She’s so many things to me and our 3 girls . . .
She’s our best friend.
She’s the shoulder we lean/cry on.
She’s our alarm clock on mornings that we don’t want to get up, on Her we rely on (and mostly bitch at)
She’s the shine in all of our days.
She’s the heart that we’ll never give away.
She’s funny, she’s kind, but she’s technologically super blind . . .
She’s there when we need her, she’s there when we need, and we’ll always need her. She’s our lady.
Happy Birthday to our best friend/confidante/psychologist/ psychiatrist/ and SO much more.
We love you and we want you around forever.
Have an awesome 39th birthday.
See you for Hibachi on Saturday night.
Mucho Sake for the birthday girl!
But open wide for the veggies!
And watch out for the volcano!!!!!!
It’s at this time of the year that I generally climb inside a protective cocoon and hibernate, emotionally speaking.
My personal ambivalence towards a holiday that is celebrated for all the wrong reasons leaves me
outside and shivering on a cold and snowy night.
I know I’m not alone on this one.
‘What do you want for Christmas?’
A question heard since before Thanksgiving.
You know what I want?
I want a cheeseburger, okay?
A juicy, steaming hunk of meat fresh off the grill.
Throw that sucker in a bun and we can eat, we can sit and talk about stuff that matters in our lives.
We can be human for an hour.
And drink beer.
And eat pretzels and stuff.
Talk about the Bruins, the Pats, and the number of players we still don’t know on the Celtics.
We can talk about the Red Sox and a banner year that nobody thought would happen.
We can even talk about the Farmer’s Almanac and their Winter prediction (which I hope is shit)
Social media and smartphones have doomed our society to cyber connectivity amongst users.
Text messages, Twitter updates, WordPress pages and Tumblr posts are just words on a white screen.
We are flesh and blood and we need a closer kind of communication than that.
Cheeseburgers can change that!
A 1TB hard drive from Best Buy for all the music I listen to?
A 25$ giftcard to Starbucks for their mediocre and overpriced latte’s?
Not that either.
How’s about an Omaha Steak gift box filled with filets, burgers, sirloin and crabcakes?
How’s about that cheeseburger?
Fruitcake I will never eat?
You’re probably not much of a friend anyway.
I don’t want anything.
And the angels sing . . .
It’s a holiday of giving, yes?
When this holiday got blown out of the water is a question that all of us need to own up to.
I work in retail and holiday sales are important but the avarice and over the top ‘milking of customers’ by
online retailers, car dealers, furniture stores, health clubs, fly by night internet schemers and online pirates must be silenced.
That’s something that will NEVER happen.
And that is profoundly sad.
It will always be about the bottom line.
And the bottom line has nothing to do with stuff we don’t need.
It has nothing to do with stuff at all.
My yuletide bells stopped ringing many years ago when I realized that the Christmas holiday was just another chance to sell.
Santa turned darkly foul, holly turned autumn brown,
carols echoed chaotic harmonies not unlike a Charles Ives piano piece.
I miss Christmases from 1970.
I miss the antediluvian ideal of the simple ‘carol’ hummed by people walking on the street, shopping in stores.
I miss the Christmas mornings that you didn’t get all that you wanted but what you got was all and more than what you needed.
I miss the simplicity of the town manger going a whole season without being vandalized.
I miss my feelings and love and respect for a beautiful and simple holiday.
But maybe I just miss the cheeseburgers.
Fire up the grill, I’m coming.
Merry Christmas, dudes and dudettes!
No mozzarella here.
Just real hard drives being shredded.
Yeah, just think about all the info, music, photos and .exe files saying their last ‘buh-bye’
It’s all about going green, right?
If you listen close you can hear the little guys screaming.
Gives new meaning to MEGA-bite doesn’t it?
Working in Boston there are things that happen on a daily basis that defy any logical definition.
Although I haven’t chronicled all these weird/blessed events, they do play out daily/nightly in my brain like
a bizarre Charlie Chaplin movie.
A guy came running into the store today and yelled to no one in particular,
“There’s a pig outside! I’m not kidding! There’s a pig outside! You gotta see this!”
I said, “Dude, this is Park Square. There are pigs everywhere.”
It was then that I saw a little white pig with a curly tail waltz his fat ass by the open front door.
White, well behaved pigs on a leash.
I wondered what would have happened if I approached said hog with a bottle of ‘Sweet Baby Ray’s’.
My mind wanders.
Then there’s the guy that walks into the store, waits patiently for 15 minutes and then asks me, “Where can I get tour of Germany?”
“Dude. I sell cigars. And pipes. And tobacco. I don’t sell tours. You’re in the wrong store.”
He looks at me as if I just spoke Latin.
Do you see a fucking beer stein here?
Now I will move on to a regular customer that I will refer to as ‘PhillyCheese’.
This is a guy that has confessed to wearing panty hose, heels and a wig while he vacuums his home.
I hear the neighborhood has taken up a collection to allow/force him to put up curtains.
His dialect changes on any given day from stoutly English to a NY Brooklyn accent.
He’s like a box of fucked up chocolates when you never know what you’re going to get.
Run, PhillyCheese, Run!!!!
PhillyCheese was engaging an unknowing customer the other day when I heard him say this:
“I collect jock straps sir, and I like to wear them around the house when I’m doing something pleasurable.”
What activity would be more pleasurable when wearing a banana hammock?
I can’t make this weird shit up.
It just happens.
Had a weirdass oriental dude come in one late Monday morning and asked/said, “Save Lenny?” [Save Lenny?]
“Save Lenny?” I asked.
“Yeah, save Lenny,” he said.
“I got nothing dude, hang on.”
I called on my friend and colleague Charles to make the situation right.
“What do you want?” [said Charles]
“What are you talking about?” [said Charles]
“We’re all out.” [said Charles]
*customer shakes head and leaves without ‘save lenny‘.
Whatever the fuck ‘save Lenny’ is.
This is the proverbial tip of the weirdness iceberg that is 100% Park Square.
As I always say, “Everyday is Halloween.”
Bring on the crazy.
I’m ready every day.
Most peculiar, mama . . .
I troll the internet on a nightly basis and find gif images that I would love to share.
Facebook doesn’t allow these creative creations.
Who the hell knows.
That said, I am instituting a weekly offering on Fridays only.
Send me your favorite gif images and I will post them here and put a link on my
There are some amazing, funny and creative Gifs out there.
Send them to me via link/Facebook message.
This could be fun.
My weekly offering is above . . .
If you’re wondering what a gif is, please ask Google . . . :=)
On holiday starting next Saturday.
Writing has been a bitch for about several months now, hence no new posts.
Let’s see about November.
Catch you guys on the flipside . . .
One question before I start.
Would you eat one of the above creations?
If you answered yes, please continue.
If you answered no, then you answered no.
Take out the garbage or go for a walk.
There’s nothing more to see or read here.
Here is a picture of a funny monkey to help you forget why you came here in the first place.
I have lived with 4 women/daughters for the better part of 29 or so years.
I’m used to all the stuff associated with their personal hygiene too;
hair products, hair brushes, blow dryers (they torch at least one on a monthly basis),
gel/goop crap for their hair, conditioners, face wash [with Hawaiian pumice!], ass wash, back wash, foot wash and feminine mouthwash.
It never ceases to amaze me the amount and selection of products available.
Guys have two major categories: shaving and deodorant.
We don’t need much more.
There are some products available to guys as well that simply elude me.
Axe body spray, for one.
Oh, it’s infused with pheromones so no woman can resist you.
Let’s lay that one to rest and say that if you stink like BO or smell like Charles Manson, no pheromone spray, body wash or Godly bar of soap will ever eliminate that.
No wonder you go home alone.
Living with women I’ve gotten used to oddly named products that have no relation to anything ‘male’;
‘The Brusher’, Pink Grapefruit Exfoliate, Slick Works, Catch the Wave gel, Got2B hair motherfu*&$^ Complex,
TRESemme Simply No Frizz with *Frizz Defense!( and God knows how many more).
I used to think these products were okay as long as they didn’t interfere with my life as a hair growing Neanderthal.
That thinking changed a few weeks ago when I went to the fridge after several perfectly chilled Harpoon Leviathan Ales.
Looking into the freezer I spotted an Italian Ice that was the perfect size for a nightcap dessert.
I picked it out and saw the name ‘Whoosh’ on the lid.
Judging from the color is was a blue raspberry ice.
One of my favorite ‘ice’ flavors.
As I began lifting the lid off I noticed that this was not ‘ice’ at all but something called ‘Shower Jelly’.
My monkey brain screamed: DO NOT EAT THIS!
The company that made it is was called ‘Lush’.
They make fresh handmade cosmetics.
Or do they?
Their shower jellies include ‘Sweetie Pie’ and ‘Whoosh’ (the one I almost ate).
They have bath bombs with names like Butterball, Bon Bomb, Dragon’s Egg, Sex Bomb and The Sicilian
(oooh, tease me with your seductive Italian flare! Grazie!)
This company has stuff called ‘Gorilla Perfume’.
Gorilla? For a woman?
Maybe a hairy woman.
Why not call it ‘Primate Scent Enhancer’?
What’s the difference?
The names are quite amusing though . . .
‘The smell of weather turning’ . . . (here comes the big one, honey!)
‘Snowshowers’ . . . (get out the shovel you lazy, fat bastard!)
‘1,000 Kisses Deep’ . . . (not going there, evah)
The other thing I almost ate was a ‘Lush’ bath bar.
These things look like little oval white hunks of chocolate imbedded with yummy things . . . like nuts and stuff.
I almost ate a ‘Wiccy Magic Muscles’ bar that looked more like a white chocolate Snickers bar than a massage bar.
My olfactory senses slowly connected with my brain and said, “Dude? The tummy ain’t gonna like this. It ain’t food.”
I had learned my lesson.
Lush has some great names for their products though;
Nutts ( a massage bar. Not touching the name)
Strawberry Feels Forever (giving them a *Beatle for that one)
Heavenilli (looks like Sushimi, minus the wasabi)(rub sushi all over my face, please)
After 8:30 (looks like a piece of carrot cake with 1” of cream cheese frosting, who can resist?)
Dorothy (a bath bar that looks like a little doggie turd on a blue urinal hockey puck)(truth)
Guys like me can’t understand this stuff.
We are happy that it makes you happy but we will never comprehend the obvious product innuendo.
And there is much of it with ‘Lush’.
Consider their Body Butters:
King of Skin
Schnuggle (so cute the name alone makes me gag)
Aqua Mirabilis (?)(is that a constellation?)
You Snap the Whip (Shades of Quentin Tarantino)
And last but not least, ‘Buffy’;
Massage our Buffy body butter all over your wet skin in the bath or shower to make you softer and smooth to the touch, paying special attention to your backside. We add ground rice, almonds and beans to Buffy to act as exfoliants; the rough textures eliminate lumps and bumps and sloughs away dry skin cells to reveal brighter, fresher looking skin. Rinse off the exfoliating bits and pat yourself dry. There’s no need for body lotion after a Buffy slaying session, because the cocoa and shea butters keep your skin beautifully smooth, moisturized and soft to the touch.
Smack my ass and call me Sally, this is true.
I would write more about this company but I have a mad date with an extravagant bath bar called, ‘Blue Skies and Fluffy White Clouds’.
And I think she’s taking me for one hell of a soapy ride . . .
Many years ago after Pamela and I got married, we began the creation of a family.
Sometimes it seems like yesterday, sometimes it seems like 100 years ago.
Perspective is such a fickle thing.
That I have been an absentee blogger has never been lost on my wife.
She said to me tonight, and quite casually I might add,
“When are you going to change the picture on your blog?
Write a post about the annual Easter Egg Hunt with the girls.”
I hate it when she’s right.
And I really hate to think she could be a better blogger than me.
If she blogged as well as she ‘Pinterest-ed’, she could put me to shame.
The reasons my blogging has slowed down to an incessant but slow drip is a post in and of itself,
for many varied reasons.
Tonight, though, I am here to talk about eggs.
Brightly coloured eggs.
Hard boiled eggs.
Egg salad sandwiches in a shell, yet to be born. [yum]
When our girls started walking we devised a plan for an Easter Egg Hunt to be held in the backyard on Easter morning.
We bought plastic pastel colored eggs that could be filled with all kinds of goodies, from candy and small toys (that nowadays are labeled as DANGEROUS! Your KID could CHOKE on THIS!) to dollar bills and matches.
(yeah, I’m kidding about the matches, calm down)
In New England, Easter morning could be rainy and cold so we needed to use something that would hold up to the elements.
It was the Easter Bunny’s job (namely, me) to hide the eggs in the backyard while the girls were sleeping.
When they woke in the morning to find an incredibly beautiful Easter Basket on their nightstand (compliments of Mr. & Mrs. Easter Bunny)
they were ready to don the appropriate clothes for the ‘going-to-get-mine-before-you-do’ Easter egg hunt.
Now it should be said that Mr. Bunny liked to have several Easter cocktails on the night before and while hiding the eggs wasn’t a problem, remembering where they were the next morning could sometimes be.
There are still eggs somewhere in our yard that I may never find.
I’m still looking for the elusive ‘Ben Franklin’ egg from years ago.
Can’t remember the exact year.
I’ve thought of using some power equipment to try and find it but the money I would spend doesn’t justify the means.
Right now, anyway.
Many years (and mornings after) would find the once loveable Mr. Easter Bunny reduced to the ‘Stupid-Easter-Bunny-that-doesn’t-know-how-to-hide-shit-we-can-easily-find’.
And, my moniker grows so damn lovingly.
I love it.
Fast forward to 2012 . . .
My girls have grown into young, beautiful and intelligent women and yet, I still have to hide eggs.
I am not a freekin’ Easter Bunny anymore, I am a grown 53 year old man.
I don’t have long and fuzzy ears or a cute little tail.
My ass is now flat.
I need three wallets to assimilate an ass bulge.
And I’m a crazy curmudgeon that thinks the world has gone insane.
Maybe I’m insane because I’ll still be out this Saturday night hiding eggs and loving it, rain or snow.
And on Easter morning I will still have no idea where the hell I put them . . .
In my heart, I’m hoping they keep the tradition going
because as silly as it was it’s a part of Pamela and me that will live on.
And maybe in the end, that’s what it’s all about . . .
A Happy Easter to all.
I came home from work and went upstairs to change into my oh-so-comfy ‘Cinnabun fat’ clothes.
As I took off my shirt I noticed that my armpits smelled/reaked of rotting onions.
WTF? [how about some garlic?]
I am usually meticulous regarding my personal hygiene and stinky garbage pits make me run to the shower.
But I didn’t work out.
I didn’t work in a coal mine.
And I didn’t even stretch my legs, or even my eyebrows.
Hell, I didn’t even stir a hot chocolate from Starbucks which can require a massive amount of energy.
So where the hell did this stench come from?
Homeless shelter smell, I am not.
Tomorrow morning I will shower for twice as long.
Will it help?
Only my armpits will know.
And the previously crying people on the commuter rail home as well . . .
ps. And Miss Hathaway? Nice pits . . .
I needed a laugh today and got one from Klaatu42 at Youtube.
He does some of the funniest animal videos and I would love to see just how he does them someday.
Speaking of the post title, I overheard this at lunch today:
“Instead of wrapping bin Laden in linen, we should have wrapped him in bacon and tossed his sorry ass overboard.”
Bacon-wrapped bin Laden?
I think I’ll pass, thanks.
Enjoy the laugh, peeps.