Archive for » September, 2009 «
Dad’s Diner is now listed on the Foodie Blogroll!!!
Just thought I’d let everyone know.
It’s a small landmark for me.
And the blog is doing quite well, thank you for asking.
I have a BBQ sauce recipe up right now that is just sick!
Please check it out.
Enjoy the food fight . . .
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Nothing better than starting the week out with a clip from Curly.
His bowl of oyster stew is indeed alive and well.
I supposedly have an appointment with the Doc on Wednesday.
This is what he may say to me.
A few quotes to finish things up;
“Flying is learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.” – Douglas Adams
Energizer Bunny arrested, charged with battery.
“I told the doctor I broke my leg in two places.
He told me to quit going to those places.” – Henny Youngman
Please visit my fellow Malarkers for more Monday chuckles.
Have a great week, folks!
A happy birthday to the original cat whisperer, Pamd.
Love ya, milady.
ps. she’s 35 again! Go figure.
I am quite sure that there are many people that live in a fantasy world
and know little to nothing about the real one.
They seem stuck in a time and place where common sense is about as real as the tooth fairy;
a really dumb tooth fairy.
I’m not telling you something you probably didn’t already know but when you run into these jamokes
(and I do, multiple times, daily)
you want to whack them in head with one of those huge Acme Co. (Wiley Coyote) hammers.
Then there are those that are in the real world but seem almost oblivious to the obvious.
I was working last Sunday when the phone rang.
This person asked, “Are you open?”
I said, “Hmmmm, hang on, let me check.” (5 second pause)
“Yeah, we are!” I said trying to sound almost surprised.
If a retail establishment answers the phone on a Sunday afternoon chances are pretty damn good that they’re open, capice?
And I’m pretty damn sure that when I hung up the person was thinking one of two things:
Wow. What an asshole.
Or . . .
Wow. I’m a ding-a-ling for asking such a dumbass question. Of course they’re open . . .
Now and then I have to blow out my retail pipes because if I don’t . . . well, let’s not go there just yet.
I sell tobacco and all things tobacco.
Here are some questions that I am just plain sick of answering:
Q. “You guys got Cubans?”
A. Obviously J.F.K and the Cuban Missile Crisis wasn’t covered in your American History class.
We haven’t traded with Cuba since February of 1962.
A huge mistake for the USA, as we continue the endless Cold War.
We’ve lost out on an incredible island and amazing people but a country governed by Communism will never be accepted here. Long story.
Q. “How much for these bad boys?”
A. You are a douchebag of magnificent proportions for calling them ‘bad boys’ to begin with.
They’re called cigars.
That’s one strike.
Q. “How come these ‘bad boys’ are so expensive?”
A. Ask the new administration, the change you can believe in thing.
Does the word“ ‘tax’ mean anything to you?
Do you ever read a newspaper or anything on the internet regarding tobacco/cigar regulation and the unfair taxes levied against this industry?
You, my friend, are a super douche for having no clue about the things the liberal wing has done to screw up this industry. I won’t even get into the debacle regarding the new FDA’s regulation of tobacco.
Yes, we can!
No we can’t, my brothers.
That’s two strikes.
Q. “Do you guys sell blunt wraps, digital scales, screens, glass pipes, Salvia, Black & Milds or Dutches (Dutch Masters)?”
A. Uh . . . no.
Strike three, douchebag.
For today . . .
I found this floating around YouTube and had to share it.
With a bit of preparation this recipe could conceivably work.
I have yet to try it but I will . . .
Have no fear.
I really like Alton Brown.
Try his One Minute Eggplant.
Good God . . .
You know you’re getting out there when the only reason you know it’s Monday
is because there’s an NFL game on tonight.
My Tweet this morning was telling to say the very least:
“I’ve officially lost track of where the week ends and where the new one begins.”
Everything seems just so helter-skelter these days and Monday only serves to exacerbate the issue.
For instance; last Monday night, a train I occasionally ride home was dispatched and routed improperly.
Long story short, the outbound train was traveling on the same track as the inbound train.
Never a good thing with that inertia thing and all.
Both were going @ 30-40 MPH.
The phrase ‘as subtle as a train wreck’ springs to mind.
There would have been some serious carnage, folks.
Mucho carnagio, muchachos.
Thank God the situation was recognized and thank God it was rectified.
Still makes me wonder, what if?
Some assflap person was not on their game that day and many people could have paid the ultimate train fare.
The MBTA would have loved that, too.
The money grubbing bastards.
It was a small revelation of sorts for me.
A ‘holy-crap-I’m-still-alive kinda thing’ because I rode a different train that night.
( a 25 minute delay, medical emergency . . . sheesh)
Even the automated train announcements were strange today.
It’s a woman’s voice that tells you what stop is coming up.
The voice sounds like June Cleever from ‘Leave it to Beaver’.
I’m tired but I am definitely not kidding.
“Beave? Wally? The next stop is Framingham. Get ready Beaver!”
(the sampled voice even mispronounces the approaching town’s name as well which adds to my Monday weirdness.
It should sound like ‘Fray-ming-ham’ but the voice says ‘Fram-ing-ham’ God help us all.)
Steve, the conductor, walked by and said to me, “Oh, man . . . Mondays.”
Oh, man, he is absolutely right.
‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I have been with a loose girl.’
The priest asks,
‘Is that you, little Joey Pagano ?’
‘Yes, Father, it is.’
‘And who was the girl you were with?’
‘I can’t tell you, Father. I don’t want to ruin her reputation.’
“Well, Joey, I’m sure to find out her name sooner or later. Was it Tina Minetti?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Was it Teresa Mazzarelli?’
‘I’ll never tell.’
‘Was it Nina Capelli?’
‘I’m sorry, but I cannot name her.’
‘Was it Cathy Piriano?’
‘My lips are sealed.’
‘Was it Rosa DiAngelo, then?’
‘Please, Father, I cannot tell you.’
The priest sighs in frustration.
‘You’re very tight lipped, and I admire that. But you’ve sinned and have to atone.
You cannot be an altar boy now for 4 months. Now you go and behave yourself.’
Joey walks back to his pew, and his friend Franco slides over and whispers
‘What’d you get?’
‘Four months vacation and five good leads.’
*Here’s a classic example of an
One more for the road:
Happy MM, folks.
Seize the day by whatever means are available!
Please visit my fellow Malarkers for a hoot and a toot!
It’s not only the way it feels,
it’s the way it makes me feel . . .
a conditional freak of
my own mind,
my own doing,
my own flesh and
candy-apple red blood,
and a host that lives inside of me . . .
It grows asymmetrical outside my body,
the unwanted lichens of all that I can’t bear
It’s only when I look in the mirror;
I am sadly reminded that it’s still there . . .
Someday perhaps it will leave me,
that time just isn’t right now
I still ask when, Dear God in heaven, when?
And I shall curse forever the very day it found me,
this visible demon of my flesh
I gladly let the steam cover the bathroom mirror
and for the moment,
I can put the thing to rest
Many a hot summer night will find me on the back deck with my laptop,
a cold Guinness and a nice warm cigar.
It’s what I choose to do during this season.
I dream about it at work, on the train back home and make the dream come true when I get there.
I’ve been known to choose the back deck and a cigar over a Red Sox game. (oh, the horrors!)
My daughters will come and go during the night passing me on their way in and out of the house.
They usually wave their hands in a back and forth fashion in front of their face to let me know
that my cigar stinks like poop.
I usually turn and say, “Someday, when I’m gone-” (and I get cut off)
“We know Dad, when you’re dead and buried we’ll be walking down a street and smell a cigar and think of you.
How nice. That thing stinks.”
“Gee, thanks, hon. Love you, too.”
I usually utter that to an empty backyard because they’ve already gone back into the house.
I smoke some very nice cigars, folks.
I have 12 year old Cubans in my humidor, for God’s sake.
These ain’t your Daddy’s Phillie Grape-flavored Blunts.
I’m thinking Pamela actually likes the aroma of at least a few of them.
Last Sunday, a woman came into the store,
stopped in the middle of the floor and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply.
She opened her eyes, smiled and looked at me.
She was crying.
“I hope you don’t mind but I’m taking a walk down Memory Lane here.
Places like this just remind me of my Dad. It’s almost like he’s here.”
“He is,” said I.
She looked around as she was leaving and almost lovingly said,
“Thank you so much.”
If I had a dime for every time someone said, “this place reminds me of my grandfather,”
I would be a very rich man.
I usually smile, nod my head and think, same old, same old.
Been there, cut the cigar, smoked the cigar and bought the T-shirt.
For some reason, this woman seemed different to me.
Maybe it was the fragments of truth that seemed to hang on her every word.
She was moved to tears by the aroma of a century old cigar shop.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised.
I can only hope that years after I’m gone, my daughters can still find a special shop that offers up the unique and precious memories that mine currently does.
They may just have to settle for the aroma of some fine Cuban cigar wafting through the air
of some distant and special summer night in the distant future.
That will be Dad, girls . . . that special kiss on your cheek.