I've decided to continue a tradition that started on my old website and bring you the latest big news from my hometown of West Brookfield, Massachusetts. This week's top story:
WEST BROOKFIELD— An adult female great horned owl that lost its right wing when it was struck by a car early yesterday on Route 67 had to be euthanized, according to Police Sgt. Douglas J. Blood, North Brookfield animal control officer, who assisted in the raptor’s recovery.
Sgt. William Lynch said he was operating stationary radar in the school zone on North Main Street early yesterday when a motorist stopped to inform him that an owl had been struck near Coy Brook Farm on North Main Street and that it was still alive, but seriously injured.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Thought I Could Escape Myself By Just Not Getting Dressed
I have a job that sends me to various conferences and seminars that are supposed to make me a better, smarter, more productive employee. Like most of you, I find these meetings generally make me a more slovenly, drunken, likely-to-pull-off-a-strippers-pasties-with-my-teeth kind of employee. I am reasonably sure that is not why my organization sends me to places like Key West, but they did. Before we get to the things you need to know about Key West, I’ll raise a question that’s raised at almost every warm-climate seminar/retreat/meeting that has ever occurred: why, if we’re meant to be focusing on work and concentrating on bettering ourselves, are these meetings held in warm, sunny, beautiful climates with literally thousands of more fun things to do than attend meetings? Seriously, you want me to focus on the importance of Web 2.0 to advance grassroots outreach when there’s three-quarters naked women five hundred feet away and 200 bars within walking distance? Not to mention golf, snorkeling, and fishing? Really? Yes, by all means spend over $1,500 in company funds to send me to that. Good planning.
Anyway, here are some important things to remember if you plan to go to Key West.
1) There are roosters everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I had been to Key West before but don’t think I realized just how many freaking roosters there were. There is a big difference between Key West roosters and the kind you find on a farm – farm roosters seem to have some semblance of a sense of time, i.e., they crow primarily at dawn. Key West roosters are apparently, like the rest of us on the island, very drunk. They crow at all hours. I was fortunate to have a hotel room that overlooked the beach; those with a room overlooking the city were awakened at all hours by the horrendously loud screeching of intoxicated roosters. The worst part is walking home from Duval Street to the hotel at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. and seeing them scurry across the street, sometimes two or three at a time, and crowing from behind fences. Muggers and rapists I can deal with. Chickens frighten me.
2) There are cats everywhere. You all know the story of Hemingway and his six-toed cats, and how they’ve basically inbred like Winchendon schoolchildren and have essentially taken over the island. Hemingway’s house itself still has about sixty cats on the premises, but strict measures are taken to ensure they don’t breed. Not so much for the hundreds of other ones that run around the city. Points one and two should lead to an obvious question – why don’t the cats eat the damn roosters? No one could give me an explanation for this, beyond one local who said that a full-grown rooster could easily kill a cat by methodically pecking it to death. I was seriously hoping they had a bar exculsively for cat/rooster fights, but ironically, that's apparently the one fetish they don't cater to in Key West.
3) Hemingway’s house is bizarre. For one of the most popular tourist attractions in southern Florida, its curator appears to be a seventy year-old kindergarten teacher, judging by the way things are randomly and haphazardly stuck to walls, thrown in display cases, or framed and put on historic pieces of furniture. A good example – a display case that purported to contain Hemingway’s boots and saddlebags contained only a large photo of two unidentified children. However, a small placard still sat on the case that read “BOOTS AND SADDLEBAGS,” leading a colleague of mine to say “wow, those are HORRIBLE names for children.” You get great Hemingway stories from the tour guides though – right near the $20,000 pool that he never wanted (the house itself only cost him $8,000) is a fountain that is clearly made out of a urinal. Legend has it that when Sloppy Joe (more about him in a second) was renovating his bar, he threw out the urinals and Hemingway took one, saying that he had flushed so much of his money down it over the years that he had more than paid for it.
One final note about the Hemingway house – they don’t like you to take pictures of Gumby next to the cats. This will make sense when I actually post the picture of Gumby on the couch with one of the cats. The cats, in most cases, are treated infinitely better than the tourists.
4) There are lots of bars. Here’s how to tell a respectable city from a plain ole drinkin’ city. Where do you go to drink in New Orleans? Miami? How about Key West? Odds are you said “Bourbon Street,” “South Beach,” and “Duval Street” relatively quickly. Now, what about Chicago? Orlando? See, the good drinkin’ cities have designated places where you just know to go. The good thing about Key West is the best bars on the island (Sloppy Joe’s, Hog’s Breath, and Irish Kevin’s) are within about four blocks of each other on Duval Street. So are the crappy bars and strip clubs. Most of the restaurants too. My personal favorite eatery was called "Crabby Dicks," and we were sure to tell our cab driver we wanted the restaurant, not the medical condition. There is an unmistakable laid-back quality to Key West bars as well – on a normal night on Bourbon Street the police presence is unmistakable. In Key West you never see a cop because it's impossible to be in a bad mood with incredible sunsets and beautiful blue water, and if you really need to take out your aggressions on something you can kill a rooster.
5) Frozen Key Lime Pie Dipped in Chocolate On A Stick. I capitalize it because it is that good. Last time I was in Key West we went with the Blonde Giraffe, which is fanastic. This time, however, the locals turned me on to a place called Kermit’s. Now, I consider myself something of a culinary expert, especially when it comes to food that is frozen, dipped in chocolate, and served on a stick. However, I admit that I have not tasted all of the world’s finest cuisine. But now I don’t need to. I can say, even without having sampled all the evidence, that man has achieved no greater accomplishment in the advancement of food than Kermit’s Frozen Key Lime Pie Dipped in ChocolateOn A Stick. There is simply no way that anything could exist that is better. If food is hardworking, team-oriented linebackers, than Kermit’s is Tedy Bruschi.
Unfortunately, the conference I was attending will be in Tampa next year. Fortunately it will be three days after the Super Bowl, which means I’ll be finding a reason to get down there early. Field research or some such crap. Now THAT will be a blog entry.
Anyway, here are some important things to remember if you plan to go to Key West.
1) There are roosters everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I had been to Key West before but don’t think I realized just how many freaking roosters there were. There is a big difference between Key West roosters and the kind you find on a farm – farm roosters seem to have some semblance of a sense of time, i.e., they crow primarily at dawn. Key West roosters are apparently, like the rest of us on the island, very drunk. They crow at all hours. I was fortunate to have a hotel room that overlooked the beach; those with a room overlooking the city were awakened at all hours by the horrendously loud screeching of intoxicated roosters. The worst part is walking home from Duval Street to the hotel at 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. and seeing them scurry across the street, sometimes two or three at a time, and crowing from behind fences. Muggers and rapists I can deal with. Chickens frighten me.
2) There are cats everywhere. You all know the story of Hemingway and his six-toed cats, and how they’ve basically inbred like Winchendon schoolchildren and have essentially taken over the island. Hemingway’s house itself still has about sixty cats on the premises, but strict measures are taken to ensure they don’t breed. Not so much for the hundreds of other ones that run around the city. Points one and two should lead to an obvious question – why don’t the cats eat the damn roosters? No one could give me an explanation for this, beyond one local who said that a full-grown rooster could easily kill a cat by methodically pecking it to death. I was seriously hoping they had a bar exculsively for cat/rooster fights, but ironically, that's apparently the one fetish they don't cater to in Key West.
3) Hemingway’s house is bizarre. For one of the most popular tourist attractions in southern Florida, its curator appears to be a seventy year-old kindergarten teacher, judging by the way things are randomly and haphazardly stuck to walls, thrown in display cases, or framed and put on historic pieces of furniture. A good example – a display case that purported to contain Hemingway’s boots and saddlebags contained only a large photo of two unidentified children. However, a small placard still sat on the case that read “BOOTS AND SADDLEBAGS,” leading a colleague of mine to say “wow, those are HORRIBLE names for children.” You get great Hemingway stories from the tour guides though – right near the $20,000 pool that he never wanted (the house itself only cost him $8,000) is a fountain that is clearly made out of a urinal. Legend has it that when Sloppy Joe (more about him in a second) was renovating his bar, he threw out the urinals and Hemingway took one, saying that he had flushed so much of his money down it over the years that he had more than paid for it.
One final note about the Hemingway house – they don’t like you to take pictures of Gumby next to the cats. This will make sense when I actually post the picture of Gumby on the couch with one of the cats. The cats, in most cases, are treated infinitely better than the tourists.
4) There are lots of bars. Here’s how to tell a respectable city from a plain ole drinkin’ city. Where do you go to drink in New Orleans? Miami? How about Key West? Odds are you said “Bourbon Street,” “South Beach,” and “Duval Street” relatively quickly. Now, what about Chicago? Orlando? See, the good drinkin’ cities have designated places where you just know to go. The good thing about Key West is the best bars on the island (Sloppy Joe’s, Hog’s Breath, and Irish Kevin’s) are within about four blocks of each other on Duval Street. So are the crappy bars and strip clubs. Most of the restaurants too. My personal favorite eatery was called "Crabby Dicks," and we were sure to tell our cab driver we wanted the restaurant, not the medical condition. There is an unmistakable laid-back quality to Key West bars as well – on a normal night on Bourbon Street the police presence is unmistakable. In Key West you never see a cop because it's impossible to be in a bad mood with incredible sunsets and beautiful blue water, and if you really need to take out your aggressions on something you can kill a rooster.
5) Frozen Key Lime Pie Dipped in Chocolate On A Stick. I capitalize it because it is that good. Last time I was in Key West we went with the Blonde Giraffe, which is fanastic. This time, however, the locals turned me on to a place called Kermit’s. Now, I consider myself something of a culinary expert, especially when it comes to food that is frozen, dipped in chocolate, and served on a stick. However, I admit that I have not tasted all of the world’s finest cuisine. But now I don’t need to. I can say, even without having sampled all the evidence, that man has achieved no greater accomplishment in the advancement of food than Kermit’s Frozen Key Lime Pie Dipped in ChocolateOn A Stick. There is simply no way that anything could exist that is better. If food is hardworking, team-oriented linebackers, than Kermit’s is Tedy Bruschi.
Unfortunately, the conference I was attending will be in Tampa next year. Fortunately it will be three days after the Super Bowl, which means I’ll be finding a reason to get down there early. Field research or some such crap. Now THAT will be a blog entry.
I Am Still Alive
Thank you for your concern. I have been at a conference in Key West, and am now planning a lobby day for the state of Maryland. Both have been high comedy, both will be blogged about. It won't be nearly the story my sister will tell of chaperoning Chelsea Clinton around Clark University, which is happening as I write this, but still. Pure, unadulterated, elbow-in-the-crotch comedy.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
An Open Letter to My Three Year-Old Daughter
Dear Daughter,
First of all, you know how much I love you. Not as much as I love your brother, or course, but that’s for you and your therapist to work out in forty years. I also want you to know that I am very proud of you, even though you haven’t really accomplished too much in your brief time on this planet. In time, though, I know you will draw something that I have an outside chance at recognizing, make something out of Play-Doh that doesn’t look like a big snot, and tell a story with the faintest semblance of coherence. But there are just some simple concepts that, God bless you, you just can’t seem to grasp. I hope that by putting them down on paper (or the modern equivalent) I can perhaps think of a way to try to try to make them clearer to you.
Please stop taking off all your clothes and running around the house. I guess I should have discouraged this behavior in you earlier, but it was cute when you were two. Now it’s just disturbing. I also worry a bit about your lack of shame in front of guests. It’s clear they can never tell how to react; “Awwww, a naked little girl!” or “I really shouldn’t be looking at this as it may land me in prison.” I don’t think we should be putting these folks in the awkward position of having to make that choice. While we’re on this subject, let’s talk about bathtub etiquette. Your brother is reaching an age where he needs to take a separate bath, but you have both indicated you have fun in the tub together. That’s totally fine; your uncle and I bathed together until he was fourteen. But I need you to stop grabbing your brother from behind and hugging him while in the tub. Hugging your brother in any other circumstance (while clothed, I mean) is totally fine and encouraged. In the tub, it’s just WAY too Donny and Marie. We live in regular Virginia, not West Virginia, so let’s keep the hands off our siblings. However, there is a possibility that you’re trying to drown him, which, if so, I will not discourage.
There is a certain bond between Jewish fathers and their daughters, but you are not, in fact, the only other human being on the planet. It may come as a shock to learn that there are times when Daddy needs to talk with people who are not you. For example, your mother, your grandfather, or the EMT who’s at our house because your brother elbowed me in the groin again. I’ve asked you in these situations to be patient, and I’ll pay attention to you as soon as I can. I know you have a typical child’s grasp of English, but you have taken this to mean “Daddy will pay attention to me if I start talking louder and faster and perhaps pull on his pant leg and step on his feet.” Inevitably, when I finally break off whatever conversation I’m having with your mother or ask the EMT to wait a minute before he loads the stretcher into the ambulance so I can see what’s so important to you, you show me some toy that I’ve seen 3,000 times before. I understand it’s the greatest thing in the world to you at that moment, but to me, it’s another link removed from the ever-shortening chain that is my sanity.
Also, it is possible to be in a room with me without making physical contact. Sure, you can sit in my lap when we watch TV or I read you a book, but that doesn’t mean you should randomly use my pelvis as a trampoline when I’m not expecting it.
Finally, if I’m talking on the phone while standing up, don’t run straight into me as fast as you can. You see, your skull is about three feet off the ground when you’re standing up. You know what’s three feet off the ground when I’M standing up? That’s right sweetie, my privates! Your short stature insures that your cranium goes DIRECTLY into my johnson with about 300 pounds per square inch of force. As I’ve told your brother, this can be mildly uncomfortable.
Please stop telling insane stories about your friend Rachel. If you are to be believed, your “friend” Rachel has inflicted every form of torture known to man upon you, short of stabbing or shooting you. She’s kicked you, punched you, spit on you, stolen your lunch and snacks, and sometimes – this is the harshest indignity of all – refused to play princess with you. She is also, apparently, some sort of magical ballerina astronaut cowgirl superhero who owns THOUSANDS of toys which are all infinitely better than yours. Here’s the thing – I don’t care about Rachel. When I ask you how your day at preschool was, I don’t want to hear about Rachel’s day and all the wonderful or possibly horrible things she did. If I wanted to hear about Rachel’s day, I’d ride a unicorn to Saturn and ask her while she was making balloon animals and dancing with Nemo and Big Bird. Rachel’s a great kid (even when she gives you a Full Metal Jacket-style blanket party beatdown) but face facts, she’s just a boring little three year-old girl. Just like you sweetie.
Please stop calling everyone and everything a “pussy head.” I have no idea where you learned this phrase, and I shouldn’t have laughed at it the first time you said it. That just encourages you. I believe it was supposed to be “bushy head,” since you sometimes call squirrels “bushy tails.” That would make sense. But it’s really hard for me to explain that logic to the total strangers whom you walk by and yell “YOU’RE A PUSSY HEAD! PUSSY HEAD PUSSY HEAD PUSSY HEAD!” The awkward looks we get when you’re running around naked are nothing compared to the awkward looks of some random couple from Alabama at the Lincoln Memorial who have just been called pussy heads by a three-year old girl with pigtails. When I asked you to stop calling people that, your response was “You’re a pussy face.” While that’s a very snappy comeback for a three year-old, you probably don’t want to piss off the only person who’s usually on your side in our house. Let’s just dispense with that word altogether until you’re around 35. Can we agree to that?
Most of all sweetie, just do me a big favor and turn eighteen. That would be a big help.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
An Open Letter to My Four Year-Old Son
Dear Son,
First of all, you know how much I love you. I tell you all the time, and unlike the issues I will bring up in this missive, you seem to understand what that means, and you respond that you love me too. I also want you to know that I am very proud of you; you are a VERY smart, very loquacious, wonderful, and thoughtful boy. No father could want more in his son. But there are just some simple concepts that, God bless you, you just can’t seem to grasp. I hope that by putting them down on paper (or the modern equivalent) I can perhaps think of a way to try to try to make them clearer to you.
1) Please, for the love of God, stop elbowing me in the crotch.
You won’t know how unbelievably painful this is until you’re older. It’s not even pain, really, it’s something far beyond and so much worse than pain. It’s a slow, horrible sensation that begins deep in the pit of your stomach and is so far-off, so dull, you begin to think gosh, maybe he didn’t get all of it. But oh no…soon it feels as if someone is slowly shoving a dull post-hold digger through your prostate and into your rib cage. Seriously, you’re better off just punching me full-on in the face. And if the urge to elbow your old man in the nether regions is too much to overcome, fine - hell, I’d like to give my old man a hard one to the gonads every now and then. Just stop laughing after you do it. The way to stay in my good graces and keep yourself awash in candy and toys does not involve you laughing hysterically as I double over in pain and pray to God for the sweet release that only death can bring.
2) For that matter, stop elbowing me anywhere.
I love it when you jump in the bed with me so we can watch TV. It’s fun to watch you laugh at Spongebob and sing Little Einsteins songs. But the fact is it’s a California king-sized bed. It’s enormous. As much as I love you, it is not necessary to spend the entire duration of the program seeing if you can find my geographical center by crawling all over me. As you know, I lost about 60 pounds last year and don’t have as much padding as I used to. You, on the other hand, continue to look like an albino Ethiopian kid, or a concentration camp survivor. Even that’s not quite right – even in a concentration camp you’d have other prisoners pointing at you and saying “jeez, that kid should have something to eat.” What I’m trying to say, son, is that while you do have the uncanny ability to give me the perfect Charlie horse with your knee, knock the wind out of me with a well-placed elbow to the trachea, or come very close to knocking me unconscious by violently whipping your skull into my nose, you should be using these powers for good, not evil. Remember when you made daddy slip two discs in his spine? Remember when you gave him a hernia? Remember how we couldn’t play for a while afterwards, and daddy only kind of grumbled and cursed when he saw you? Let’s not do that again, okay? The bed is plenty big enough for both of us, and frankly, I really don’t even like your mother to be that close.
3) Please keep your hands off your Johnson.
I had hoped that we could avoid talking about private parts until you were much, much older. But since we’ve already talked about mine, we should discuss yours, and how the whole world doesn’t need to see you fondling yourself. Now, I’m not going to deny that it’s lots of fun. As a very funny man named Woody Allen once said, it’s the most fun you can have without laughing. But there is a time and a place for it - the place is anywhere I’m not, and the time is anytime I’m not around. I think we should agree that you limit it to your bedroom, since the people at McDonald’s, Kohls, Safeway, Target, DSW, your daycare, your grandparents’ house, the synagogue, and any of the other hundreds of places you decide to start copping a feel on yourself, probably don’t want to see it.
4) Please learn to keep a secret.
As you get older, you will hopefully learn two completely immutable truths:
1) I am fun.
2) Your mother is not.
Your dad has a lot of experience with fun, and that experience has taught me that sometimes – often, in fact – it’s better if other people don’t know what crazy things you’ve been up to. Namely your mother. Therefore, when we do something, or buy something, or go somewhere, or eat something, and I tell you not to tell your mother, please don’t immediately yell the secret at the top of your lungs without her even prompting it the millisecond she comes into your sight.
I know mommy has told you that it’s not good to keep secrets. Well, let me tell you a secret: your mommy is no fun at all. It’s imperative that you and I have secrets between us. Otherwise the women win, son, and then…well I don’t want to imagine that kind of world. Remember during Chanukah when we went to that fancy jewelry store because you wanted to pick out a necklace for mommy? And that nice jewelry lady helped you pick it out and was so nice to you, and you picked a great one and she was so proud of you but in the end asked for Daddy’s credit card anyway (even though you’d thought you’d won some kind of contest)? Remember I told you NOT to tell mommy where we got the necklace? And when we got home, she asked where we’d been, and you yelled “TIFFANY!!!” as loud as you possibly could? That’s called not keeping a secret. It’s the exact OPPOSITE of keeping a secret, and you’re very good with opposites. Which brings me to my final request:
5) Please stop asking me questions that can’t possibly have answers.
I know you’re young and trying to learn the ways of the world. And I strongly encourage you to ask me questions about things you don’t understand, as I know how important it is to impart wisdom on such a young impressionable mind. But Jesus, son, stop asking such stupid questions. “What’s the opposite of a box?” What the hell kind of question is that? Like I said, you know your opposites and therefore you know that question doesn’t make a lick of sense. Or, for example, we’ll be walking by a store and the store will have pictures of, say, poodles in the window. You’ll ask “Why are there dogs?” I don’t have a degree in advertising or interior design, son. I can’t get into the mind of whoever put those poodles there. And you know it. So let it go. And while I know you’ve got a very inquisitive mind, you can stop asking “Why?” after everything I say. I certainly appreciate your use of the Socratic method, but good lord kid, sometimes things just are the way they are.
“Why is the sky blue?”
“Well son, the sun reflects off the moisture in the air, and…”
“Why?”
“Well there’s always moisture in the air, mostly because…”
“Why?”
“Because water evaporates, and…”
“Why?”
And on and on. I think from now on when you ask “Why?’ my answer will be “Because you keep touching yourself and elbowing me in the crotch.” I’m willing to try anything at this point.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
