What a scam what a scam what a scam what a mighty good scam

I know everybody's pretty curious about what I've eaten this weekend but that'll have to wait.
Last night in Chinatown I went to buy a Metrocard to ride the subway and I was approached by a little Chinese woman in her fifties. "You want card? One dollar." Being a Grade A sucker, I gave her a dollar. Then when I went to take the card from her, she slapped my wrist away. I thought to myself "Oh okay, now she has my dollar and, as a New Yorker, she can probably kick my butt in 83 different ways." But before I could register a feeble protest, she proceeded to take her own card, presumably a monthly pass, swipe it through the turnstile, then gently push me through. Easy breezy, she gets my dollar and I ride the train. Take that, establishment.

Biz cash

It's Friday, which means I can wear jeans if I donate three dollars to charity. (If you are tempted to make a little jab about how banal office culture is, I ask you reference this blog posting.) Anyway, I'm sporting a sweet pair of Arizonas today, but I find myself wanting more. Like, if I gave ten bucks, could I wear a pair of Daisy Dukes? Or for a C-note could I come in sans pants? I just care about charity is all.

And with that, I'm off for the weekend in NYC. It's possible I won't have computer access, so I may not be writing again until Monday morning. Hey, back off, I've come a long way in the last few days. I feel proud of my work and I'm not going to let you knock me down. Just plain hurtful.

Oh yeah, before I get on the bus, I'm going to nuke a turkey and muenster melt on wholegrain bread, my second of the day. Pretty delish, but I wish I had some more spicy potatoes...

Space is Spooooooky

Click on this link to hear the radio emissions NASA picked up from Saturn (it's a planet.) Doesn't it sound an awful lot like a crappy haunted house tape you'd pick up for $1.95 the day after Halloween at Walgreens?
Sounds of Saturn

American Lit

Each year, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest picks the worst possible opening for a novel from among hundreds or thousands of submissions. This year's winner, submitted by Dan McKay of Fargo, ND:
As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.

Back in the 413

Why is it that whenever I'm in my truck with Jon, we have to be crammed in with a girl and hurtling somewhere outrageous?
This weekend was the 26th birthday party of an old college chum, Mr. Lou Dawg. I thought it was his 25th birthday because of all the foo-fur-ah surrounding it, but I respect the fact that he was willing to throw a large party in his own honor on a year that's essentially meaningless. Well maybe it's not so meaningless if you consider it the 10th anniversary of his decadent Sweet Sixteen party. (Oh what an affair that was, Nate Dawg really stole the show in his ornate Chanel gown, set off with Mikimoto pearls and a casually elegant "up-do." I digress...)
This weekend's party was a smashing success, lots of drinking and debauchery, reminiscing and re-connecting. In fact, we had such a good time that Nicole ended up delaying her bus trip back to New York so we could go to another party the next night. It was really good to see these guys, some of whom I hadn't hung out with since before Wisconsin. And another thing: even though I have most things I want right now (love, money, tasty snacks), I do not have enough guy friends in Boston. So it was refreshing to hoot and holler a little with tha boyz.
A few highlights:
-Even though Saturday's party promised a huge spread of barbecued food and accessories, me, John and Nicole could not resist. Less than one hour away from Lou's house, we stopped at Boston Market and had a picnic feast on a grassy median strip. Garlic roasted rotisserie chicken, real mashed potatoes (not the lame-o whipped cotton candy KFC kind) and country gravy, creamy spinach, baked mac and cheese and cornbread. Needless to say, we weren't crestfallen that we had no appetite later for hockey puck burger patties and rancid pasta salad on a limp bed of former lettuce.
-At about 2 a.m., a kid came stumbling into the backyard, bleeding profusely from a gash in his head. He told us not to let anyone else in the party, especially the five guys who just beat him bloody. Sure thing, pal.
-My favorite story from the weekend came from when Nicole and I were leaving the party on Saturday night and we heard someone following us out. It was the birthday boy himself, with a pen and paper in hand, looking to grab some digits. As he starts to take down Nicole's number, we have a little conversation:
Lou: So your girlfriend left pretty early, eh Jesse?
Jesse: No you're actually getting her phone # right now.
Lou: Nah dude, Desiree is your girlfriend.
Jesse: No I'm pretty sure my girlfriend is Nicole.
Then there was a very long pause when Louie realized he was trying to pick up my girlfriend right in front of me. Nicole and I tried to relieve the awkward moment by suggesting it was perfectly acceptable for him to call her when he's in New York, maybe they could go to a Rodney Dangerfield film festival or something. We felt bad because Lou's a pretty good guy and he obviously felt like a heel. At the same time, what a hilarious move.

Snack Attack!

So at about 4:00 p.m. each day, I'm all, "Where's my snacks?!!" I think the habit is ingrained from days of graham crackers and apple juice at pre-school. But now I'm a grown-up.
You know what hits the spot? Some nice Kenyan coffee with sugar and cream, perfectly set off by a chewy yogurt-enhanced granola bar, straight from the Valley of Nature.


What do you like in the afternoon?

Naughty Bits

It turns out that my sister knows the gaggle of lesbians who live in the second-floor apartment across from mine. Here's a re-creation of the conversation she had with her buddy Joanna-
Sister: My brother lives in that apartment (points to apartment.)
Joanna: Oh-my-gawd, we have seen some pretty wild stuff happening in that place!
Joanna made it clear with her eyes and body gestures that she was talking about hanky-panky. The thing is, these neighbors only have visual access to our kitchen windows. So my goal is to not think about the possibities, i.e. one of my roommates smeared in Yoplait yogurt, prostrate on the kitchen table.

In other news, do you know what's delicious? Yoplait yogurt. I'll have to put it on my to-eat list.

Four Bothers

Call me a cynic, but I think whatever device Hollywood is using to convince us that Mark Wahlberg and Andre 3000 are brothers might be a little, um, contrived.
(Jesse's sister: "Haven't you seen any United Colors of Benetton commercials? We're all brothers."
Jesse: "Get a grip, ya loonie.")

Deep Cover

So I was sitting eating my homemade sandwich (Portugese roll, turkey-ham, provolone, organic tomato, lite mayo: mediocre but filling) in the sun with my chum Beth. There across the street I saw something amusing. Two middle aged earthy crunchy looking women had put their NPR-style tote bags on the back of a parked police car. They were rummaging through the bags, presumably looking for some St. John's Wort, petroleum-free lip balm or maybe a piece of handmade tchotchke from Nepal. So Beth and I got a chuckle out of how these women were using a cop car as a platform in their absent-minded search.
Imagine our surprise when the women then hopped in the cop car and drove away! I mean, they were wearing flowery blouses with cotton/hemp blend pants and birkenstocks! They were probably rifling through their tote bags for an assault rifle!

(Due to the recent preponderance of blog fantasy and fiction, let me reassure you that this story is all true. well, maybe they were just looking for a tazer)

Every silver lining has its cloud

Good morning to everyone, whether you're wearing itchy slacks in a cube, comfy sweatpants at an internet cafe, or no pants at all in front of your home computer. That's dirty.
I have an announcement to make. From now until at least the end of August, I will make a minimum of one blog entry per day. I know that reading other people's blogs is what keeps me afloat during the dead hours at work, but it always irritates me that many people seem to let long periods go by without filling my need for entertainment. I mean, what are they doing, living life or something? I know I'm not. So I will blog for you every day. But in the words of the titans of poetry Poison, "Every rose has it's thorn." Meaning, these posts don't come for free. Here's why:
Last night I was wrestling with a bit of insomnia. So what did I do? Eat an entire chicken caesar salad, of course. Oh man was it good. Fresh, crispy romaine lettuce. Parmesan cheese sprinkled liberally throughout, not even the dumb Kraft kind. Creamy restaurant-style caesar dressing. Medium-soft garlic croutons. Tender lightly grilled chicken breast strips. Yowza.
So I sat in my bed, marvelling at how every bite was tastier than the last, trying not to let the stray romaine leaf scamper under my pillow. And at that moment I realized how much I love food. Seriously, it's really delicious. And I want to sing it from the mountain tops.
But my lovely girlfriend Nicole has put a moratorium on me telling her the things I eat. Her words: "Jesse, that's really boring. Stop it."
I've been keeping it in for too long. I need an outlet. From here on in, with my daily blog posting, will be a little discussion of what I've been eating. Take the bad with the good, people.

Jack

Wednesday started with the news from my boss about a bright funny awesome 24-year-old from my office. After arriving at his apartment at 11:00 Tuesday night, he proceeded to collapse in front of his roommates. They were not able to revive him.

Yes these things happen all the time, but that doesn't make it easy or fair. I may not have known Jack for long but it was enough to know that he was a really good guy with a great future ahead of him. He will be missed.

Captain Happy

Today marked a rare occasion for me. I was able to witness a rare display of "Boston nice" during a train problem on the Redline. My train was stopped, as it often is, to deal with malfunctions. Over the loudspeaker came the muffled drive-thru window voice saying something that sounded like, "Ladies and gentleman, due to heifer wesson core-bot, askall tack a flying antler or more. Thank you for the inconvenience." It was like hearing the back of a fireworks package read aloud.
Then, all of a sudden, the door at the front of the train flew open, and there was our conductor, breaking long-held barriers of disdain and discomfort between commuters and their handlers. He then proceeded to make a speech that went a little something like this:
"Good morning ladies and gentleman. I wanted to take this opportunity to let you know exactly what it is that is happening. There is a door malfunctioning on a train at the Kendall station and it has all the trains backed up on this line. We're going to try to get you going as fast as we can. Here's the thing: I know you're all in a hurry to get to work and I feel bad about that. But it sure doesn't help to just sit here confused and not know what's going on. A lot of these Rising Stars* on the T don't seem to care about talking to people on the train, staying in touch with the people they're driving. But I am blessed to have this job and I just want to thank you for being patient when things like this happen. Boston's a small city and I feel like I know a lot of you just by seeing your faces every day. And we got some issues right now, but I'm just gonna ask you to sit tight and god bless."
As he turned to leave, everybody in the train started yelling "Thank you!" and "God Bless you too!" If there were desks in the train, everyone would have stood up on them and clapped. Personally, I wanted to ask if he'd let me sit in his lap and steer or maybe give me a little train pin.

*I love that there's a new generation of hotshot young T drivers that're giving a bad name to the profession.

Uncle Oliver

My uncle Oliver was recently diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a very painful type of cancer that attacks the plasma and breaks your bones from the inside out. Oliver is one of the fiercest, funniest, smartest SOBs to ever bear the name Hirsch and I simultaneously love and fear him. I believe Nicole, who works for his fine art services company, feels the same way.
In a few short weeks, his health and physical condition have deteriorated quite rapidly. We had a tough dinner with Oliver and his wife the other night in New York which you can read about on Nicole's blog here. The doctors are giving him a good prognosis, though, and today he will be starting a revolutionary new type of stem cell replacement therapy at Boston's Dana Farber Cancer Institute.
Oliver's a devout atheist so he'd hate to read this, but I'd appreciate any prayers you can send his way. He's a good man.

We have a winner

After much deliberation, and when I get around to it, all references to people with first and last names will be removed and replaced with:

Jeffie the greased mayor: Curly Sue
Andy the beefy lawyer: Jake and the Fat Man
Ron the hairy engineer: Les Nesman
John the herniated airman: Nanook of the North.

Thanks to Ms. Tori _____ for her contribution. As a reward, she gets the rare opportunity to tickle any of the above men.

I don't really like to talk about it

To Bostonians or New Yorkers, this tidbit probably has little impact. But for those of you from elsewhere, I think it's probably of interest that I live within a 20-minute walk of Harvard (you may have heard of it; it's like the prime rib of schools.) Nicole and I have leisurely ridden our bikes through the campus and bathed in the public fountain (which may or may not be designated for this purpose; hard to say.) My point is, you have to be wicked smart to live near Harvard.

From Boston to Mauston...

Did anyone else sleep really poorly last night? So far the insomnia count is at 3, with a bullet.

Tongue Ring

The best two news stories in the recent past.
Story A
A 73-year-old Kenyan man, confronted by a leopard, throws down his machete and rips out the leopard's tongue with his bare hands. He is now a folk hero.
Story B
Bob Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots, was visiting his old Russian chum Vladimir Putin. When Bob showed Vlad his $100,000 diamond-encrusted Super Bowl championship ring, the Russian prez thought it was a gift and put it in his pocket. To avoid an international incident, Bob pretended it was supposed to be a gift all along because of his proud Russian lineage. What a yerk.