Bless me father for I have sinned.
It’s been a week and a half since my last legitimate post and
these are my sins:

I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain 10 times. In one post.

I’ve wished nasty things for the site “I CAN HAZ CHEEZBURGER” because I can’t for the life of me figure out why it’s a #1 Top WordPress Blog.

In a literary sense, I’ve maimed several characters.
And thoroughly enjoyed it.

I’ve timestamped old posts and hit “publish” {ooh, that one hurt}

I’ve even done a . . . a Paris Hilton post.
But it was a real small one.
Honest.

I’ve been terrible at visiting people that visit me all the time. SLAM! {gavel} Guilty!

I’ve needlessly meme’d and posted YouTube videos and even quotes, the ultimate devices in total blog sloth.

And lastly, I’ve changed my template and header so many times the folks in the front offices of WordPress are worried I’m a looney.
And I think they may be onto something.

For these sins I am truly sorry.

~m

Ps.
I’ve been out of the loop lately.
Hannah graduated from Middle School today and life has been a bit hectic.
Give me a few days to play some catch up.
For an uplifting ending, Hannah was chosen as “Outstanding Musician” by the head of the Music department.
I almost started crying.
I’m just so damn proud of her.

As a rule, I generally don’t do tags though I still owe a few of you out there a post (you tagee’s know who you are).
This one struck me differently than most because it has to do with food and I love food.

It has to deal with favorite places to eat.

If ever you should find me in the Lone Star state, I’ll surely be hanging with my good friend Fuzz (who tagged me and put up his own mouth-watering list of good eats—and what a list it is. Sign me up for the Mafia Queso. Good God).

Here’s how it goes; I list 5 of my favorite area restaurants and tag five bloggers to do the same.
An email informing them of the tag will help.
This is one serious meme.
The best local places to eat recommended by the local people that have actually eaten the food there.
It just doesn’t get any better than that, does it?

And away I go . . .

The Kenmore Diner, Worcester, MA

This all-night diner burnt to the ground in a tragic fire in December of 1999 that claimed the lives of 6 Worcester Firemen.
I believe it was re-built by late 2000 and seemingly never missed a beat.

This is home cooking at its very best.

Situated underneath a busy Interstate, plates have been known to move from the vibration.
And I always thought it was just because I had a buzz on.
Though they specialize in breakfast (the corned beef hash is absolutely to die for) they serve up much of the traditional diner fare: meatloaf and real mashed potatoes, American Chop Suey, a Pot Roast that rivals mine, Club Sandwiches and a Chef Salad that boasts what seems like almost impossible 2lbs of thinly sliced deli cold cuts.
At 3 bucks, a simple egg, cheese and pepper breakfast sandwich on a bulkie is culinary poetry. Incredible.
Even the waitresses are the bomb.

Wright’s Chicken Farm, Slatersville, R.I.

Family-style, rapid-fire, all you can eat, slow broasted chicken.
It comes with fries, salad, pasta, bread, butter and all the malt vinegar you can shake on your taters. It’s cheap and you always feel ‘barfing full’ when you leave.

Need I say more?

Baxter’s, Hyannis, MA {Cape Cod}

I’ll be dining on Baxter’s sometime this summer. (pictured above)
The wharf overlooks the scenic Hyannis harbour and is the quintessential ‘Cape Cod’ setting. The walk-in, stand in line and order your food restaurant is casual to say the least, perfect when you don’t feel like getting all gussied up.
And I never do when I’m on vacation.
Nor do my girls.

Baxter’s serves the sweetest boiled lobster I’ve ever had in my life and that’s before I plunge the chunks into warm, melted butter. (Don’t worry, I’ll be counting points)
Fried Clams, Scallops, Shrimp, Haddock, Calamari, Burgers – please, stop me before I burst an artery.
A few frosty ones and a red crustacean on the harbour at sunset with good friends and I understand all too well why I brave the nasty summer traffic down here.
Well, the lobster and the fact that my best friend Michael lives on the Cape as well.
We usually meet here.

Ronnie’s, Auburn, MA

The best damn Fried Clams within a one hundred mile radius.

The lobster rolls don’t suck either.
I usually leave with tartar sauce coursing through my veins.
Someone call my cardiologist.
I think I’m going down.
Soon.

Moe’s Southwest Grill, Worcester, MA

A Tex-Mex place that specializes in a burrito called “The Homewrecker” can’t be all bad. This sombitch is the diameter of a friggin’ firehose and costs less than six bucks.
No lie, folks.
And they make it right before your very eyes with all fresh ingredients.

Add a basket of their very own fresh tortilla chips and a cup of Queso and you’re golden.
When you walk in, everyone behind the counter yells, “Welcome to Moe’s!!!!”
{Hannah’s favorite part}

I’ve left out many favorites that have, for one reason or another, gone belly up.
My all time favorite was a quaint, little place called the El Morocco, a Lebanese restaurant where Pamela and I had our wedding reception.
It makes me sad that it’s no longer there.
But I have a better recipe for Hummus anyway. {8-)

People I’m tagging:

Annie

Moe

Carnealian

Spaz

And one out of the ordinary pick {Laho, post your faves in the comments or emaul me}

Laho

Don’t let me down guys.

This is one downright cool tag.
Thanks, Fuzz. This was a wicked blast.
Someday we really have to sit down to a plate of seriously hot ribs
and mucho cerveza’s amigo . . .

~m

btw ~

On an interesting note, this is how the meme got to me

Nicole (Sydney, Australia)
velverse (Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia)
LB (San Giovanni in Marignano, Italy)
Selba (Jakarta, Indonesia)
Olivia (London, England)
ML (Utah, United States)
Lotus (Toronto, Canada)
tanabata (Saitama, Japan)
Andi (Dallas [ish], Texas, United States)
Lulu (Chicago, Illinois, United States)
Chris (Boyne City, Michigan, United States)
AB (Cave Creek, Arizona, United States)
Johnny Yen (Chicago, Illinois, United States)
Bubs (Mt Prospect, Illinois, United States)
Mob (Midland, Texas United States)
Yas (Ahwatukee, Arizona USA)
Alicia(Idaho Falls, Idaho, USA)
Tug (Hell, Colorado, USA)
Bond (Memphis, TN, USA)
TopChamp (Glasgow, UK)
Kailani (Honolulu, HI, USA)
Amber (Henderson, TN, USA)
the weirdgirl (San Francisco Bay Area, CA, USA)
Fuzz – ( Spur, America)
Michael – (Boston, MA, USA)

Alright, I’m not really a big, fat bastard.
I just liked the title.
Actually, truth be told, I needed to lose a few pounds and signed up for Weight Watchers Online the other night after some prodding from my lovely wife.
If you’re not familiar with the website let me tell you it’s intuitive beyond belief and makes the job of ‘keeping track’ of all things diet-related a breeze.
I chose what they call the Flex Plan, a well thought out diet regimen that allows me to eat essentially anything as long as I count the points.
Various portions are assigned numbers based on fiber, calories and total fat.
My magic number right now is 31 if you haven’t already guessed.
I tally my food points to 31 and stop stuffing the big yap. Simple.
I was concerned about one thing when I began though: BEER.
I was relieved when I found out that no, I don’t have to give up my beloved Guinness.
It does, however, cost me 2 points a bottle.
I figure that gives me 15 bottles of the brown stuff a day and 1 point to be used judiciously for food.
I’m already lovin’ this diet, people.
All kidding aside, I’m going for it and will keep you all posted on my progress.
Look for my post with an ‘after’ snapshot in about 2 months (ala Jared the skinny assclown from Subway)
{the snapshot was Annie’s idea}
I’ll be holding an old pair of jeans in one hand and an advertising contract from Weight Watcher’s in the other.
Yeah, right.
If you’re interested in WW, click on their logo up above.
And if you happen to be a member of the Tufts healthplan, you automatically save ten bucks.
God, I’m beginning to sound like an Amway salesman.
I’m off to grab some schweet watermelon (1 cup= 1 point See? it’s easy).

Later gators,

~m

My father is 78 today.
I stopped up to see him with Pamela and my daughter Sarah.
He couldn’t quite figure out how to blow out the candle so we helped him out.
He didn’t seem to mind.
He proceeded to eat the whole damn thing.
God bless him.
I’m off to bed, long day folks.
Later gators . . .

~m

I go to a particular place for lunch several times a week.
While I’m not on a first name basis with the manager, he feels he knows me well enough to chat me up sometimes.

The other day he said, “Hey, you’re a good looking married guy judging from the wedding ring on your finger. You have a lot of women hittin’ on ya?”

I turned around to see who he was talking to when I realized he was talking to me.

He said, “I’ll tell ya man, this wedding ring is a freekin’ babe magnet! They won’t leave me alone! How about you?”

What you need to understand is this guy is somewhat geeky and has roughly 60lbs. on me, never mind the fact that he dresses like a slob with flecks of todays’ special all over his shirt.
Nice.
He’s what you would call ‘a tad rough around the edges’.

Now, I’m no slave to fashion but I usually wear a nice ironed Polo shirt, khakis and a Harris Tweed suit coat, I’m not Rockefeller mind you but I look decent enough.
Never have I ever been ‘hit on’ like this guy.

In my mind, I gave a perfunctory whiff of my underarms and general body aroma (I say ‘aroma’ because I usually smell like whatever cologne I’m wearing that day. Truth be told, I had a flamboyantly gay customer tell me one day that I smelled ‘delicious’. Now if that’s not a compliment, I don’t know what is. I was wearing Paul Sebastian cologne) and there was nothing negative in terms of overall fragrance, albeit a hint of cigar smoke.
I aromatically ripen after five o’clock.

“No.” I said, “No hits today.”

“Man,” he said, “I’ve had like three women asking around today! Three!”

”They must love you for your massive Columbo, “ I laughed, nodding in the direction of the frozen yogurt machine.

“Oh, yeah man!” he said, chuckling as I walked away with my lunch.

My pheromones must be on sabbatical or something.
All I seem to attract are guys that think I smell delicious, squirrels that want me solely for my food and bible toting assclowns that want to talk to me about Jesus.
Maybe it’s time for some new cologne.
I’ll have to ask my buddy in the Food Court what he wears because I hear the women are all over him like graffiti on an abandoned freight train.

~m

ps.
My wife selected the picture.
I was emotionally torn between pics of Jack Palance and Harry Dean Stanton

I had to laugh this morning when I counted @14 bottles of hair products littering the shower stall.
There’s Luminouscolor glaze, Berry Tea & Orange flower conditioner, coconut conditioner, Aussie 3 minute miracle, brightening shampoo (huh?) and we even have some stuff called Ana Banana shampoo/ conditioner.
The list goes on but I’ll stop there.
And this doesn’t even include all the mousses, gels, sprays and numerous detanglers in the bathroom closet; this is stuff I will never use.
btw- What the hell is a root lifter and would I really want to put that shit on my head? Sounds to me like a useless and possibly detrimental genetic consequence.
I have no hair whatsoever and it makes me laugh.
Hysterically.
Maybe I will never understand the hair thing with women.
They’re never happy.
Evvvver.
Even after spending more than a weeks worth of groceries on a haircut from a guy whose name I can’t pronounce, they look in the mirror and sigh, “Oh, I just don’t know.
What do you think?”
My wife gives me the ‘one of these days, I will kill you’ stare when I stupidly reply,
“Oh, you got your haircut?”
Maybe as a man I’m not supposed to understand all the hardware either with blowdryers, straighteners, bobby pins, brightly colored hairclips and blowdrying brushes that look more like martial arts weapons than implements used to curl and dry the locks.
Get that stuff away from me.
I need two things in the shower: a bar of soap and a razor.
None of this strawberry/kiwi/mango body wash crap.
I’m a guy, not a freekin’ fruit salad.
Anymore than that and I’ll just get confused anyway.
Bald is beautiful, man.
Or maybe I’m just too damn stupid to have hair in the first place . . .

~m

Grub Street:

Founded by writers for writers, Grub street is Boston’s only independent writing center. Our goal is to help writers with all aspects of the writing life, from finding inspiration to marketing a finished work.
Grub street offers high-quality workshops, events and professional development opportunities for writers of all levels.
It also offers the chance to be part of a community.
You can read your latest work at riot act, our open mike series.
Meet editors and agents at our annual Muse and the Marketplace conference.
Join us to discuss a new book with its author at our bookclub.
Or drop by on a Saturday morning for coffee and free-wheeling discussions on topics of interest to readers and writers.

This is where I will be tomorrow for my lunch hour.
A writing lunch hour.
I’m really excited and hope it goes well.

Just received this via email tonight:

See yourself in print
We’ve got some special news about tomorrow’s Brown Bag lunchtime seminar.
The seminar series is going to be featured in the Boston Globe, and a writer will be at the class taking photos and reporting on the event.
She’s even going to publish excerpts of selected work produced during the class!
This is a great opportunity to try to get your work (or your mug) in the paper, and a fun experience all around.

Am I ready?
Oh, yeah.
Will I get my name in the paper?
Who knows. Do I care?
I will just be happy to be there.
If it will improve my writing, coolbeans.
Say a prayer for me anyway that I find my creative nirvana. (LOL)
Lord knows, I don’t want to look like an asshole.
Click on the Grub Street logo above to check out their website.
~m

ps.
Check out my ‘Toonz’ at the bottom right of my sidebar.
I’ve uploaded some favorite tunes.
Right now they’re in MP4 format but I’m looking to change it to MP3.
If you have ITunes you shouldn’t have a problem listening.
If you don’t have ITunes, shame, shame . . . it’s free, folks.

At my blog, he goes by the name Pooftha, sometimes it’s Poofy but I call him Laho. (Now, don’t go and hit me the racial slur bit, ok?)

Actually, my long time friend Billy (Zipperhead, Zip for short)
coined the name ‘Laho’ and for me it just stuck.
We’ve celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, holidays and we get together on a fairly regular basis for a nice dinner out or the occasional BBQ at his house or my house.
(But Laho has a bitchin’ pool, no lie, so we usually go there)

Laho & Liho (his wife, who looks like she could be my wife’s twin sister) are very close to us.
We’ve gone through much together as far as our lives go.

But I’ve yet to tell you Laho’s favorite story about me.
It’s one he likes to pull out and tell (in great detail) every time we’re together.
However, he seems to derive an inordinate amount of pleasure telling it when there are lots of people around to actually listen to the man.
I take it more in stride these days but boy, oh boy, you’d think I really scarred the poor bastard for life the way he tells it. And maybe I did.

The story begins with a beautiful day on Cape Cod; the sun is 100% Orange Crush and the skies are a deep shade of eternal indigo with a few scant puffs of white for contrast.
Yeah, it’s perfect, ok?
L&L love the beach visible by their cocoa brown-colored skin during the summer months. I couldn’t take them to just any beach; Uh, uh.
This had to be a very special place.

It didn’t help my cause at all that I chose to praise the living crap out of this
hellhole. . . uhh, I mean really nice beach, I decided to take them to.
We agreed to meet the next day at our hotel and drive to the elbow of the Cape, Wellfleet to be exact.

“You guys are going to love this place,” I said, “It’s called Cahoon’s Hollow and it’s wonderful. We’ll have a blast,” I said confidently.

I should make a point of telling you that each of us had an infant in tow
(translation: we were carrying mucho baby apparatus; diapers, bottles, gallons of SPF 50+ sunscreen, bottled water, chairs, playpens, toys, strollers and incredibly the list goes on…you get the picture. And if you’re thinking this can’t and won’t end well, you’re right)

I should also mention that the path leading down to the beach was a steep incline easy to go down but virtually impossible to get up even when you’re not carrying a six pack of Magic Hat never mind 2 ½ tons of baby shit.

We all made it safely down the blistering hot hill of sand and found a nice spot to set up the girls and the babies.
It wasn’t until we were done that I turned to look at the ocean, the raison d’être for our visit.

Oh. My. God.

I didn’t think the ocean had that much seaweed.
For as far as the eye could see the first 25 to 30 ft of ocean was slimy, brown and extremely icky seaweed.
It even grossed me out, which is really hard to do. (Just ask Laho)

Laho said, “Nice . . . you guys come here a lot, huh?”

Even my wife gave me the ‘I don’t even know you’ stare.

By now, we’re all red hot, sweaty and irritable and the babies are getting whiney and crying; they’re hungry.
My recollection of the day pretty much stops right there.
The old grey matter had soaked in enough.

That’s where my good buddy Laho comes in.

He’s good at explaining the perilous and almost life-threatening situation we encountered exiting this shithole of a beach.

He uses words and phrases like “ frickin’ Murphy’” or “we almost died getting out of there” or “Goddamned Murphy and his bright ideas” or “You’re not going to believe this shit!” or my favorite, “beautiful, just frickin’ beautiful” to describe the utter mayhem we experienced that day.

I’m here to tell you Laho and Liho (and family) still frequent the beach but our oldest daughters may be repressing some deep seated fears over brown, slimy and copious amounts of seaweed. I’m not sure.

I love Laho like a brother but if I have to hear that damn Cahoon’s Hollow story one more time… I’m still going to be laughing like I always do.
Maybe that’s what good friends do.

And in my heart, we’re more than just good.

And the Hollow will never let us forget that.

~m

ps. Liho, you’re Mom and Dad are in my prayers 

You unknowingly carved yourself a sliver of my soul today
Maybe it’s because you thought I wouldn’t miss it
Maybe it’s because you thought it wouldn’t hurt
Maybe it’s just because. . .

Words are razor-sharp things, ocassionally slicing their way into tender places, visceral and emotional tissue that eventually heals; a concept you’ve yet to fully grasp
you’re young and I try hard to understand that

But If I were to vanish from your life today, I wonder if your words would change or if they would stubbornly remain and come back to haunt you when you least expect it
I pray to God you never have to find that out . . .

I lost a sliver of my soul today but I know that love, forgiveness and patience will undoubtedly help me find it yet again
But for now, I shall remain that frustrating POS
For how long you ask?
idk. . . .
As long as it takes, I guess. . . as long as it takes

~m

This is something of a public service announcement regarding people I just can’t seem to trust. I’m not sure why this got written but maybe it has something to do with flaming pink hats.

Here’s a list of people I can’t trust. Ever.

*Anyone that wears sunglasses at night.
Sometimes it’s a celebrity and sometimes it’s just a schmuck I pass on the way to South Station. If the sun has fallen far below the horizon and all the cars have on their headlights, lose the shades. You look like a jamoke and therefore can’t be trusted.

*People that smile a lot.
Alright, this one is a bit sketchy but just think about it.
I saw a guy staring aimlessly at a TV (tuned to CNN) perched on a shelf in a storefront window on Boylston Street.
In a nutshell, the programming make-up of CNN is this:
War-Death-Famine-Ominous Meteorological Phenomena and Cancer (repeat 24/7)
This guy is staring at the streaming CNN images and guess what?
Yep, he’s smiling.
A walking head wound and definitely can’t be trusted.
In a city like Boston, smiling zombies are everywhere if you just look.

*Guys that wear pink hats.
I saw a guy wearing one just the other day, I swear to God.
I could never trust a guy like that to even wash my truck windshield.

*Muscle-bound guys that habitually work out at the gym
They grunt, fart loud enough to raise the floorboards and make those nasty ‘faces of death’.
Hey buddy, you wanna point that cannon of yours in a different direction?
And if self-image is worth more to you than that Stanley Steamer you just dropped in your trunks, I wouldn’t trust you as far as you could throw me.
Oh, and nice manboobs, too.
Sheesh…
I do admire the fact that these guys are so damn dedicated.
I draw the line when it seems imperative that I exert myself to a point where an internal organ shoots out of the closest orifice just to belong to ‘the club’.

*Any woman that says (as she’s walking into and bargain basement department store) “I’ll be out in five minutes.”
Come on, ladies.
How dumb do you think we are? Do not answer that.
In this instance, women can’t be trusted.

*Anyone that votes for Sanjaya,
and his asinine ‘pony-hawk’, obvious lack of talent and absurdly white teeth just to keep him on American Idol.
That’s just absurd.
What’s the point?
Sanjaya voters suck.
Period.

*Poodles, Chihuahuas and any other small dog that would easily fit inside a casserole dish.
These dogs are nervous and jumpy.
Actually, they’re not animals folks, they’re appetizers.
And I hate when they hump things…like a piece of furniture or worse. . . my leg.
Because they have a brain smaller in size than a walnut, you can’t trust them.
You never know when they’ll snap and go psycho.

*Expressholes
These are the folks that go through the ’10 items or less’ line with a week’s worth of whatever happens to be on sale that day.
Watch them at a busy deli counter too.
They’ve been known to make up numbers.

This is obviously a partial list and I invite you to add a few of your own.
You may even see a sequel.
Then again, I don’t know if I trust myself enough to write one.

~m