Thursday, April 21, 2005  

Taters

There's a woman who rides my bus in the evening. She's small and chunky, with wild black hair and a perpetual sneer. She never takes off her sunglasses and from the time she gets on at Wellington until the time she gets off in the Fells, she scribbles furiously in a tiny little notebook. Her pale cheeks flush as she writes, and try as I might, I can't quite catch a glimpse of the page. There's something incredibly attractive about this. I've invented a story where she's a passionate young writer, just trying to get that first novel out of her head and onto the page. It's sexy to watch her wail away at her words, oblivious to my prying eyes.

Then yesterday she dropped her notebook. I practically broke my back scooping it up so I could grab a peek. Ready? Lists of office supplies. Endless lists of office supplies. Tape. Stapler. Paper clips. String. Over and over and over and over. Who even uses string?

I thought she was sexy, and it turns out she was crazy.

This is, as it turns out, my dating history in a sentence. I once dated a woman with perfect sculpted breasts and a breathtaking ass who was so batshit loony that my German Shepherd jumped through a plate glass window to get away from her.

Then there was the woman who would only have sex if Mötley Cruë's Angela was playing, because her name was Angela. That one also turned out to be what the courts call an"emancipated minor." She neglected to tell me that, of course, until we'd listened to Angela three times. I jumped out the window that time.

How I made it to matrimony without a knife in the kidney or an "accidental" pregnancy, I'll never know. But here I am, and now I'm so married and boring that last night, while my wife and kids were out of town, leaving me to my own, evil ways, I went so crazy as to drink three whole beers and eat tater tots for dinner. Tater tots, motherfuckers! Sure, there was a point in my life when I would have used a night of freedom to gobble some LSD or drink a fifth of bourbon before going out to bump into yuppies and try to talk their dates into handjobs, but do you know how much goddamn cholesterol is in just one single tot? FOUR MILLION GRAMS. And I had at least fifteen of them.

I have another night to kill tonight. I figure I'll polish off the rest of the sixer, just for symmetry's sake, and then I'll either go to a movie that my wife wouldn't want to see (which is pretty much all of them that aren't in French) or watch Matt Clement and his Amish little beard pitch against the golems and RoboCops of the Baltimore Orioles' lineup. If anyone has any other suggestions for madcap adventures, I'm all ears.

Only one show to promote this weekend. I'll be at Dick Doherty?s Comedy Escape at the Mountainview Grand Resort and Spa in Whitefield, New Hampshire. Comedy at a place that looks like the hotel in The Shining? You betcha. This is a hell of a comedy club, and I'm not sure why. But the shows here are always packed and fantastic. Plus, they give me free steak and whisky, which are to my comedy what spinach is to Popeye's fistfights. I know my readership ain't exactly the sort that hangs out in luxury resorts, but if you're close, you should try to make this one. The tater tots are on me.

Dark Days

News you can use: Madam Boulliard's Voudun Shoppe of New Orleans, Louisiana, only charges $29.95 for a genuine voodoo doll, and she doesn't even charge more for the extra padding it takes to make a David Wells. Damon's hair will cost you a ten spot, but she'll throw in a tiny copy of his book for free. Jeter you can buy in bulk. I ordered a 12-pack.

Dark days in Beantown. The Sox are in the Bronx, back to breaking hearts and muffing grounders. The pudknockers in pinstripes have a score to settle, and they are all business, while new kid on the block Edgar Renteria matches space cadet Manny whiff for whiff at the plate.

But it's baseball, a sure sign spring is here, and my winter novel on the morning train has given way to my summertime Herald (sports pages only - the rest of that rag is like a transcript of Bill O'Reilly's Greatest Hits). My bulky winter coat has been replaced with a new spring jacket so sleek and stylish that I'm pretty sure I'm technically bisexual when I wear it.

But even better, we were finally able to let Jude out of the house last night before bedtime. This kid has been suffering a serious case of cabin fever. I came home last week to find him buck naked except for a pair of light-up moon boots. He had climbed onto the kitchen counter and was licking the sides of a pilfered pudding cup, hunkered down like a caveman by a fire. The kid's gone feral, and there's only winter to blame. I won't be surprised if I find him taking a bite out of a robin redbreast in the back yard; a razor boomerang can't be far behind.

If I'm lucky, he'll slaughter our miserable beast of a cat before disappearing into the woods, only to be seen during full moons and high tides. The Medford Kid, they'll call him. Like the Jersey Devil, only a Red Sox fan. His legend will grow, and they will speak in hushed whispers that only He can stop Hideki Matsui, and there will come a time when Matsui-san misses a game at Fenway, and they find him in the showers, a bloody mess, the top of his head missing and the insides licked clean...LIKE A PUDDING CUP!!!

Unfortunately, a headless, brainless, undead Matsui could still probably hit around .300, and his fielding would probably improve. But these are the days we live in, my friends, where decapitated Japanese patrol left field and naked children live in the forest.

And where are the Republicans? Nowhere to be seen. Lots of talk about Social Security. Lots of blah blah blah about Terry Schiavo. But absolutely zilch about undead Asians! What's their zombie policy? Who knows? George Bush talks a great game about No Child Left Behind, but what about when that child lives in an azalea bush and eats strays? You bet your sweet ass he gets left behind, no question about it. More right wing smoke and mirrors while real issues go ignored.

No show to promote this week. I'm working, but it's a private fundraiser for some unnamed team sport in some vague suburb. Gigs like this are the paperwork of showbiz. You hate them, but you do them, because things cost money and your wife wants things.

WBCN Rumble

The funniest motherfucker working today (Robbie Roadsteamer -- click here for his highlight video) is competing in the WBCN Rock and Roll Rumble tomorrow night (Sunday, 4/3) at the Middle East in Cambridge at 9:00.

He needs all the support he can get; if you can, please get down there and help him out.