Monthly Archives: July 2006

This Must Be The Place

2869.jpgOutwitted, my intestines enlarged, soon to the point of out-trousered. On the phone last weekend I had told my aunt then when I came down to visit that a light diet would be greatly appreciated. I am trying to watch my waistline. Lose a few of the sausages from my spare tire, follow me? In advance my requests were no salted or smoked meats, especially from cows or pigs. Accordingly, on the first night I ate catfish.

2868.jpgMy aunt and I had gone out to eat without my grandmother. Probably because my grandma just the day before got her hair did, and because the night of the catfish in question she was wearing white; those are the two reasons for her decision not to go out to eat with us, in my mind at least. The psychological underpinning goes back to the last time the three of us went out to eat this summer, at a hamburger stand in the middle of the state where we ate out on picnic tables, and the wind and I blew mustard and chili and grilled onions all over my grandmother’s new clothes and into her hair.

Not to say that I didn’t feel strongly that my grandma should have gone out with us, but I respected her decision on its merits. Besides, my aunt and grandma spend a lot of time together, yada yada yada, the restaurant du noit was right down the Post Road, etcetera. I respect the familia. In any event my aunt and had a fantastic meal at an outdoor restaurant right down the Route 1 called, simply, The Place. It was fabulous. Outdoor dining on tables ringed by tree stumps, the setting sun in the trees, smoke rising from the giant outdoor grill pit, the heavy-mitted grillsmen lending a hand to fetch the still-cooking food to the table.

Catfish seemed the best choice for me, what with my committment to dieting, and my aunt had the grilled one and one eighth pound lobster. We had a dozen grilled clams for an appetizer, a container of home-brought aunty-made potato salad for a palate cleansing course (just me on that one) and a piece of pecan pie for dessert (okay that was just me too). Because I am carefully and suspiciously watching my weight, keeping my hairiest eyeball on my waistline, I opted for a diet cola and declined the ala mode option for the pecan pie. Trying to lose a pound or two.

Earlier in the night my aunt, who likes to spoil me, my sister and the constantly starved cocker spaniel, had doled out a precise one ounce serving of the potato salad along with the ends of a loaf of bread sandwiching the last scrapes from the side of a bowl of chicken salad and a Boost for my grandma’s dinner. This being before we left for the Place. My grandma didn’t complain that even though we were going to a restaurant I needed to bring the bulk (close to a pound) of the potato salad with me. The Place is no frills barbeque, bring your own sides and beer. Did I forget to mention that my aunt and I also ate each one ear of buttered shucked-back grilled corn? So they serve some sides…

All joking aside I would have let my grandmother have as much of the potato salad as she liked but my aunt was very militant about the precise one ounce serving so that there’d be enough leftover (approx one pound) for her “poopsy” to enjoy it. That’s me. From a dietary standpoint I felt fantastic that I’d chosen something light like catfish, brain food, for my dinner instead of a one pound steak. Both on the menu, but I used my brain. Or I should say, I felt fantastic about my dietary choices for dinner until I remembered that just the very same afternoon I’d scarfed down a Big Mac and fries.

But it was all about reversing the curse, and thats what I did with that smart, handsome, lucky catfish. My stomachship captained by Admiral Longintestine reversed course away from the stormy salted and smoked meat bluffs and towards the tranquil isles of brainfood. No way could I gain five pounds again during this trip down to see my aunt and grandma like I did the last one, the one before that, and so on, because my brain was in the drivers seat this time, Admiral Longintestine hanging out the passenger window like a mile of windsock puppet trailing behind the automobile as we raced acrossed the desert.

Unfortunately, the very next day my aunts good cookering got me in the gut, right where I most expected it. After visiting a pre-made Italian food boutique that smelled like cooking pasta and sauce and Marsalis and such, my brain fell asleep in the backseat and so my person was primed for cruxifiction in the Passion of the Cheese. Cheeses Christ! How could I forget on the phone last week with my aunt who is the cooker of the best yet most filling food in my life not to put a future stop on cheese digestion?

In such a manner my dieting waist watching plans unraveled, like a loose ball of yarn batted incessantly by a liquid cheese lapping kitten. For dinner tonight my aunt first served mozzarella and tomato salad, with olive oil spices and scallions. For a light summer supper we ate cold broiled chicken, boiled corn on the cob and french fries. It was delightful and everything I had hoped for on the phone the previous week explaining my plan to pinch a couple hammers off my utility belt. The kicker was the dessert and the football landed on a slippery cheese slope that soon avalanched down my throat.

Cheesecake. Real cheesecake was the dessert, and so helpless was I that even the abstract warnings emanating digressions on integrity in 1960’s Butterfield 8, could not quench my thirst and Sprite was not on tap. Elizabeth Taylor, like my belly, can really play a whore, or even the biggest slut in New York, and still win an Oscar. My gut has those kind of guts, too. After the delicious cheesecake my mousified brain dispelled all decrees of diet and devoured a box of Cheezits. Then I moved on to bagels with hefty and yet disturbingly artful schmears of cream cheese. Chive cream cheese.

Mid-Summer’s Camera-Phoning

Apologies to all who keep checking the site every day looking for the fresh update. This is summertime, and its almost been too hot to update. The heat is keeping me outdoors. Rolling power outages through the oldest wired streets in Cambridge have been keeping me off the computer. Yada yada, what are you doing on the computer anyway? Its summertime, go outside and get yourself a tan and stuff! Now onto the camera-phoning…

This first pic is of me in my friend Chris’s ultra-svelte Celtics cap, in the kitchen of the house I will be moving into next month.


The two boys I am moving in with (Julian joyfully holding up a last cigarette found in the couch crack, on the left, and Thomas pissing peacefully into a urinal about forty five minutes before getting arrested for outdoor public urination)…

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Finally, I have scenes from the ‘boss pad’, from when I visited my GM who was visiting for the night because of an early AM shift. On the left is a Turkish tobacco pipe that blew my mind, because who has one of these, and on the right is the smallest can of Sprite ever. Like a secret Sprite, smuggleable in any cavity.

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Fucking Pigeons (Literally) Make Me Crazy

The neighborhood pigeons are acting up again. Couple days back I was sitting on the deck, drinking a scalding cup of joe at around 7AM when a super-aggro alpha pigeon started making low, growly purrs at me from up above; up on the gutters mere feet from my damn head. The bird was up on MY gutters, right by my roommates window. Sloshing my hot coffee onto the New York Times clumsily and angrily, I pushed back my chair and stood up and shook a fist towards the fat, ugly winged rat’s head and shouted, “Do you know what the hell species you are clucking at fool?! I am a mighty human being, and if you fly down and attack my head this morning I will afford you no rights whatsoever and visciously kill you easily and with no regret whatsoever! After killing you I will calmly take the newspaper upstairs and crap on my porcelain human throne! Ha! Be gone!” The pigeon, beady eyes shiny in the early rays, moved its head back and forth, and continued its growling & grunting, oblivious to my tirade. Goddamn aggro-alpha pigeons. All the time fucking underage pigeons (who should be in school) and taking over roof tops and famous statues, shitting all over them. What the fuck.

Putin’s Boy Kiss Explained

After crouching in front of a tiny Russian boy, asking him his name, tugging up his shirt and kissing him on the bare belly (the boy answered that his name is “Nikita”,) most powerful Russki, the Russian President Vladimir Putin explained his actions to the media today…

”He seemed to me very independent, very serious, but at the same time a boy is always vulnerable. He was very sweet. I’ll be honest, I felt an urge to squeeze him like a kitten and that led to the gesture that I made. There was nothing behind it really,” Putin said, smiling.

For more on the story, visit CNN.


Sweet Seedless Watermelonning from Daphne the Best

Thank you!

After enduring 2 hours of requests for a half of a watermelon, the best bartender at Bukowski’s somehow produced the surprise giant slice. She took it to that level, and for free. The best, Jerry.