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 . . .

A guy comes into the store today and says,
“I want 4 packs of American Spirit Yellow.”
We ring him up, take his money and say, “Would you like a bag?”
He says, “No thank you, I have gloves.”
I have gloves?
More like you have a frozen mush of a cerebellum.
Jesus Krispies.
It must be the cold here in New England, huh? (7 degrees)
That would be like ordering at a drive-thru Burger King
and telling them, “I want to eat it here though, thanks.”
A definite WTF moment.
Damn, I encounter far too many these days.
Maybe it’s me.
Not!

I was in a restaurant yesterday when I suddenly realized
I desperately needed to pass a nasty butt mutt.
The music was really, really loud, so I timed my anal acoustics with the beat of the music.
After a couple of songs, I started to feel better.
My case of nasty swamp ass had thankfully resided.
I finished my coffee, and noticed that everybody was staring at me.
Then I suddenly remembered that I was listening to my iPod.
Damn you, Apple . . .

It’s always a daunting task starting a new journal; all that virgin white space,
the absence of anything resembling a word or thought, and the cackling cynic inside me all trying to sway me towards more menial things like cutting my lawn (which needs to be done, btw) or re-grouting the tile in the bathroom.
This soft leather-covered journal was made in Italy and given to me by my daughter Jenna.
It’s really gorgeous.
I began to wonder what will be written on these pages by the years end.
In 7.23 days, me, Pamela and the girls will be spending a week on Cape Cod with
Annie, Maureen, Mark & Evyl (and Joyce!)
The location will not be disclosed so please don’t ask.
We’re celebrating Christmas in July because my wife thought
December was a silly time for all the folks involved to visit.
This is going to be one of the most amazing weeks of my life while on this spinning blue ball in space.
There will be many things: laughter, tears, music, incredible food, stories, Rum Swizzle,
bourbon, Guinness and enough fine cigars to smoke out an army of stogie veterans.
Oh, and there will be stories.
I know I already wrote that but it needs to be repeated.
Honestly, where would we be without our stories?
If someone had told me 10 years ago that I’d be spending a week of my life with people I’d never met I’d say they really ‘lost the plot’.
All of us talk on the phone and Gmail chat on a fairly regular basis so no one is a complete stranger here.
I’ve known Annie since our writing days at WVU.
And Evyl has been a true bud since I first started this blogging thing back in 2005.
As far as Maureen and Mark, I’ve known them from some previous life, or so it seems.
I could go on and on about my personal expectations regarding this most special of holidays but I prefer to record some actual memories in this very special journal.
Stay tuned for some truly awesome posts starting around the 18th of July (our first day on the Cape)
We have some blogging hijinx planned as well, actually more of a blog hijacking, so to speak.
All will be revealed in time.
We’ve all waited well over a year for this moment.
What’s 7.20 more days?
And it now looks like my new journal isn’t so new anymore.
Stay tuned.
As far as the post title goes . . .  my dear Pamela is pretty damn sure *she may not be ready.
Just watch her ‘Twitter’
for more details!

Ready or not Cape Cod, here we come!

I began reading the new Natalie Goldberg book  ‘Old Friend from Far Away’ a few days ago.
It’s a book custom-tailored for writers of memoir.
So far the book is quite good (like all of her books).
Page 14 has a prompt that I’ve decided to turn into a post.
The chapter is quite short:

“Die”
Tell me what you will miss when you die.

When I die there will be many things that I will miss.
This list went on for quite a few pages but I’ve chosen an abbreviated version for your perusal.
If I included food you’d be here for a few days.
I mostly chose things from the category ‘matters of the heart’.
Feel free to steal this as a ‘meme’.
For you writers visiting, it’s a wonderful exercise. Do it.
Even if you don’t consider yourself a writer, it’s worth your time.
You can look at some of the things that really make your life worthwhile.
Here I go.

I will miss:

-Whispers in the dark
-Pamela’s eyes, voice, face and beautiful soul
-hearing the phrase, “I love you, Daddy,” whispered in my ear
-my three beautiful girls
-the sound of little footsteps coming down the stairs on Christmas morning
-my sister, my twin, the other part of my very soul
-Caitlin’s smile
-Ryan’s loveable way (and awesome jumpshot)
-Billy’s laugh
-All the people I truly love (if I’ve talked to you in the past year, consider yourself on this list)
-a warm and gentle rain
-the silent beauty of falling snow (yeah, I wrote that)
-the sound of surf at the Cape
-the smell of freshly cut grass in late spring
-stars (especially the constellation Orion, someday possibly the Southern Cross)
-my cats purring
-Cuban cigars
-Guinness (or any fairly decent dark beer like Porter or Stout)
-Makers’ Mark
-writing with a nice fountain pen on some fine quality paper
-the feeling of creating
-entering ‘the Zone’  (artists of all kinds know about this one)
-music (playing and listening)
-my piano
-weekend phone calls to a country far, far away with two incredibly special people
-memories of the Camp
-Bermuda
-the aroma of an apple pie baked by my grandmother from summer’s long ago
-Blue Cheese
-Bill Hicks, Denis Leary, Sam Kinnison, George Carlin, Lewis Black and Dave Chapelle
-sunsets
-reading
-most importantly, my blog

And yes, I will dearly miss sex and exceptional breasts.
I’m not a freak.
Truthfully, what will you miss?

I waited on a woman today that was in search of a cigar lighter for her husband.
After showing her several lighters she picked a Prometheus Torch for $100.

“My husband is unbelievable! Look at this,” She says.

She proceeded to pull out a long yellow piece of paper from her purse that had scribbles all over it.
She begins reading;

“He wants Titelist 3 golf balls and he wants a new Calloway FT-iQ driver and some golf shirts and a pair of New Balance sneakers, some white sox and on and on . . .  {ad nauseum}. The cigar lighter isn’t even on the list! {snort} But I wanted to get him one because he always uses mine which I use for my crème brulee.”

Well, la-dee-friggin’-da.
That is one French-ass dessert, isn’t it?

I smile and say, “So how old IS your husband? Nine?”

She actually laughed and said, “Oh, the cigar lighter is just a silly stocking stuffer.”

I wanted to tell her that I’m stuffing my wife’s stocking with anthracite coal this year not because she’s been a naughty girl but because we need the black, sooty rocks to heat our house.

Somehow I just don’t think she’d get it.

Only 14 days left.
Wake me up on January 2nd please.

Just wanted to put up yet another “thank you” post for being so damn generous with your comments.
I wanted to make my way around the “bloghorn” but will never do it all tonight.
I’m only human.

A few notes of interest, if you look to my side bar you will see a little jpeg of Joe Jackson (musician).
If you click it, it will open Adobe Reader on your computer (assuming you have it installed), and download his essay as a .pdf file.
I don’t comment much about smoking on the blog but I feel Jackson’s essay should be read by smokers and non-smokers alike.
I think it’s absolutely brilliant.
You may feel differently.
I’m not going to address my stance on smoking right now.
Just know that I smoke.
And I enjoy it.
And I pay exorbitant and unscrupulous taxes because of my habit (which is absolute bullshit).
To the US government, tax something else for a change, for cripes sake.
Just imagine if the government started taxing Budweiser and Happy Meals the way they tax tobacco these days.
Would people be a bit angry?
Think about it.
Click on the philosopher above to visit Jackson’s website.
There’s some great stuff to be found there.

And now for something completely different;

Last week, I woke up in the middle of the night after falling asleep early and came downstairs to the sound of ‘beep-beep-beep-beep’.
My wife was laying on the couch pointing the cordless phone at the TV and pressing the “call button” on and off.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to turn this friggin’ thing down,” she said.

“You can’t do that with the phone, dear, ” I said, as I took the phone out of her hand, turned off the TV and guided her upstairs to bed.
Ah, sleepyheads can be funny sometimes.
I think she may have called China a few times though.
Check out the Jackson video below.
Classic Joe.

I turned around and there he was at the register.
It was all too brief an encounter.

“I read “The Shining” in 1977 when I was a freshman at Berklee College of Music. I’ve been a fan ever since,” I said.

{shake hands} (my hands were already shaking)

“Thank you,” he says (and eyes some cigars), “Cohiba! I just love saying that word!”

“I assume you’ll be at Fenway watching the asskicking tonight?”

“Yes, sir!” He says, smiling.

He paid for his smokes and walked to the door with nary a clue of how much I used to really love his stuff. I could almost hear myself saying, “Hey, I write, too!”

He turned and raised his hand and once again yelled, “Cohiba!”

Holy Crap, I thought, I just met Stephen King.
Truth . . .

~m

[youtube=http://youtube.com/watch?v=2DTwOY-8R9A]

ps.
I’ve received several emails regarding me “losing my mind” after my last post.
Everyone can rest now. I found it this morning sleeping peacefully underneath the computer stand.
I hate when that happens. :0)
Thanks, folks . . . . (Mwwwuuuuuahhhhhhhahhahahahaha!)

These aren’t really dirty little secrets just stuff you may not know about me.
I was tagged by Kim a few days ago and owed her for not getting on my ass about the poetry tag I blew off a while ago.
Please pay her a visit and tell her I’m honestly trying to do right here.
(Aside from the fact she has an awesome blog and is one hell of a great writer)
Here then, are my 8 (11) “secrets”

• Purple is my favorite color.
• I would take a bullet for my wife and daughters any day of the week.
• I can tell the difference between a Cuban cigar and a counterfeit.
• Dated two women on the same night in the same place.
  (Yeah, I’m a humdinger. Just ask my wife.)
• Eaten 12+ pickled eggs on a dare.
  (I think the actual count was @18 but that’s another story)
• I wear a purple “MindStrong” bracelet on my right wrist for Alzheimer’s research and may wear it for the rest of my life. (obviously in memory of my mom and dad)
• I have a dark side that no one will ever know about.
  (Unless I start writing fiction.
• I make really amazing homefries. (once again, ask my wife)
• I’ve never once made a disparaging comment about my wife in conversation. Ever.
• I hate squirrels and try hard to flatten any grey furry-tailed creature brave enough to run in front of my truck. I’m still waiting for my first kill.
  (And the little bastards still owe me for about 500 bucks in birdseed)
• I love shaving my coconut. The feeling of putting moisturizer on my skull afterwards is very close to absolute nirvana. Just ask my buddy Evyl.

That’s about it folks.
I have more secrets but I’ll hold you in suspense for now.
And yes, I drink directly from the milk carton at 3:15 A.M. after a trip to the bathroom.
Feel free to add a secret of your own in your comments.

~m

Something short and sweet, so to speak . . .

Someone floated an air biscuit on the train this morning, a silent sulfur scream (SSS) so deadly in intent that my eyes literally crossed.
Dude, if you’re sick, go to the hospital.
It was odd the way people picked their heads up one by one and started looking around for the gravy pants responsible for the great brown cloud.
There were only 12 or so people in the car I was riding in so it was a bit uncomfortable.
I heard one guy groan and say, “Oh, man.”
Oh, man is right.
The odor of the unholy airlock was almost indescribable.
Oh, alright, I’ll try. I’m already grossed out anyway (as you will soon be, as well).
It was somewhere between ripe, warm and hairy egg salad and way-past-the-due-date hamburger. My olfactory senses are somewhat dulled at this time of the morning but I definitely detected a hint of burnt string bean casserole.
It was right after that when people started getting up one by one in search of a fresher car to ride in. Not wanting to be seen as the person that “drew the mud”, I too got up and left the fragrant car.
It was painfully clear that this demanding piece of colon-speak wasn’t going anywhere.
I overheard a woman say to someone, “Well, I’m certainly awake now!”
She sounded almost pleased.
As soon as I stopped my eyes from watering, I found a new seat.

~m