With hundreds of red-winged blackbirds falling dead out of the sky in Louisiana,
more tornadoes than the NOAA can count,
earthquakes the magnitudes of which the world has never seen,
tropical cyclones that can only be classified as deadly and a massive oil spill that was the worst
environmental disaster of all time, I thought it was high time for some good news.
Some funny news.
Maybe even some fake and made up news.
Anything but the bullshit the media gives us.
Just scanning the web I found a number of interesting stories.
Thank you Google.

Like THIS one.
Heartwarming and true.

Or THIS one.
Not so heartwarming but probably true.

Or THIS one.
Not heartwarming at all but damn funny in a very dark and Pan’s Labyrinth kind of way.

There, you feel better already, yes?
And no, I am not getting up at 3AM to watch the Royal Wedding.
I need my beauty sleep, for God’s sake . . .

~m

During my lunch hour today I wanted to drop off a fountain pen for repair.
This meant a walk to Downtown Crossing in the shopping district,
an area swarming with people today due to the warm summer weather.

The Bromfield Pen Shop is a place I have dreams about with all their pens, cool ink and exotic paper.
It’s the only place in Boston to take a sick pen; the patient of the day: a Mont Blanc fountain pen.
As I walked down Washington Street, grilled sausages, onions and red and green peppers assaulted my olfactory senses.
I was hungry and had multiple thoughts of mustard.
Spicy, brown mustard.

I was limited on time so I dropped off the pen and didn’t chance a look at the new inks
that had undoubtedly come in.
I am a big-time sucker for creatively colored inks.
Thank my lucky stars I didn’t have the time to spend money I don’t have on inks I really don’t need.
And ink is sooooo cool.
You have no idea.

I left the pen shop and walked up Bromfield Street when I saw a sign for a tres cool sandwich shop.
I walked in and saw a line longer than the bank on payday.
I would settle for a grilled chicken sandwich from Burger King. (yummy, right?)
I sat down to eat and noticed an older black man panhandling right outside the front door.
This guy was a bit different though.
He wasn’t asking for money, though he did hold a large BK cup in his hand.
I watched through the glass as he mouthed ‘hello’ and ‘have a nice day, now’ to the many people walking by.
He was polite and generally unobtrusive for a needy guy.

And he was needy.

He stood about my height (5’8”) and had on ratty clothes, the overall effect topped off
with a weathered Boston Red Sox hat.
His toothless smile seemed almost innocuous. . . inviting.
You almost wanted to forgive him though he’d done no wrong, if that makes any sense.

As a rule, I don’t give money to street people.
I might offer a piece of fruit or a bottle of water if I have an extra.

I reached into my BK bag and took out an order of French Fries that I hadn’t ordered.
I brought them up to the register and told the woman that waited on me that I hadn’t ordered them. She waved her hand in a ‘no comprende’ way and said ‘keep them’.

I haven’t been eating fries lately and decided my windfall would be a snack for the man outside ‘working the street’.

I ate my lunch and continued to watch this man smile, say hello, give directions and take whatever this unblinking society would give him.
I finished my sandwich and grabbed the bag with the fries (still sufficiently hot) and left.
I walked up and handed him the bag and said, “Here, eat these. You do eat fries, don’t ya’?”

You would have thought I’d just given him a winning lottery ticket.

He smiled and said, “Bless you, my brother. Bless your heart.”

I walked across Tremont Street and through a warm, sunny Boston Common back to work,
oddly happy to have been sincerely blessed.

~m

Some thoughts from many years ago (2006)
Seems like yesterday . . .

We had my father over for Easter dinner on Sunday.
My sister wanted to pick him up and bring him over; something I believe she had to do.
I think she fears there won’t be many more left to share.
Sadly, I would have to agree.
Actually, I would have agreed over a year ago.
I have to give her credit for going through the rigmarole of getting him ready,
seated safely in the car and bringing him over to our house.
I’ve been there, done that and bought the t-shirt.

My father has a difficult time walking these days reminding me more of Charlie Chaplin than the man I once called “Dad”.
It’s an unfortunate physical side effect of a brain at war with total neurological disintegration.
We eventually got him into my living room and plopped him down in my favorite chair:
one, because the chair is just so damn comfortable
and two, because when we finally let him go, it would be impossible for him to miss it.

We all sat down to eat and my sister and I filled his plate with ham,
green beans and Au gratin potatoes, all of which we cut up into pieces to make it easier for him to feed himself.
And feed himself he did.
He ate everything on the plate.
Either my cooking was really good that day or where he’s currently staying is really bad.
Whatever the case, it was wonderful to see him enjoy a meal.
He didn’t speak a word as he ate.

My wife caught him stabbing at an empty spot on his plate.
She gently rotated his plate to where the food was and he was none the wiser.
Mission Accomplished.

The rest of the afternoon went off without a hitch.

After eating, we ushered him back to my chair where he fell asleep; perhaps shuffling through his own little world of monochromatic movie screens and silent dreams . . .  a sleeping Charlie Chaplin.

We woke him an hour or so later and got him back into the car.
As I fastened his seat belt, I looked at him as he peered over the rims of his glasses and I said,
“No Boston Marathon for you tomorrow, young man.”

I’m sure he didn’t understand a word I said but knew enough to do a little chuckle and mutter, “Yeah”.

He plays the game so well most days so why the hell can’t I?

For me, the Easter cupboard was somewhat threadbare in terms of holiday revelations
and personal epiphanies but I did get to marvel over the way my Dad still gets through his days.
In many ways, he’s graceful in a way I may never be.
As long as his surreal movie keeps playing,
I’ll continue to watch him as he shuffles through his seemingly silent and black and white world,
just like Chaplin.

~m

Welcome to Malarky Monday!
I’m  hoping you get the idea by now.
After visiting here, click the links to the Malarky Monday gang and laugh your pants off!

This week is all about annoying things.
I’ve dealt with many lately so this post seemed natural in the overall scheme of things.

Yeah, fruit can be annoying.
And be annoyed . . .

There’s nothing more annoying than being chased by a 10-point buck loaded
with heat-seeking missiles.
I love .gif images . . .

Cell phones?
Annoying.
Especially when playing ‘You oughta know’
by Alanis Morissette.
God, she’s annoying . . .

Finally, there is nothing more annoying than
a woman that badly needs some mustache wax.
Nothing.
Her husband looks like he’s going to get his ass kicked when they get home.
Click on the picture to go to the website . . .

Now off you go!
Visit:
Moe
Morky
and
Dilligaf

& Happy Malarky Monday!

Welcome to Malarky Monday!
(the *I Spy edition)
This is the one day of the week that we offer up some
of the crazy stuff we find floating around the web.
We hope to make you giggle, spit, laugh, cry until it hurts and ultimately smile.
There’s nothing here that will take a boatload of time so be sure to visit
my fellows in hijinx!

Moe!
Morky!!
Dilligaf!!!

This week I ‘spied’ some serious and epic fails on the net.
Here are several leviathan food fails.
Anyone for some canned chicken?
I spy wicked disgusting.

How about a bacon rifle?
I wonder if it can fire a fried egg?
I spy a stupid guy way too proud of a pork product.

Or my personal favorite: Meat Water
Mmm, mmm, mmm
You just can’t beat the combination of ground beef and aged cheddar.
I didn’t even mention the ease of portability.
Got ketchup?
I spy a drink that’s light years away from thirst quenching.

Last but not least this hysterical cat clip.
I spy a seriously funny cat.

Happy Malarky Monday!

I run into many interesting people during the course of my day in Boston.
This morning a customer took me by surprise with a true story that was just too damn funny not to share. I am not making this up folks.
May not be suitable for reading the kids before bed either.
I made mention of the fact that I had made chili on Wednesday when BLH said, “I gotta good chili story for ya.”

In the (somewhat) paraphrased words of BLH:

“This was several years ago when I was living next to two gay guys.
Great guys, too.
They did their thing, I did mine, ya know?
Live and let live, I say.
Anyway, my kitchen window looked right into theirs as it was less than 15 feet away.
So this one summer day, I’m making chili.
Beautiful day, windows open, music on and I’m chopping up onions and garlic and Habanero peppers for my chili.
I leave the kitchen for a minute to go and take a piss and resume my cooking.
It’s not even 2 minutes later that  ‘Mr. Willy’ starts to heat up.
Like really heating up.
I look at the Habanero peppers now nicely chopped and look down at my crotch and think, “Dear God, no.”
Within 5 minutes, I realize that ‘Mr. Willy’ needs some serious medical attention.
This is getting painful.
And really hot.
I get a facecloth, soak it in cold water and drop my pants right there in the middle of the kitchen.
It didn’t take long to realize that all the wet facecloth did was move all the hot stuff down to my
two soon-to-be ‘Hot Mexican jumping beans’.
I was in too much pain and making too many oohs and ahhs to realize that I was also gathering something of an audience 15 feet across the way.
With my crotch turning into a smoking Mojave desert, I was getting desperate.
(Is that steam?)
Christ, I’m on fire down there!
I suddenly remembered buying a big container of sour cream for the chili and
waddled like a penguin over to the fridge.
I ripped open the container like a madman, took a fistful of the cool white stuff
and began rubbing it in gobs into the raging fire down below.
My oohs, ahhs and general sounds of relief were obviously misinterpreted by my now smiling neighbors across the way.
There I am with my pants down, breathing heavy, and sour cream smeared all over my crotch.
Beautiful.
A proud Kodak moment for me, ya know?
I’m close to my mother so I told her the story, and man, did she laugh.
Two weeks later, I’m out to breakfast with her at a place she frequently goes.
The waitress brings my breakfast of fried eggs, home fries and bacon
but on the side of the plate is a small tub of sour cream.
I asked the waitress, “What’s up with the sour cream?”
She winked and said, “Your mother says you really like it.”
(I am laughing hysterically now)
You’ll be thinking about this every time you make chili now, right?”

Yeah, BLH, you are sooo right.
Was it a funny Thursday morning for me?
You betcha schweet bippie.
Thanks for a great tale, BLH
You have total attribution.
I just hope I did you some justice.
(BLH’s version is much funnier but has a different rating)
Hopefully ’Mr. Willy’ has found some cooler climes by now.
And, BLH, I hope you were using low-fat sour cream.
That regular stuff is just plain nasty . . .

Welcome to Malarky Monday!
This is the one day of the week that ‘teh Blogocracy‘ tries to get you to smile and laugh
your way to work.
We are always looking for a few more crazy bloggers that think they have what it takes
to do one zany post a week.
Do you have what it takes?
Send me an email if you’re interested.
More traffic, more fun, more laughs.
This week I had to post something I found years ago on the net.
I laughed myself silly reading this.
It’s a review of a very old frozen TV dinner that doesn’t turn out too well.
It’s gross and disgusting and funny as all hell.
I did NOT write this and give total attribution to Mobius.

The Mexican TV Dinner from Hell!

“Being the poor, jobless, and hungry sap that I am,
I will often resort to eating things that I otherwise would not want to be eating.
Still, there is a point where I draw the line, and on this night, that point was most definitely reached.
It was 12pm and I was hungry.
After scouring the cupboards I found a package of Lipton fettuccini alfredo, but to my dismay we were out of milk, which was needed to make it. So I grabbed this TV dinner out of the back of the freezer.
I cooked it exactly as specified by the back of the box,
but still, this so-called dinner fell far short of my standards for an edible meal.
The first indication that this meal was to be a catastrophe was the fact that it was 98% fat free
(and by my guess, 98% not food)”
[how very right you are.]

“As you can see here, the finished product looked nothing like the well painted plastic food on the cover of the box.
The food is pushed around and cut up a bit from my initial attempt to consume the foul looking concoction.
After careful inspection though, I deemed the food to be unsafe for consumption.”
[Unsafe? There's an understatement if ever I heard one.]

“The beans were the first item that I inspected.
Now, It is my understanding that refried beans are not supposed to be crunchy or brittle.
I don’t know what Don Miguel is trying to pull here,
but these are obviously not refried beans like the ones on the cover of the box.
The directions said to stir the beans, but these did not stir; they crumbled.”
[the beans look like Pepperidge Farm turkey stuffing!]

“The Spanish rice was probably the closest thing to food in the meal, but like the beans, it was totally dried out.
It was all clumped together as well. In fact, it was more of a rice cake than just plain rice.
Another thing I noticed was the fact that the rice on the box had diced peppers in it,
but there were none in my rice that I could find.”
[Maybe you could use the rice cluster as a pendant?]

“The main entree was by far the scariest part of the dinner tray.
The so-called chicken enchiladas contained little if any chicken,
and were primarily filled with a strange mucous-like substance, which I was unable to identify.
The corn tortilla it was wrapped in was soggy on the bottom and crunchy on the top.
The cheese and sauce had mostly boiled into a hard mass around the edge of the container.”
[Anatomy & Physiology 1 here I come!]

“And just what the fuck is this supposed to be?”
[No comment. Uhh, a nasty snail?]

“I certainly wasn’t going to eat this crap, but still, I couldn’t let it go to waste could I?
After all, there are plenty of starving children in Zimbabwe that would kill for a feast like this.
So, I did the next best thing to shipping it off to some third world country— I fed it to my dog.”
[Lucky doggie!]

“Now that’s one happy pooch!”
[not so fast Mobius!]

Happy Malarky Monday folks!
Please visit ‘teh Blogocracy’ and make your Malarky Monday complete!

Moe (awesome!)
Morky (filthy and awesome!)
Dilligaf (filthy, awesome and always bloody outrageous!)

Maybe it’s a sign of survival, of anguish,
of the frightening realization that mortality does exist in the deepest recesses of the mind.
Maybe it’s a sign that everything is still changing,
still in that near frozen state of flux . . .
For him, for me, for the four walls that still imprison him,
for a world that looks to him as confusing today as it did several hundred yesterdays ago.

Maybe it’s not a sign at all but a palpable gesture that while he sleeps,
this ravenous disease does not; it always wants more.
It replaces what it takes with something barely recognizable, something dark and foggy,
something you never want to talk about around the coffee table but remains forever.
Sometimes this thing just takes.
And takes . . .

Maybe it’s a sign that he is tired, fed up with playing the host,
sick of food that looks like pureed shit put through a strainer that he has to try and swallow.
Banana Crème Pie should never look like soup.
But it does.
And that’s a crying goddamn shame.
His mother was a pastry chef, Christ in a sidecar.

Maybe someday I will look back at this point in time and have a moment of revelation
but I’m not betting on it.
If this disease has taught me anything it’s not to get caught up in any kind of emotional gambit.
It’s a losing proposition at best.
So maybe it is a sign.

For my father maybe it’s a sign that simply says ‘stop’ . . .

If you can get by the 15-20 second commercial at the beginning you will be
richly rewarded with something very special.
Trust me.
And . . .  have a ball.
Or two.
On me.
Look for my balls very soon at Mom and Dad’s Diner.

98% of people say ‘Oh Shit!’ before going in the ditch on a slippery road.
The other 2% are from Massachusetts and they say,
‘Hold my beer and watch this!’

*I usually say,
“Put on your seatbelt. I’m going to try something.
I’ve only seen it done in a cartoon but I think I can do it.”

Happy Thanksgiving, folks!
I will be off and on with the blog for the next few days as I prepare Thursday’s feast.
Roast turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole and on and on.
Be safe, be well, be happy and be full . . .