: intersection ponyrides at the local liquor store, where the hell are my glasses, and the impossibility of recapturing the excitement of the Celtics' win in a contrived post-photo.


5)Have you gone to any high school reunions? Will you attend your next one?
Just one -- a sparsely-attended 15th that was held in a windowless function room at an Italian restaurant in Dedham. Not if it's held in a windowless function room at an Italian restaurant in Dedham.

Don't Get a Perm, but...

(Maria curls Edie)

Check out today's Style section for my article on the return of big hair and bigger curls. A photo gallery of dos, and a quick reminder of don'ts.

It's On: No Excuses

The first of the final five episodes of LOST Season 4 starts tonight and toes are already tingling. For those who have never seen the show, want to start watching it, but deem it too much of a commitment: Good news. Blogger and all around good guy defective yeti has done the math for you. No more excuses:

"The final episode of LOST Season 4 will be #82. After that there will be two more seasons, each with 16 episodes. The premiere of LOST Season 4 was in mid-January, 2008. Let's assume that the final season starts in mid-January of 2010. At that point, 98 episodes will have aired. So, what's January 15, 2010, minus 98 weeks?

Answer: February 29, 2008.

So: if you've never seen LOST, you can start from the pilot now, view one episode a week (with 7-8 double-headers), finish right before the start of season 6, and see the remaining installments in real time, thereby watching the entire series without hiatus." Wow.

If you still don't have that kind of time, here's a complete recap of the ENTIRE series in 4 minutes, 24 seconds....

James at 40

Our meandering weekend-long celebration of James' 40th involved much fanfare and an abundance of meat products. It began with what could become a mid-week tradition -- the Spontaneous Afterwork Sausage Invasion. Two simultaneous (and serendipitous) trips to the Smoke House in Norwell ended in a consolidation of cured meats, and the grilling of peppers and onions in my partially-destroyed cookware. Friends in the kitchen, sausages for the soul.

We headed to dinner at Abe & Louie’s with P and Maria the following night. When we lived in the city, we always avoided going into town on Patriot’s Day weekend because of the madness of crowds, the lines, the Marathon in town, etc. This year was even crazier with both the Sox and the Bruins playing, but for some reason, we couldn't wait to get in there. We decrepit suburbanites craved that collective mid-April energy shared by all who are excited just to be outside without mittens.

Shuffling down Boylston Street, we were stopped by a twentysomething man in a backwards baseball hat who asked us if we wanted to go see Lynard Skynard with him, then go streaking on the Common. Before we could respond, he started skipping down the street, yelling over his shoulder: “No sa! No sa! Welcome to Boston!” Ok. Then came the food. James had this Flintstonian Bone-in Prime Rib that caused rubbernecking from neighboring diners. We dug into our Abe & Louie’s salads, filet mignon and then a six layer piece of chocolate birthday cake that rivaled the PR in size. Wow. All told, I think we met WMD's goal of eating one's body weight in red meat.

We filed out with the entire place erupting all around us because the Bruins had just won and walked back down Boylston for a night cap at Excelsior. We had some really kind vodka that I’d never heard of over which the four of us planned a long weekend in Vegas, which will hopefully come to fruition, kind vodka notwithstanding. The next day, we received P and Maria's entire Vegas itinerary via email and tossed all the leftover meat into a steak and eggs scramble, wishing BG had been there to fix Bloody Marys. Then, the meat-eating tipping point -- some Lebanese lahm mishwe on the grill that afternoon. Jimmy and Kathy shall have to fast. And if you’re wondering what happened to the bone in the bone-in prime rib, look no further than right here.

Happy 40th, James!

Random Quizzilla

1) On a scale of 1-10 how clean do you keep your car?
It’s off the scale, hovering somewhere in the negative numerals. Last week, the Volvo bus was late picking up burds for S.C. because when I removed the booster seats from the backseat, I found several layers of crumbs and random stickiness. An abandoned yo-yo was welded to the seat with lollipop residue. I can’t blame the kids for this as my car has always been an ankle-deep receptacle of clutter. Besides, my other mamas' cars don’t look like this and they easily could. For me, clutter has become a kind of unfortunate lifestyle. I was eyeing an odd collection of crap on the kitchen island last week: A jar of bubbles, a blue Spiderman sock, glitter nail polish, Vito’s leash and paper plate with phone numbers scribbled on it. And I said aloud: “This pile would never occur at the Bags’ residence.” And it wouldn't. It may be time to call in the experts.

2) With skyrocketing gas prices, what are you doing to conserve?
As a rule, if we forget something back at the house, we can’t turn around and go back to get it.

3) On an average, how much fast food do you consume?
Unless there is a dire craving, not too much. Right now, we're trying to detox Paulie off a KFC popcorn chicken addiction so he doesn't end up on a childhood obesity special on Dr. Phil(DB). Damn laptop meals -- a million grams of fat for $3.69.

4) What book are you currently reading, or what was the last one you read?
"Be the Pack Leader" by Dog Whisperer Cesar Millan. I've learned that, contrary to popular belief, Vito is actually quite balanced; he's simply mirroring my own neuroses. Baby steps.
"The Abstinence Teacher" by Tom Perotta
"The Easter Parade" by Richard Yates

5) What are your plans for the long weekend?
Jame is turning 40. Good God, man. Having dinner at Abe & Louies. I'd like to have a little cake in the kitchen on Sunday if the old man can handle it. Will send out word.