My birthday and a day of frustrating football has kicked my butt and I could only muster a picture.
But I think it's a good one.
Long live Malarky Monday.
As of right now (8PM E.S.T.) I am going to bed.
Please visit my partners in crime!

Moe
Morky
Dilligaf

 

Nothing says congratulations quite like a picture of Borat, don'tcha think?
High Five! <-- click here, please
Back in November I did a post regarding people that have left
the most comments on my blog.
I challenged people to try and up their comment count by offering prizes.
(I know, I'm a comment whore, sue me)  :mrgreen:
As of 12.31.2009 the top three commenters were:
*Maureen (154)
*Lolly (77)
and
*Lynn (71)

*numbers are a very close approximation according to Google

I want to thank all three of you for being such an integral part of my blog over the past year.
Without interaction and comments like yours I wouldn't be here.
Know that something will be on its way this Wednesday when I hit the post office.
*Maureen, your prize will be inside Morky's b-day gift which we will send in February
(And it's quite a doozy, let me say. And no, it is not a cheeseburger)
I thank all three of you for visiting me and making my comment numbers go in the right direction.
Up.
You ladies have rocked my world.
The best to all of you in the new year.
And please keep visiting . . .

It is that time once again to put on your laughbag. It's Monday! Short post for me today as I'm a bit sore from shoveling and snowblowing. We had a snowstorm last night that dropped 8" of the white stuff. Yes, it will be a white Christmas here in Boston. Without further ado. Please watch and laugh and visit the other Malarkers where there's always something good! Does anyone really like fruitcake? As Jim Gaffigan says, "Fruit, good, cake, great . . .  fruitcake? Nasty crap." Off you go now! Moe Morky Dilligaf

Thought I’d bring you up to date on the state of my current didgeridoo playing;

1. Yes, I can play it.
2. And it sounds like a didj should sound.
3. I can make it growl, sing and almost talk.
4. I have fallen in love with this incredible instrument.
5. I am still learning to circular breathe and make animal sounds (Dingo, Roo, Kookaburra and more)

I play my didj at least 4-5 times a week for approximately 30 - 60 minutes or until my lips turn into the consistency of lean ground hamburger (my lips get that red as well). I did, however, figure out how to blaze my way into the Didgeridoo Hall of Fame. (is there such a place?) It came to me in a flash while talking on Skype to Maureen and Mark in Australia (the Givers of said Didj) last Friday night. I’m going to play THIS on  my didj. (no need to listen to the whole song, just the beginning riff) I know that it’s weird. But it’s original, yes? I know I’ll never win an award but hey, I am having an absolute blast and it makes me smile whenever I play my didj. (most definitely not the last didj I will ever own) Stay tuned for more Didj updates, if you'd like. Still thinking about that YouTube video as well. Be patient folks, be real patient.

There are things that happen in our lives that occasionally defy space, time, gravity and logic. While we experience these types of phenomena on a daily basis we are sometimes too busy to see and embrace it. There are two areas that require attention in my backyard: the lawn and the flowers. I generally mow the lawn while Pamela tends to the flowers. The flowerpots lining the yard and hanging from the shed looked especially good this year but the garden looked like some fat lady sat on it. The poor appearance of the garden had something to do with the amount of rainfall we had in June. It rained 28 days out of 30 and the garden flowers suffered. Pamela hates weeds and is constantly plucking them from the garden and the mulch that surrounds the outside of the yard. I tell you this so you understand that she has a keen awareness of all things growing in the backyard. As I said before, all of the Cape Cod goodbyes were difficult but nothing could have prepared me for August 2nd, the day Maureen and Mark left. Pamela & Hannah went with me to the airport that afternoon. The skies were greyslate over Boston and the tone in the truck was a bit somber compared to the first drive to the Cape two very short weeks ago. We somehow managed the ‘goodbyes’ and went our separate ways, more difficult than I ever could have imagined. I was walking and wearing my Akubra, my arm around Pamela. She took my arm and placed it over Hannah’s shoulder who was hurting more than Pamela. This would be our hardest and saddest goodbye. We got home and tried to keep busy straightening up and getting the house back in order for the work week ahead. I poured a few fingers of Maker’s Mark and made Pamela a Rum Swizzle. I was in the kitchen on my laptop when I heard Pamela yell from the backyard, “Hey Michael! Come here!” She was standing by the enormous hostas (so big I call them Jimmy Hostas) staring at the ground. “Look at those two flowers.” “Yeah,” I said, in that low to high tone I use when questioning her. “They weren’t there before. I swear. I’ve never seen them.” “Then how did they get there,” I asked. “They’re Impatiens. They need to be planted.” “And you didn’t plant them?” I asked. “Nope.” She got teary and said, “It’s Maureen and Mark. They didn’t want to leave. They didn‘t.” What do you say to a woman crying over two mysterious flowers that have grown out of nowhere? You don’t argue, for one thing. You shake your head, agree, and give her a huge hug. As a dear friend of mine once said of wonderful and mysterious things in this life, “Sometimes, it just is.” I’m also thinking that those plant roots run quite deep. Now that’s something I can definitely relate to . . .

Most of you know that I received a didjeridoo of the highest order from Australia when I was at the Cape. (thank you Maureen and Mark) (especially Mark, for the packaging . . .  thanks, mate) I have, in all honesty, devoted myself to playing it. Although I've yet to master the art of circular breathing, I can play the didj now. When I first blew into the beeswax mouthpiece the first thing I thought was, "Wow, this thing tastes funny." It was the beeswax. No worries. No more chapped lips either. The first sound I got was something similar to what would come out of my ass after 13 bowls of kidney beans. Yup. It was shit. Sounded like a blunder under water. Since I've been reading and practicing, I can get the fundamental drone (sweet spot) and actually make this sucker growl. I do promise to put up a YouTube video when I feel proficient enough to not look like a total American asshole trying to play an authentic instrument from another country. I've so much of Australia in my blood right now (Vegemite, too) that it's only a matter of time. Stay tuned folks. This is going to get interesting. Promise. The short video below is an aboriginal playing the didj. Pretty amazing in my opinion. The dude can blow. Don't look for me wearing the makeup though . . . As far as the hair? I might get a wig just to be funny. Stay tuned. Check it out, y'all

One night at the Cape all of us went to Baxter’s in Hyannis for dinner. It was a beautiful night as we sat watching the ferries come and go in the harbour. Not sure what everyone ordered to eat but no one was talking and I’m assuming it was all good. I do remember that Mark got an enormous Fisherman’s Platter that looked incredibly good, no, it was ‘call your cardiologist before eating’ good. He gave me a fried scallop that was roughly the size of an Aussie cricket ball which I split with Pamela. It was so good I had to go back up to the counter and get a side order for us to split. I’ll never learn. It was such a beautiful night that I suggested we walk Main Street in Hyannis and check out some of the shops. While the womenfolk were looking at Cape Cod jewelry, Mark and I wandered over to a leather store across the street. The rich, earthy aroma walking in was almost narcotic. I love the smell of leather. Mark and I were immediately drawn to the hats hanging on a wall in the back of the store; there were porkpies, fedoras (ala Indiana Jones), top hats, baseball caps and one very special hat that I somehow missed. Mark asked to see a now familiar hat on the very top row. “Check it out, mate. It’s an Akubra made in Australia,”  He said, as he showed me the inside label of his hat by the same maker. I loved the hat he was wearing when he first showed up at the house and now I knew why. He asked the price ($85) but by now Pamela and all the girls were standing next to us ready to go. I wanted to buy the hat because I really liked it and I wanted to offer a showing of solidarity to Australia. Alright, the solidarity part was my brain making up bullshit but I really loved the hat. I could hear Pamela in my head saying, “You Have Enough Hats!” I’m thinking now there was a reason I didn’t get it. Move forward in time to Logan Airport on the Sunday Maureen and Mark were leaving. Pamela, Hannah, me and M&M were standing at the gate, all of us knowing what was coming next. Mark patted Moe on the bum and said, “Alright. Let’s go. Let’s get this done.” Probably some of the hardest words my friend has ever had to say. The Tear Factory was now open for business but before it closed, Mark took off his Akubra and placed it on my head and gave me a huge bear hug. “Take care of this for me until the next time, buddy.” Translation: How Michael got his very first Akubra. You never forget your first. I don’t know much about the road ahead of me but I do know this; the next Akubra I put on my bald noggin won’t be from some leather shop in Hyannis, Ma. I’m thinking someplace much more exotic . . . Like Queensland, Australia

*I have no clue as to how many chapters are waiting to be written regarding this incredible time in my life. As sure as the Akubra hat on my head, this will be far from the last. I’m not entirely sure where to begin because my grey matter is still processing all that’s gone on these past few weeks. If I haven’t stopped by your blog it’s simply because the last month has consumed me both physically and emotionally leaving very little of me left to visit. As most of you know already my family and I vacationed for a week with Maureen & Mark (M&M), Annie and Evyl & Joyce down on Cape Cod. The week after, M&M stayed at our home and rode the train into Boston with me most days. I worked and they did everything from walking the Freedom Trail to taking a Trolley Tour all over the city. I was blessed on one night with a surprise game at Fenway Park. (saving that for a later post) M&M also had their own personal city guide, my daughter Hannah, who has found a new best friend in Morky (Moe, as well) Cut to Day 1: The flight carrying M&M, Annie and a very special present for yours truly landed late the Saturday they arrived. No worries, right? Planes land late all the time. Little did I know that this was the proverbial tip of the holiday iceberg of mishaps. I expected a phone call from Maureen when she touched down in Boston and assumed it would be her when the phone rang. The phone did ring and I was surprised to hear Annie’s voice. (cue the bah-da-dum-dum) All I remember from the conversation was Annie saying, “They lost the didj. Don’t worry they will find it and hand deliver it to the house on the Cape tonight.” The ‘special’ present was a custom made Australian Didgeridoo just for me. (click the link for a description) I had already known about it for months because Moe had sent me pictures. This instrument was special; sacred, actually. I realized that Annie had made the call because Mark was physically restraining Maureen from committing her first murder on American soil. This didj was unique as a constellation in the sky, a one and only; a present that M&M held so dear. My heart broke knowing how upset they both were. Thank God Annie was there as the voice of calm and reason. It seems she quelled the impending riot and got everyone to the van that would bring them to my house. We made it to the Cape and got settled and began our wait for the didj. Saturday night, no didj. Sunday night, still no didj. Monday, no didj. 496 phone calls later (by Moe and Annie) told us to expect it Tuesday night around 5:30. Guess what? No didj. More phone calls and a promise that said instrument would be delivered by 10:30PM. Things were getting surreal now. A firepit was lit, many drinks were poured, cigars were lit and we all sat around the fire playing ‘Celebrity Heads’  laughing and listening for the courier to pull up in front of the house with the long lost precious goods. It was at 10:30 that a van finally pulled into the driveway. Like children on Christmas morning, all of us ran out to the front yard of the house totally freaking out the driver. He could tell that we were all very happy to see him (* a bit pissed as well). I high fived the guy and took the didj into the house as Mark and I began opening the nuclear war-proofed package. Mark took the black padded sleeve off, handed it to me and said, “Here’s your didj, mate.” Holding this incredible instrument was not unlike holding a newborn baby. I knew how much it meant to Maureen and Mark and the moment overwhelmed me. I then did what all father’s do when they hold their newborn . . . I cried. Like a baby . . . Still learning to play it and getting close to an actual didj sound. Stay tuned. Annie, thank you for your relentless pursuit and urgent phone calls to the courier. And Maureen? Thank you for not ripping the head off of an innocent American body. (she'll be right, mate) Hooroo! (below is a pic of the actual didj) *slightly intoxicated . . .   :mrgreen: ** btw- this didj is a low F# drone (sweet spot/fundamental tone)

A quick post for Maureen and Mark who will be leaving us tomorrow afternoon bound for home. This post is more emotional for me than you could ever believe. Thank God it's not live on YouTube. From Pamela, Sarah, Jenna, Hannah, Jon and me . . . Godspeed on your trip back home. Know that there will always a 'home away from home' for the both of you right here. We don't want to let you go but sadly, we must. Two weeks ago, the song in my head was 'Get Here' but now I'm thinking it should be 'Get There', back to Oz where your hearts and souls live. Thank you for your love, your stories, your hearts, your incredible ability to make us laugh (and take the piss out of us) and your endless Aussie generosity. Pamela and I are gobsmacked and so incredibly blessed. Might take a while but We'llberightmate . . . until the next time anyway. Love you both to bits . . . ps. light the candle, Maureen  ;) pps. I'll keep on working on the G'day . . .

Please say a prayer for all these folks taking to the air to get here, okay? Doesn't have to be Robert Frost prose but keep them in your prayers. GodSpeed to all . . . Can't wait to see all of you!