Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Dragging these old bones out...
I'm going out tonight with Sassy and Fresh Hell for a few beers - any other Boston Bloggers interested in coming should leave a note in the comments and I'll give you the time and location. Boston Bloggers - you know which ones you are - I'm looking in your general direction. C'mon!
Tomorrow night I'm meeting SPOUSE right after work at some sports bar or other (haven't decided which yet, but the Sports Depot in Allston is a front runner) to watch the Sox game which starts at 5pm - I should be able to get there by the bottom half of the first. (Bottom half of the first inning, and the bottom half of SPOUSE'S first beer - I just LOVE how that worked out semantically.) And we've invited a pal of mine along, who TOTALLY SHOULD COME.
Thursday is a party for a departing coworker - and since the hooch and food will be free (and I'm not an idiot), the bells - and the feed bag - are on.
Friday - I'm hoping for a nap, but the reality is that SPOUSE will likely be restless and want to go out to some bar or other and watch the Sox game. And because I'm a functioning alcoholic, and it gets me out of cooking dinner, it's a win-win.
Saturday? Who knows, but it'll involve booze, because that's what Saturdays are for. Because...well, I mean to say...it's Saturday. Enough said.
Sunday - Monster Seats for the Sox versus the Twins at Fenway. Not just booze, but screaming, sun, and a possible home run ball to the temple because my reflexes are dulled by all the booze from Tuesday through Sunday. God help me.
I don't know how my liver is going to react, but I'm guessing she'll make me pay at some point - let's hope she holds on till Sunday night. Or forgets she's 41. I PROMISE to be good next week.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Nick Lowe is a LOVELY Fellow
Had the good fortune to be at the Somerville Theater last night to see Nick Lowe. A fantastic artist, a fantastic performance, in support of a fantastic new CD, At My Age. Yes, I'm prone to hyperbole. I may still be a little drunk.
If I were to list the ten best shows I've seen in my show-going life, I'll bet you Basher was on the bill - headlining or opening - of at least seven of them. (He was also instrumental in the acquisition of a hangover back in '94 or so, that was so powerful, I still have a physical memory of it, and judge the violence of subsequent hangovers by its comparison. But that's a whole other story.)
Also managed to find ourselves backstage after the show. (I know some people... who know some people...who know the Bristols.) Can't blame Nick for not remembering me from the last time I met him, lo these 10 years ago or more, when what I've come to call Hangover Nick was the result. (I name my hangovers much like the weather service names hurricanes.) But he greeted me as though he couldn't have been more pleased to see me and shake my hand and thank me for coming to the show. He must be the most charming, sweet, self-effacing, humble...gentleman in the biz. Courtly-mannered, even. Just lovely.
And yes, I am hungover. But not so bad as Hangover Nick. More like tropical depression Pete.
Right, I've got a friend coming over to help me rid the world of Bass Ale, one pint at a time. Think I'll load up the 5 CD changer...I hope she likes country soul...
Friday, September 21, 2007
Shame on you, Harvard Coop
How greedy can you get? I realize the normal mark-up on a book is low (I worked in bookstores for most of my retail years, so I'm not naive), but not allowing students to do some research and find alternatives to paying through the nose for a book they'll use one semester? Since when is a book's ISBN number the intellectual property of a bookstore? Answer: IT NEVER WAS and NEVER WILL BE.
A book's ISBN number is Public Domain, baby. Get over yourselves.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
The parking gods have smiled 'pon me!
No more MBTA agony for me unless I choose to take it because I plan to drink myself retarded after work and don't want to drive home in such a state. And that'll be rare enough that I can justify a taxi home, so really...NO MORE FUCKING MBTA AGONY FOR ME!!
No more shall I wait 40 minutes in the snow/sleet/rain/humidity for a bus that will get me to another bus stop, to wait for ANOTHER bus, which will take another 40 minutes to get me 2.5 miles to work, with some asshole's bag poking me in the ribs/back/stomach/head, nor shall I have to listen to some idiot's cell phone conversation, nor shall I have to stand steadying myself while the bus rattles and lurches around like an epileptic and for the love of all that's holy, WHY is there ALWAYS some asshole with a baby stroller blocking multiple seats on the 73 bus while people stand and get knocked around like pinballs? WHY?
On the downside, I won't get nearly as much reading done. And I will definitely need a shortcut, so as to avoid the clusterfuck that is Watertown Square at rush hour, and Arsenal Street, which simply blows.
Oh well. I STILL WIN.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
This may come off as maudlin, but I'm in one of those moods. So if you don't like maudlin, read no further.
Picture, if you will: The year is 1975. A living room in Lewiston, Maine. A Sunday, high summer. My dad, enjoying his one day off a week, sits in his recliner, with a pilsner glass full of Schlitz beer, and a cigar. The ballgame is on. The Red Sox are playing - I don't remember which team. It doesn't matter.
I'm nine years old, a tomboy, in cutoff shorts, tube socks, 3-stripe Adidas sneakers, rainbow t-shirt, (probably) heading out for a bike ride or a tree climb, or to gather the neighborhood kids to play S.W.A.T. or kickball. I walk past the living room, glancing through the curls of cigar smoke in the afternoon sunshine, towards the television, just as Fred Lynn comes to bat.
Cue romantic music, maybe some violins...no, screw the romantic music, it was more forceful than that. Let's cue...a very loud power chord on an electric guitar. Loud enough to rattle your fillings. Imagine the opening chords of Van Halen's "Everybody Wants Some." Yea, verily, my brothers and sisters...it was LOOOOOOVE. A FIRST love, innocent and pure, and therefore, almost mystically powerful. The kind that pre-dates that for any teen idol or any boyfriend, and therefore the kind of love that stays in your bones, in your DNA, and underlies all others, for the rest of your life. I was absolutely head over heels - in the first blush - of a first crush - on Fred Lynn. Soon this love would expand to the game, and the team, not just the player.
I sit down, watch the at-bat, and stay to watch the rest of the game. I don't remember asking many questions, just watch silently as the game goes on. The basic concepts of the game are fairly simple, and it doesn't take long to understand the objective. Subtleties of strategy and rules will come later, over time, through osmosis, listening to the announcers, conversations with Dad, and playing. I would soon be gathering schoolmates to play the game in the schoolyard (until a school window is broken and we are reprimanded and have to go back to the more window-friendly game of kickball. Oh, sad day.) And soon I would be getting kicked out of CCD for not paying attention to the class, because I was busy trading baseball cards with some kid who it turns out was NOT, Dana Caron, though I thought it was. I wonder where he is these days...
Anyway....to the present:
I want to be 9 years old again. And I can't. But at 3:55 tomorrow afternoon, I'll be as close as I can get.
**Having said that: I don't like pink, and won't wear it, because I prefer to wear the actual colors of the team - though if I were a Marlins fan I'd have issues sporting the turquoise and remember when the Padres wore brown and gold? I mean...blee. But whatever...you pays your money, you makes your choice. I used to make fun of the pink hat wearers, and they do still make me cringe a bit, now I've got more important things to be pissed off about.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Friday, September 07, 2007
Mothefuckers who are already filthy fucking rich, are NO LONGER ALLOWED TO PLAY THE LOTTERY.
The greedy cunt.
Friday and at peace with the world...
Don't look now, can't seem to get to work. Only typing in this here bloggy thingy to look busy. I'm also becoming distracted by some most disturbing thoughts of skunked beer and where all those fucking bees are coming from. Also, those little dogs in my neighborhood, whose owners let them out at 6:45, to bark their awful, high-pitched, whiny, yapping barks. Tidbit, I'm looking at YOU, you postule sporting, tremor-ridden little Minpin fuckwad. Will we ever have a minute's peace from the barking? The BARKING? PAH!
Although: Not a bad day....Except for a few noisy feckers outside my office window (can we have construction YEAR ROUND in Harvard Square? Can we, huh? And is there a BETTER TIME to tear up the Square than the first weeks of September, when THOUSANDS more people are coming into this little tiny area with their cars and their walking and just BEING here and stuff? No? Didn't think so. And what's with tearing up Church Street, doing fuck knows what kind of road work, putting the pavement back down, and then tearing it up again a week later...ALL SUMMER LONG?).
I feel oddly inappropriate and must remember to use my inside voice.
What? What are YOU looking at?
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Circle I Limbo
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind
That one on the bus who's always on her cell phone
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow
The Red Hot Chili Peppers
Circle IV Rolling Weights
The New York Yankees
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled
Circle VI Buried for Eternity
Circle VII Burning Sands
George Bush, Creationists
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement
Osama bin Laden, Anne Coulter
Circle IX Frozen in Ice