It's the little things, really.

Remember my affinity for the minutiae of daily life? Well, the love affair continues, and I'm going to subject y'all to it...again.

Many of my friends and associates are off gallivanting in various exciting places like Turkey, Jamaica, and the dirty South. Others, like Tobs and Bridget, are accomplishing things like master's theses. Hayley's getting into college and turning 18 (you lascivious 20-something wolves in my acquaintance can just wipe the smirks off your faces...I will cut you.).

But what, pray, have I been doing with my time lately?

Sunday, I enjoyed the company of three of my favorite people during a family outing to Boston's MFA. Hayley and I commiserated on always being ravenously hungry while perusing the MFA, which makes enjoying those still life paintings of fruit and whatnot really, um, visceral. Luckily, after taking in some cultchah, we concluded the day at Legal Seafoods. Blue Point oysters were consumed, among many other Legal delights.

Monday is when things really got bananas, though. I tend bar on Monday nights and for some reason, eleventy billion kegs needed to be changed during this week's shift. Unfortunately, of the eleventy billion, one was full (really fucking heavy) and another was half full (still pretty damned heavy). I enlisted the help of a coworker with the former, and managed to drop the latter on my foot later in the night. Not my toes, thank God, but the top of the foot, where that bone sticks out. This wasn't fun, mind, though I did happen to let loose a restorative string of expletives shortly after I hauled the damned thing off my poor foot. Then I limped around the beer refrigerator, cursing the person who sent back their unfiltered IPA for being "too cloudy." Granted, I don't think a beer should look like orange juice, but dammit we had a half keg left!!

The night wasn't a total loss, though, because I had a Monday NY Times and a few quiet spots in the shift to work on the crossword puzzle. I like Monday's NYT puzzle because I can finish it more often than not. This week was special, though, because I started and finished it... in INK. This was a pretty big deal, as I'm a mechanical pencil devotee. You might say the experience knocked me dead. I felt pretty grown up. I really should have saved and scanned the puzzle in question so everyone can get the full force of my triumph, but I used the page to wrap a birthday gift and it's now long gone.

I'm not quite ready to join the ranks of Jon Stewart, Bill Clinton, and Ken Burns and use ink daily, but it'll do in a pinch on a Monday. I still have yet to finish a Wednesday on my own (someday I'll do it.. and it'll be awesome). And I doubt I'll ever time myself, as this person does (in part because I can't do them that fast).

Who says continuing on as usual (while other people do fun or productive things) isn't awesome?
Oh, I know. It's a nonstop thrill ride.

INK, people. Ink.

______
Those who don't want to pay for the Times puzzle and need the occasional fix should try out The Onion's puzzle. It's punny, full of pop culture references mixed in with the highbrow—an all-around winner. My thanks to Carl for bringing me around on it. I have survived many a slow afternoon in the office as a result.

Three cheers for Hayley.

Dear People on the Internet,

My baby sister (pictured to the right, in full patriotic regalia... you can see she's not really a baby at all, but I was 8 when she was born...) has been accepted to college!!!!!

She's the coolest girl ever, so I am naturally delighted for her, and for the venerable Boston institution that may find themselves with the pleasure of her well-dressed company come fall.

The losers in this scenario? Dickslap-lyan and Ass-deis Universities. Yeah, that's right you jerks. Stick it!

Also, I'll be very sad because she will take her awesome wardrobe to college with her.

Well done my darlin'.

What is "Who are the marketing wizards who came up with that one?"

It would seem that we're entering the part of boyfriend season when the mating dances are performed. Just when I thought it was safe to cease creepily reading about people with whom I attended high school (who now have spouses and children and are working on higher degrees and probably also have mortgages) and log out of StalkSpace, True.com hits me yet again with a remarkable bit of advertising.

I can't embed it, but I did find a permanent (I hope) link for your viewing horror. Go have a look...I'll wait.











....Ok. Did you give your eyeballs a good long soak in some lye? So, let us review together. "Jakeluv" is alone. In his bedroom. He appears to have "arty" posters of musicians behind his stereo. You are given the impression that he wants to talk to you. We know this because he lights a candle and dances.

Alone.

In his bedroom.

To the camera.

And then, the thing de la resistance, he points at you. You! You're the one he wants.

So why don't you talk to him? lol!

As Tobs might say, gentle fuck. Really? I don't think I really need to go into the necklace that swings as he cavorts about, nor the rapist/Matt Clement chin beard.

This is just insulting. Am I meant to find this appealing? Why, in the name of God would any reasonable woman ever be turned on by watching a strange man dance alone in front of his webcam? Creepy-wise, this is the Internet equivalent of being ground up on by a strange dude on a dance floor.

Which leads me to an anecdote from the weekend: Some strange dude came up to me from behind on the dance floor at a bar in Northampton. I believe he was desirous that we share a bump and grind. His fatal error was skipping past the conversation in which he asked my permission to approach me from behind and press his body against mine. I was therefore forced to elbow him in the chest (he was a bit shorter than I am), which sends the very clear "No touching!" message. You'll be pleased to learn that I managed not to spill my Dogfish Head 60 Minute IPA during this maneuver.

All the news that's fit to drink.

I suppose you could say that I'm just now shaking out the cobwebs from a St. Patrick's Day bender. Last year I went all out with my St. Patty's post, but for whatever reason, didn't have it in me this time around. Before I launch into a very late roundup of the weekend's beer-related thoughts, please enjoy this video of the Dubliners playing "The Irish Rover" with The Pogues.


Shane McGowan. Wow. Just wow.... Anyway, where was I? Ah yes. I pulled a shift waiting tables on Saturday, which was at once fun and frustrating. Fun because people were jovial, frustrating because they wanted to be jovial and hang around while I waited for them to pay me so I could escape to the wilds of Northampton, MA to get MY beer on.

The thing that amused me most about the wannabe-Irish boozing crowd (no, it was luckily not like the UES wannabe Irish boozing crowd, well-documented here) was their drinks of choice.

Granted, there were a fair number of straight-up Guinness (or, according to Tobs, "Gayness") drinkers in the mix, keeping our lovely bartenders busy drawing shamrocks in the head. In my section, however, the most popular drink was by far the Black & Tan.

The Black & Tan, while a delicious beverage (and wrong as it may be for a stout to float, it is pleasing to the eye and ever so much fun to pour), is named for the paramilitaries who shored up the Royal Irish Constabulary when it came to squashing the IRA and Sinn Fein's declaration of an Irish Republic.

Now, while I'm aware that the common wisdom is that St. Patrick's Day has something to do with whacking snakes or something, I do find it a little humorous that people can shout "Erin Go Bragh" whilst hoisting the drink named for a group of people who did their darndest to keep Ireland under British rule. I mean, snakes aside, people like to celebrate their Irishness or wannabe-Irishness on that day by getting plastered (conveniently forgetting about the despair and so forth).

I considered suggesting these people opt for a Half & Half (Guinness and Harp Lager), but decided to keep the trap shut. I did manage to disabuse people of the notion that they wanted to drink Harpoon's Hibernian, so it wasn't a total loss. We also have Smithwick's on these days, and while I object to its color while you're pouring it (weird muddy brown during the "cascade"), it settles into a nice deep amber color and is quite tasty.

Win a Date with Some Weird Dude!

This ad (or one like it... there's also a dude with a knit hat and a dude with a lot of tattoos... covering their demographic bases, I guess) has been popping up a lot on my MySpace logout page lately.

Uh... Boyfriend season? I'm aware of the whole "springtime-is-coming-so-make-with-the-flirty
-like-in-Bambi" business, but for some reason I'm getting some funny images in my head regarding the season for those elusive boyfriends.

Firstly, I am from New Hampshire, so when I see "___ Season" my line of thinking turns toward weather and/or hunting. In this way, boyfriend season comes before/during Mud Season and dissipates by the end of Black Fly season? Or is it still boyfriend season during Mosquito Season? I mean, they obviously hibernate during the winter, so that's out...

Then there's the idea that it's boyfriend season, as in you can hunt them with perhaps a bow and arrow (oh, how classical!) or high-powered rifle. In which case, how does one stalk the creature? On horseback, riding behind a pack of baying foxhounds? Do you set up in his house under a pile of clothes/boyfriend detritus and wait for him to show up and lick up the salt (or, you know, beer...Fritos, what-have-you) you spread on the floor?

The thing that really creeps me out, though, is how similar it seems to the dreaded "Bathing Suit Season." And, knowing MySpace, it seemed just as likely (before I saw the True logo) to be advertising some manner of diet pill. "Get those winter pounds off, ladies! Boyfriend season is around the corner."

Either way, the Match.com and True.com full-frontal MySpace assault is weirding me out. Match has these bizarre little videos of "regular guys" receiving titillating messages from "regular girls (or so we would assume)." One of these guys appears to be 12. The other, reads a message whilst removing a button-down shirt and stroking his five o'clock shadow (don't worry, there's a t-shirt underneath). Both smile creepily, and the camera angle makes it seem like they're looking right at me. I find I am neither intrigued nor titillated by this (this spoof video, however, is hilarious) so much as uncomfortable and a little intruded upon.

I certainly don't frown upon online dating (whatever works...or provides the best emotional scars/stories to tell your friends at the bar), but I thought MySpace already had that function built in...for free...so why would I be inclined to pay someone to hook me up with the likes of Lil' Fella and Scruffy the Date Rapist?

The final thought on the matter is that I'm obviously in a demographic that gets thrown these ads (due to being young and a lady). I am therefore curious what other information MySpace uses to place the ads. My "single" status" Do my "interests" indicate that I would be more likely to click on Scruffy the Date Rapist's little home video?

I hope that it's not that sophisticated a system... but at some point it could be, and isn't that fun? So, I turn it over to you, bloggy folk. Do those of you "In a Relationship" end up with these disturbing videos? Are you free of the "boyfriend season" blight? And guys - what do the ladies look like?

Meanwhile, I've heard it's time to dust off that high-powered rifle and/or start popping dexatrim and running in place late at night. Boyfriend Season's just around the freakin' corner.

Ahem.

Happy Birthday Claire!!!!!

By my calculations, this is the 8th time I've said that to you. I've known you for a pretty long-ass time.

Remember this?















I look forward to being in Brooklyn for this year's Birthday Bowl-Stravaganza. I will pour a celebratory Rolling Rock on your head and you can tackle me for old times' sake.

Is it spring yet?

We might also call this post "Staving off the Stir-Crazies," because, while it is now March, there is still snow on the ground and I still have to wear a coat (that is a magnet for dog hair...oh what a Sisyphean task it is to roll the sticky lint thingy over it before I leave the house) when I go outside. I mean, sure, sledding with your pals in the front pasture is a rockin' good time, but now we're in the dirty-snow phase of winter. But, oh, wait. We're supposed to get a fresh 3-5 tonight.

So, in an effort to not go out of my mind, I'm enjoying the little things. For instance, it is currently February vacation 'round these parts, so there is a blissful dearth of rush-hour traffic. For Gil, it's a good parking space, for me it's a commute at more than .05 mph. Normally, this would be another sign of growing up, but before I got on the road this morning, I was awoken by my mother (it's not a normal thing... I had forgotten to set my alarm). There I was, in pink flannel jammies and retainer, blinking groggily as she opened shades and threatened to sing "Rise and Shine." This was actually kind of fun in a "whoa-I-just-woke-up-in-the-wayback-machine" sort of way.

And the other small pleasure that I find sustaining is the ability to find pretty much anything on YouTube. I'm just a few search terms away from reliving the glories of the World Cup, which can do wonders to banish the cold. But today's big YouTube score is the following short film called Foutaises, by Jean-Pierre Jeunet. Its English title is Things I Like, Things I Hate, and it features Jeunet's cult actor Dominique Pinon (brief sidebar: I once saw Pinon at Zuerich airport. He is very short and, um, distinct-looking). It's all about small things that one hates and likes, a theme that found its way into Jeunet's Amelie and A Very Long Engagement.



It's only about seven minutes long. Enjoy. I'm off to pop some bubble wrap.