It was September of 2006 that I took a week off from work.
I planned on doing some things around the house, smoke some cigars and drink some Guinness.
I had a few extra days to play around with and decided to visit my friend Michael who lives on Cape Cod.
I left early on Tuesday morning and planned to meet Michael for breakfast before deciding what to do for the day.
We met at a place in West Dennis called ‘Grumpy’s’.
It was your basic ‘hole-in-the-wall’ breakfast place but the knotty pine that lined the inside walls seemed to say, “You will eat well, old man.”
The aroma of frying bacon and sautéed onions wafted towards us as we walked in and made my empty stomach stand at attention. (but can a stomach do that?)
Grumpy’s was the farthest thing from grumpy and the coffee was very close to excellent.
I ordered two eggs, over real easy, bacon, home fries and raisin toast.
No surprise there.
Can’t remember what Michael ordered but I do remember we both rolled out of there like the older men that we’re slowly learning to be.
After a Grumpy breakfast we decided to go back and drop off my truck before heading to the beach for the day.
And although it was mid-September, the temperature was @75 – 80° with pure cobalt skies.

“Want me to bring a cooler? We can stop on the way and throw some beer on ice,”  Michael said.

A man after my own heart, I thought.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, “And we’re covered on cigars.”

We got to Cahoon’s Hollow around 9:45 with 2 beach chairs and a BAC (big ass cooler) in tow.
I couldn’t believe how warm it was; a kiss of Indian Summer.
The beach was totally deserted, save for Michael and I.
With a shoreline as expansive as the Hollow it seemed almost surreal.
Me, Michael and the beach.
We planted our chairs a good distance from the entrance and sat in silence for a bit.
The warm, salty breeze and brilliant sunshine took us both away.
The sunshine was like millions of tiny fires flittering on the surface of the water,
rising and falling methodically with the tide, a natural aquatic pendulum.
The blue raspberry sky told both of us that this was going to be a very special day.

“Want a cigar?” I asked.

“Want a beer?” Michael asked.

We both started laughing like two little boys playing hooky from school.
With cigars lit and beers opened we chatted the morning away, one blessed sip at a time.
I can’t even remember what cigars I brought.
They may have been Cuban, but truth be told rolled up dogshit would have tasted good that day.
Michael and I have always had the ability to talk forever.
Doesn’t matter if I haven’t seen him in 10 years (God forbid), we have some serious history.
(Remember Treasure Valley, Deg?)
And lot’s of it.
We weren’t alone for very long before we began seeing things popping up in the surf.
From my vantage point, the ‘things’ looked like shiny obsidian bowling balls.

“Seals,” Michael said, flatly.

pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.pop.

It seemed like they were popping up everywhere.
And it seemed like we were placed there just to see them.

I wish I could put the day in a bottle and open it whenever I needed it.
My own private and saving grace.
Maybe writing it down is a step in the right direction.
But maybe Laho would vehemently disagree . . .

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?

Here’s a sneak peak at one of the commercials from this years onslaught of ad campaigns.
It was the only ’09 one available at YouTube so
I’ve no doubt it will be plastered everywhere.
It is a fairly good one though.
Kinda nice to not give a crap about who wins today.
The food and commercials are what it’s all about for me.
Cripes, I’m still kinda numb from last years bowl.
Enjoy the game!

No jokes here; just a simple guide to donating 100 lbs of food to the Greater Boston Food Bank, for free.
Go to this post, read it and leave a comment and Tyson Foods
will donate 100 lbs of food to the food bank for each comment received.
No strings, no coupons, no mailing lists.
Saw this while visiting Raincoaster this afternoon and had to get this post up.
I’ve already been and commented.
What are you waiting for?

There are four people I want to meet in my life. (alright, there are a few more but . . . )
I want to hug them and tell them just how much they mean to me.
And yes, they are all bloggers.
Friends.
Dear friends.
Annie.
Mum.
Evyl.
Spaz.

I received an email several weeks ago from Susanne.
I really hate calling her Spaz, especially since I met her.
She’s much too pretty to call “Spaz”, IMHO.
That said, Susanne emailed me to say that she and B were going to be in Boston and wondered if a visit might happen.
I was surprised to say the very least.
It was like I’d just hit the lottery in a very unexpected way.
I told her ‘yes’ we have to meet.
It seemed almost predestined, to be honest.
I  first “met” Susanne years ago after a comment that she left on my blog.
She said it was “disturbingly beautiful”.
I just had to follow it up.
This ultimately lead to our finally meeting up, blogwise.
Her way with comments and her personal emails have inspired me to keep on writing and to believe in myself.
She’s actually made me continue writing much like my wife (who does so every single damn day).
Susanne and my wife share a striking similarity in appearance too.
Yeah, strange.
I’m a total sucker for really pretty blondes.
Our journey has been one of many splendid things, the culmination being a final meeting and a sharing of food and drink.
As Susanne said, it can never be the same after actually meeting a virtual friend.
I say it can be better.
As it currently is.
It was only for a short time that we met but I thank the good Lord that I can still “hear” her voice, feel her spirit, see her smile.
I will regret forever that our time together was all too short.
I need to start saving some money as well.
Canada is one fairly inexpensive roadtrip away.
And it’s one I will undoubtedly look forward to.
Sorry, but Mr. Smith won’t be coming along on this one, maybe in spirit . . .
Until then, Susanne . . .
be safe and be well
And take care of Chaaahlie (and B)

~m

ps. I’ve hugged one.
One down, three to go.
And Evyl? I’m hugging you dude. And no, I’m definitely not gay.

For two nights in a row I’ve dreamed of Gwyneth Paltrow.
No rhyme, no reason.
Maybe it’s the part of my brain still coming down from my Kelli Pickler fantasies.

Now the strangest part is that me and Gwyneth are in Grand Central Station in New York and she’s trying to buy a ticket.
I keep trying to get a word in edgewise but she ignores me for reasons that are really pissing me off.
Nothing more demoralizing than getting dissed in a friggin’ dream.
She finally gets her ticket and she begins walking away.
I no sooner start to follow her when she turns around, looks at me and says, “Get Parmesan.”
That’s it.
Now remember, this is a woman that has children named Apple and Moses.
Get parmesan?
I should have said something witty like, “Why don’t you name your next kid Pork Chop, honey.”
But I didn’t.
I will say she’s damn pretty in my dreamworld.
Now if I can just figure out the deeper meaning of ‘get parmesan‘ maybe I can get to that next level.
Apple.
Pickler.
Parmesan.
Maybe it was damn food dream after all.
Or not . . .
Apple, Pickler and Parmesan.
Say that 3X real fast

Our sense of smell is acute and amazingly discerning allowing us to associate aromas and smells with our seemingly unlimited banks of memory.
How about the smell of a box of crayons?
Yeah, that’s a good one.
How many wonderful memories can you come up with there?
I thought so.

I think the holidays tend to elicit the strongest evoking power for obvious reasons.

• Christmas = peppermint, balsam, sweet baked goods and . . .
• Thanksgiving = roasted turkey, cranberries, cinnamon,
  clove and . . .
• Easter = floral scent (Easter lily), marshmallow peeps (yes, they have a scent), hard-boiled eggs (alright, not so good)
• Saint Patrick’s Day = corned beef and cabbage

When my mother was alive and well no Paddy’s Day went by without her making the Irish dish.
I’ve missed riding out to the house knowing full well my mother would have a pot full of it on the stove and delight in stuffing me silly.
Her corned beef would be cooking all day long and truth be told it must have taken weeks to get the cabbage stink out of the place.
It’s remembering days like those when I really start to miss her.

I worked the entire weekend and had no time to stink the fill the house up with those sacred aromas (you’re welcome, sweet Irish daughters ‘o mine).
It looked like I might go without this year and I must say it thoroughly depressed me.
Murphy + Saint Patrick’s Day = Irish Turkey and a freshly poured Guinness Stout
There’s a restaurant in Boston called Jacob Wirth’s and it’s said to be one of the oldest in the city. Someone mentioned that they may possibly be serving the traditional dish. (Check their link and read the menu. Yeah, huh?)
I called and sure enough, it was on the menu.
Knowing how popular this restaurant is, I had my doubts as to whether I’d actually get a seat.
I opened the old creaky doors and spied an open spot at the bar and immediately sat down.
Perfect, I thought. (And ironically it was right in front of that beautiful Guinness spigot)
The bartender promptly brought me a menu which I politely pushed away, “No need for that; Corned Beef and Cabbage, please.”
I asked for a large ice water but changed my mind when I saw him pour a Guinness with a 2″ frothy head.
He served me my dear Stout and I raised it slightly to the heavens and toasted my Madre for the many years of awesome corned beef and cabbage dinners.

My meal came minutes later and I dug in.

If you’re wondering how my lunch was, it wasn’t like my mother’s but the last place I wanted to go was back to work.
I wanted to stay at Wirth’s forever.

As they say, all good things must come to an end.

I left Jake’s with a stomach full of Irish Turkey and one heavenly Guinness under my belt.
And I was one happy Mick . . .

~m

The hype, trash talking, whining and ad nauseum analysis is over.
Time to play the game and quit talking about Spygate.
Cameras don’t win games, players do.
And my favorite number?
42.
What else could it possibly be?

~m

You didn’t think you’d get away without something about my Patriots, did you?
I’m not going to jinx them by saying the game will be a blowout or that Eli Manning will choke or that Tom Coughlin will gag on his Motorola headset microphone.
No, I’d never say that.
I will however say, how cool is Gisele?
I can see why Brady loves this woman.
I saw this picture online and immediately fell in love.
Pretty face, awesome smile, flat tummy, blue jeans, blonde hair, and a Boston Red Sox shirt.
How in God’s name do you improve on that?
You just can’t.
Whatever happens, I pray it’s a great game.
And I pray the Patriots silence, for one and for all, those that say the G-Men will prevail.
G-Men? Sounds like a transsexual metal band.
On the menu? Chili, shrimp cocktail, chips and dip, Guinness, cigars . . .

Wanted to take care of a tag as well.
I’m not a big tag guy but Deanna has asked and I’m delivering.
She’s a favorite commenter here at S&M and has a nice blog herself.
Without further ado . . .

Name seven famous people you’ve met (or weird facts about yourself)

I’m going with the famous people but there’s more than seven so I thought I would just list them. I would usually be a bit more creative and tell you a bit about each encounter but I’ve been riding too many single level trains this week making writing virtually impossible.
In no particular order here’s my personal list of “brushes with greatness” . . .

Robert Cray, Billy Joel, John Hiatt, Peter Cetera, Joe Cocker, Steven Tyler, Joe Sample, Steve Gadd (Musicians)
Lenny Clarke, “Bobcat” Goldwaith (Comedians)
Carlos Fuente, Litto Gomez, Rocky Patel, George Padron (Cigar makers)
Dwight Evans, Rich Gedman (Boston Red Sox)
Stephen King (author)
Ethel Kennedy (non-classifiable for many reasons. There may be a future post on Ethel)

There are more but I’ll stop there.
Google any name an prepare to be amazed.
I’ll be far away from the blog for the rest of the weekend.
Have a great Super Sunday, folks.
Talk to all of you next week.
I pray to God I’m smiling.

later gators,

~m

I saw this and thought, “What a perfect Christmas post.”
Stuart Shepherd is a good looking and compassionate man but sorry ladies, he’s married.
This will probably be my last post until after Christmas so I’ll wish all of you a day of blessings, good cheer and the surroundings of family.
Christmas Eve may briefly call me back to the blog.
We’ll see . . .
Don’t forget to make the French Toast Casserole
for Christmas morning breakfast. Awesome.
If you don’t make it, you’re missing out on some very serious and delicious calories. (Yoiks!)
Merry Christmas!

paz, folks . . .

~m

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QIgJO4h_NY]