Monthly Archives: May 2007

The Roaring of the Lamb

In three hours I will be above the Atlantic Ocean on my way to Amsterdam. Before I make that trek through the air I want to share with you the beginning of my vacation, which started last night at Megan’s house for a cookout and then a manic cab ride to the water for the Steely Dan concert.

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Memorial Day Freak Show

What’s up, my brother! Here are the pictures from the Yakaitis Family Memorial Day Freak Show. Pictured are the Yaks, the boys, the freak flags waving, nude conga line down to the beach at midnight with boom boxes… say wha? Thank you Bull and Ruth… and now enjoy.

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Almost all photos are credit of Ruth. Thank you, my sistah!

The Writing On the Wall

This is how things work. At brunch last Sunday I met up with a cook who works in the kitchen with Seth, a friend I made at the East Coast last summer. Seth is a chef and now operates his own kitchen but stepped in to help out the boys in our kitchen at the time. He still occasionally does catering with the East Coast and thats how his silverware got mixed up with our house silverware. When this happens, and its not that often, I take the unique silverware aside from the rest and name it.

The current list of unique and named silverware that has gotten mixed into our own includes Excalibur, Metropolitan, the Pharoah, Thunderbird, and Pontiac, just to name a few. Portrait, the pretty spoon, has gone missing. Anyway, Seth’s two spoons were serpentine and mixed steel with black steel. Megan named them “Rhythm” and “Cobra.” I gave them to the coworker to bring back to Seth, because sometimes I have to do what feels right and give it all back. And this is where things in the universe begin behaving strangely, start to get interesting, turn me on a little.

Two days later two new spoons magically appear mixed in with our silverware. Heavy, ringed spoons. At first, when I didn’t realize that there were two identical, and I thought it was just one, I named it, “International Space Station.” I was feeling that one, but then the other turned up. Megan or Tina, I don’t remember which, came up with a better system for naming these two: Moon Units 1 and 2. The universe gave us these spoon units as a compensatory gift for the good deed done in the Lord’s presence on Sunday.

This may seem merely parallel, but I assure you its the same phenomena. About a week back I was in the bathroom at Bukowski’s taking cameraphone images of the writing on the wall. I didn’t know why I was doing it: I am not a big graffiti artist. Only when provoked by a long list of names for a penis did I enter the fray. I was compelled to record the bathroom wall; it was a compulsion. Days later all that writing, which had been there for as long as I’ve worked at the East Coast Grill, two years, was gone. Painted over. Washed away by the same forces that tossed us those spoon units, but not before I could save it for posterity.

The first time I wrote on the wall it was in a list of synonyms for penis that the boys had all contributed to. Every imaginable name for a penis was up there. Cock. Dick. Cooli-ooli-oolio. All of ‘em. So, to be different, off-beat and truly funny, I wrote “wizard’s sleeve.” There was a public uproar, a strong reaction. A jerk wrote next to my word, “You know that’s a name for a vagina not a penis, right?” No shit, of course I knew that. But I was just trying to change the subject. I decided the next thing I wrote would have to be a lot tougher and more aggressive, something the boys couldn’t shoot down.

That’s why in the first picture, to the right of the strange elephant octopus, it says, “Out of control wild boys writing to one another on this wall – you’re all hot.” Nobody responded to that, and I felt measurably more confident about my wall writing ability. So much so that one restless night, probably a hot one where I get my licks in Grindhouse style, I wrote, “Fuck you bitch you football who can’t transform into a bear. FUCK YOU ANTI-POPPLE!” That right there is about as aggro as I get, and I don’t blame Bukowski’s management one bit for cleaning that wall. That’s some nasty nasty.

And it’s also the way of the universe.

Post script from the mens room at Cambridge Bukowskis Tavern Post script from the mens room at Cambridge Bukowskis Tavern

Its 100% Cotton

Not sure what is supposed to be happening here. Oh wait, its a dance movie! Kind of. Narrated by Kiki.

Thailand, India and then, Somerville… Its All Good

My friends Emerson and Genevieve recently returned to America from months spent at a dog rescue operation in Thailand, traveling, India, etcetera, as detailed in their joint blog, Rice Noodles. Had to throw up their pics as a celebration of their return to Mass. The bearded one is another friend, Chris. Welcome back homeys.

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Hunger Gets What Hunger Wants

“Don’t you touch my hotdog Cody. Don’t you touch that hotdog.” That’s what I had to say to the young Cody when we went to the ballpark last week for a Red Sox game. He was wild and young and pale white. Everything I told him not to do he did it. He got it done.

Here’s an interesting commercial that Genevieve shared with me during her visit last weekend. Good to see my brand and trademark being stolen and used at will for hotdog advertising. Some knuckleboob probably typed in “hotdog” on the Google and up popped the biz and they was all like, “Oh I gots an idea for an ad. Three arms and a hotdog.” Game, set, snatch.

Better Than Chad’s

A sassy declaration. You be the judge, reader. You do what feels right.

Look at the lamp! You do what feels right

Wielding the Street Sign

The popped collars said, what if I don’t listen to you. “If you don’t listen to me, I’m gonna kick all your asses!”

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Like a super weapon.

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Le Machismo Tiger

“When faced with grilling for a crowd, some people settle for letting their dogs get cold in a pile on the plate. But you my friend had the foresight to build a bratwurst hot tub.” Mmm-mmm. Those tasty brats swimming around in an aluminum rectangle pan filled with steamy wurst waters, onions and bell peppers. Doing laps and splashing eat other, having a good time until it’s jawing time. That was a commercial I saw on TV today, while watching a BBQ instruction in HD hosted by a fluffy haired hippy.

Some old guy recently remarked my hair is short to medium length. It was noted in a memo marked Confidential. The bosses showed it to me, the parts about my service anyway. Couldn’t deal with all that. A spy eating in the restaurant taking notes on everything and getting it all wrong. This grandpa said I am five nine, one hundred sixty pounds with short to medium length hair. He must have seen the illusion.

Its show biz!The only way I get to five nine one sixty short to medium is if the hippy of fluffy hair got a chance to BBQ me, and the product in my hair made it burn down slowly as I shrank down and took on the taste of flame. Don’t forget me in a pile of other human hotdogs on the plastic plate of buffet. When they eat me I hope that I had the chance to simmer down in the bratwurst hottub my wise grillmaster made me. Just simmer down now.

Its about two and a half weeks until I pack up the shit and take the whole show on the road to Amsterdam. My sister phoned earlier to remind me to bring along my adventure helmet. As if I can even take the damn thing off. My adventure helmet is my goddamn hair helmet and its never been this hairy in my entire life, and I got that guy tons of coffee. As a master restaurant spy who actually gets paid to do that shit I am especially disappointed that he didn’t notice my hair is medium. Trending toward long!

I remember complimenting his grandchildren on their appetites. To be fair, in his top secret report, the spy made mention of my personality being the highlight of his day. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the hair! Its spectacular, to risk writing like Regis Philbin talks. The best its ever been. I pay about twelve, thirteen dollars every few weeks for my Charles Worthington London hair treatments. I call that a bargain… the best its ever been!

For people who don’t know that song AND read this blog (that narrows it down to only my sister), those are wicked hot song lyrics from this totally rockin’ song in the States. YOU best get an adventure helmet! Mine sits snug on my skull, has a fan for lateral heat, and a motor. It revs up my brain slow and low until it marinates in its own juices, best served with fruit kabobs. When I step out into the city of A’dam the white hot spotlight and basted pineapple, I’ll have all my technological magic intact, plus a hairstyle my sister eerily predicted. That’s the business.

I saw a wonderful film that other day at my aunt and grandma’s. It is called Los Jornaleros, meaning day laborers in Spanish. On imdb.com I read that it was shot in a month for one hundred thousand dollars. I don’t know if that’s true, because I read it in the comments section. But it has that look and feel. The acting feels right; mainly three brothers from Mexico form up as three and make a go at it in California. No papers, they live with their uncle and work as day laborers.

As the years go by each brother has his own difficulties. Drugs for one, a girlfriend and newborn son for the other, and being gay for the third. The storylines of each eventually reach a point where each brother is independent of the other, but in a way that pushes them towards negative extremes. Except for the gay brother, who gets a green card and an apartment with his boyfriend, as well as a job in an art gallery.

Some people commented on imdb.com that the actors in Los Jornaleros don’t look Mexican, but I thought they captured the beauty of the men I worked with at the Union League Club in Chicago. That was my favorite work so far in my life. The real silver and the pots and pans and my radio and the forty foot long dish machine and the old Mexican men.

There Are No Terrorists in Foxholes, Terrorists Only Use Spiderholes

Today’s title is my personal tribute to the lasting memory of Mitch Hedburg…

fantasticfox11.JPGI was outside gardening today with my aunt, doing things I have never done before. We potted tomato plants out on the deck and watered flowers around the house. I am not much of a gardener. Never have I even successfully been able to care for a plant indoors, never mind outside in nature. The TV news advertising upcoming local stories stoked my paranoid tendencies. Somewhere in Connecticut a small boy had been bitten by a wild fox.

Logging onto the website of the local news station, I tried in vain to find the story. I wanted to assess the risks I was undertaking in the garden. Nature carries many risks, and fox bites are a profound risk. The local news website carried many leads, however I was unable to find the breaking news story advertised on TV. This did contribute further to my paranoia. Luckily, I did root out some information. Seems today was not the first time someone in ole CT was fox bitten.

Last summer Janet Hill was in her yard, doing yardwork and gardening. There were two foxes in the neighborhood, who would come around “like clockwork.” These were red foxes. Red the color of blood, flowing from the bitemark of the ferocious fox. Red the color of mud, sometimes, when mud is not brown because of sediments. The poor woman didn’t even see it coming, and the red fox had contracted the rabies.

“I did not see the fox. I did not hear the fox. All of a sudden I got this sharp pain in the back of my leg,” she said. The fox, it seemed, had bit her. She did not see or hear the fox. But it bit her leg, and because she had no tools with her, Janet Hill had no weapons to wield against the red fox. The fox held on, then it let go. It scurried three maybe four feet away, and growled. Disturbed and more than a little worried about gardening, I sifted through the vast information available.

Then I read this news item from the UK. “I had one client who woke early one morning to find a fox chasing her cat around the dining room, having got in through the catflap. Foxes are becoming braver in what they will look for as prey.” The fox, it seems, had entered the house through the catflap. No foxflap was found.

Solutions to the problem was where my roving eye next focused. Trained as a youth as a Future Problem Solver, my natural tendency is to look at the problems in the world and brainstorm solutions. In terms of fox hunts, the Main Solution seemed pretty obvious: packs of hounds working together with terriers. Again, the British are on the cutting edge. Here is part of a transcript from Parliament:

“Dr. MacDonald of Oxford university calculated that half the foxes killed by hunts were slaughtered not by the hounds, but by terriers that were sent underground to pursue the foxes when they sought refuge. The terriers drive the fox out of the refuge or keep it occupied while humans dig it out. Even the official hunts have acknowledged that that practice must be tightened.

fantasticfox2.JPGThose who take part in such activities boast about the horrific injuries suffered by the dogs in the subterranean battle between fox and terrier. In a report from that earnest journal, The Sunday Telegraph, Adam Nicolson described his day out with the Blencathra fox hounds:

“From above ground we could hear the terrible fighting below us, the screaming of dog and fox was only partly muffled by the layers of earth and rock that separated us from it. The noise moved for about 10 minutes . . . and then went quiet. The huntsman, the whipper-in and the followers stood listening in silence . . . Then the huntsman said, ‘All right, that’s us then’ and headed back downhill. It was just before nine in the morning.’But what about your dog?’ I said to the terrier man as we walked down. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘that’s all right, it’ll either be dead and the fox will be eating it or the fox will be dead and she’ll be eating the fox. Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be back home in a couple of days, once she’s slept the whole thing off.'”

I am most concerned by the attitude of the Wildlife Network. In its submission to the debate, it says that unorganised terrier work should be stopped, but that the same activity is okay when conducted by the official hunt. Clearly, points of principle and consistency do not wash with the Wildlife Network. In addition, it wants terriers to go underground and only bark at the fox, not bite it.”

Horrible, horrible. Seems that these terriers are just as murderous as any rabid fox, and the hounds are complicit. Therefore, I discarded my Main Solution on the basis that I do not believe in mistreating animals, wild or domestic, with other animals. The whole issue of whether the terrier barks or bites at the fox seems silly. If I was a terrier in a foxhole I’d try seduction. Gives a whole new meaning to “be back back home in a couple days, once he’s slept the whole thing off.”

My new Main Solution to the foxing versus gardens problem is to wear the shiny green gloves my aunt bought for me. As far as anti-fox armor, that should do the trick. Now for the post-script:

In my research for this post, I also came across many news articles detailing bear sightings in the state of Connecticut. As a parting shot, one of hope and uplift, I’d like to share just such a clipping out of Hamden…

“A 200-pound black bear browsed through a Hamden neighborhood Tuesday, bringing residents out of their homes to catch a peek at the furry visitor. It was an unusual sight for this urban block.

The bear eventually climbed a tree, spurred on by barking dogs and rubber bullets from DEP officers. Officers tranquilized it and lowered it with ropes. It will be examined by the DEP and relocated. The agency said it does not normally tranquilize and relocate bears unless they are a nuisance or in a heavily populated area.

On Tuesday, the bear capture captivated the neighborhood. Some residents said they hoped the bear would not be injured in the process. They were glad to see it all end safely as the bear was lowered to the ground.

“They all clapped,” neighbor Danielle D’Angelo told WTNH-TV. “Everybody was excited.”

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