Saturday night 12-Gauge and I hit Portland Maine to get our once (and probably final) dose of Mötley Crüe in concert. The night was so weird on so many levels that I feel like I need a while to collect my thoughts before I throw down the official report. The usual "steal five minutes while the boss is busy making someone else miserable" style of writing just won't suit this one.
Anyway, instead of the Crüe I raise this question; who knew the Bee Gees were so awesome? I mean, I guess I never minded some of their tunes, but yesterday I watched a two hour A&E biography about them and was blown away. They wrote some unbelievably good songs, sang like machines and persevered through five decades. Damn.
So last week iMadden offered us his old couch because he and his lovely wife were getting a new one. We (the Somerville rock house), being cheap and lazy and possessing a NASTY mice infested couch, agreed.
And so the deed was done and we took delivery of a simply charming pale yellow pillowy masterpiece. Unfortunately, it just wouldn't fit through the door. Dag.
We debated cutting the legs off or otherwise mangling the couch in order to force it into our living room, but in the end opted to put it out on the curb. We figured that maybe someone could use it.
Boy were we right.
The rock house is an area of Somerville I would kindly classify as "kinda scummy". We live a stone's throw from an old abandoned paper mill which is now a fully non-abandoned hobo hangout.
And so a couple industrious bums took the couch that iMadden and his aforementioned lovely wife probably spent hours picking out, put it out by the old railroad tracks where they have their campfires and now they have sex and shoot drugs on it. This morning it was occupied by a really scary disheveled drunk guy.
Somehow, somewhere, Barry and Eliott are shedding a tear.
So, I check into a hotel, a nice place. As I'm checking in the concierge turns to me and says "Mr. Welsh, this is your personal robot. She will show you around town and help you out with anything you need." At this point a really hot lady robot walks out and takes my arm.
Have I mentioned that the lady robot was wicked hot? I mean, she didn't look like a robot at all, she looked like a really hot woman. I stress this point because from this moment on all I want to do is have sex with the lady robot. She, however, is not game despite my many advances.
Anyway, it's cool to have a robot nonetheless. We hit the town and she shows me around. Despite her coolness, I can't seem to stop trying to get the robot to have sex with me.
Finally, the robot breaks down and admits to me that it's hard being a robot and that she thinks she's starting to have human feelings. At this point the robot becomes Ladybetrothed Sarah, or maybe she was Ladybetrothed Sarah all along. You know how dreams are.
LBS tells me that if the programmers know she has human feelings then they will destroy her. I, of course, can't let this happen because I want to have sex with the robot.
Long story short, we spend a fair amount of time being chased around the city and I never get any and then I woke up.
So, Gordon is back from his HONEYMOON. It's kind of hard to believe that someone who I've driven across the country multiple times with pursuing this most childish of childish pursuits is now fully yoked with the mantle of adulthood. Oh well, one down, three to go.
I'm next and it's a pretty weird feeling. I'm rapidly approaching midlife and am signing on for all kinds of adult responsibility, but I still feel like I'm 8 years old when I wake up in the morning. Sometimes I'm happy because it's sunny and I can ride my bike. Sometimes I'm grumpy because I didn't get enough sleep. I don't like baths. I love wiffleball and I hate having to be accountable to anyone.
To me, my adulthood so far has been exactly like childhood except for sex and as much TV as I want (which is a lot). I am, in many ways, the definition of a man-child.
To my future wife and children, all I can say is good luck and pass me the Hot Tamales.
It's the day after the marathon and boy am I tired.....from watching the red sox. Damn, it should never take four hours to play a baseball game unless there are 17 innings in it.
Anyway, I can't really complain because a long weekend is a long weekend. I spent mine occupied with the aforementioned game, getting sunburned to death while working on the bike and avoiding all my responsibilities by riding hundreds of miles on the aforementioned bike.
In other news, the record is mixed and should arrive for the first round of criticism tomorrow. We're all pretty excited to have this thing on the homestretch, except for Pete who is in Tuscany shooting some sort of gay porn thing. That Pete....
Ladybetrothed Sarah has been ill all week. She has this nasty flu/cold that's going around, carrying its potent trifecta of the sneezing, the puking and the pooping.
Anyway, being in this state she automatically gains remote control control. And that's fine, since we usually both want to watch whatever is the worst thing on television at that particular time. However, last night she may have gone too far.
At 9 she made me change the channel from an admittedly kinda boring Sox game to the new six-part miniseries Revelations.
A few strikes against it:
-This is an awful, awful, terrible program. Its weird mix of religion and the paranormal wrapped around the apocalypse is....how do you say?...rough.
-A girl gets hit by lightning for taking the lord's name in vain and then becomes a conduit for God to speak through, always in scripture. Yikes.
-Despite the guilt and repression I carry around from my semi-Catholic upbringing, a hot nun in a habit couldn't even make me all that interested.
-It's six fucking parts! Over six fucking weeks! What the hell happened to the 3 hours one night, 3 hours the next classic miniseries format?
I guess I'll give my full report of how I feel about it in the beginning of June when it's finally over - If I live that long and don't die from old age.
So, MotoGustat and I took a huge ride to New Hampshire on Sunday. It was a blast, with plenty of highway speeding, backroad cruising and no helmet wearing (sorry mom!).
Anyway, I know no one is interested in the banalities of our trek, but one thing that sticks with me from the journey is a local business I saw in some small NH town.
That business was Casket Royale. I kid you not. This is an establishment that, as you can guess, sells caskets.
I would like to have been a fly on the wall when this business was named.
Jim: I think I'll open a casket business. Doug: Sounds good. What will you call it? Jim: Hmmm. I was thinking Kwality Kaskets. Doug: That's OK, what about Casketeria? Jim: I like that, but I don't know, I think it needs more faux class and pizzazz....
Doug: Casket Royale! Jim: Yes, Casket Royale! And let's put a little crown over the Y! Doug: Kick ass.
Can you imagine having to bury a loved one and picking up the casket at Casket Royale? You may as well just cover them in wrappers from Burger King.
PS. In case you think I'm kidding, http://www.casketroyale.com/
I have absolutely nothing interesting to say today.
I was thinking about it on my ride in on the bike. "Maybe I'll talk about how loud my new pipes are." Boring. "Maybe I'll talk about how Sarah is sick and reflect on the things you do in relationships for the people you love." Lame. "Maybe I'll talk about helmet laws and where I stand on them." Not interesting. "Have you ever gone to the toilet?" I'll be here all week, try the veal.
Basically, I still love my fiance, my motorcycle and television. I hate my boss, my job and cold weather.
On one play, one of the Bucs charged into Paul Pierce. I guess it looked like he traveled, but no call was made and the crowd went ballistic. Not being a wallflower, I joined in and screamed "Booooooooooo! Traveling!" at the top of my lungs even though I have no idea what traveling even is.
Anyway, the funny thing about sitting courtside is that the players and refs can actually hear you when you say stuff, and the ref standing near us started to get visibly pissed. Finally, he turned to me and shouted "Learn the fucking rules! There's not traveling if there's also contact!" Of course, to my untrained b-ball mind, this translated roughly to "Lkahsokjhv kjsahdkfyiuhwre kjhkjdfhxcmsiw skjdhkjhoks"
Anyway, I was stunned for a second that he even responded and then shouted back at him "Dude, I was booing just to boo. I have no idea what I'm talking about!"
At this point he and another ref switched sides of the court and I laughed myself silly.
So there's a new guy who plays drums in the cover band I play with. His name is Wyc and he's a cool guy. Here's a transcript of my first meeting with him.
Me: Hey, Wyc, right?
Wyc: Yeah, you're Joe?
Me: Yup. Nice to meet you.
Wyc: You too. So you're in Fooled By April.
Me: Yup, I play in the band and also work a crap ass MIT job to pay the bills. What do you do?
Wyc: I own the Celtics.
Me: Fair enough.
Anyway, yesterday Wyc wrote a bunch of us offering tickets to last night's game. I snapped up a pair and Jordan and I headed over to the Fleet Center after work.
We picked up the tickets at the will call window and I noticed we were in row AA. That sounds pretty good, right? I then noticed the tickets had a face value of $700. WTF? What kind of ticket has a face value of $700? Oh yeah, a ticket in the very first row, center-court, on the parquet.
God damn, it was awesome. It's a whole different game when you get that close. We could hear the players trash talking, calling plays and arguing with the refs. We could see their grimaces when they missed a shot and their half smiles when they heard someone call their name. You're so close you feel almost like you're on a playground with these guys, waiting for your turn in the pickup game.
After last night, it's gonna be tough to go back to the nosebleeds.
Today I realized a weird thing about my life; I should always make professional choices based on what makes me pretty happy and interested instead of really happy and interested. Let me explain.
I have been trying recently to figure out what I want to do with my life. Music, of course, but I also need to figure out what to do to pay the bills, because MIT just ain't cutting it. Anyway, I've been thinking about things I like and naturally decided I should do something in one of those areas. But now I think I'm wrong.
Last night I tore down my bike engine and made major changes to the carburetors. It was a big job and took forever, but I really enjoyed it. The only problem with that was that when I really enjoy something I get so insanely focused on it that I ignore everyone around me. While I tinkered, Ladybetrothed Sarah did god knows what (I have no idea since I fully ignored her). This kind of neglect is generally bad for relationships.
And since when I have a family I want them to be my main priority, I think I need to make sure I don't ever have a job that I want to do 24 hours a day. I need a job that I want to do, say, 10 hours a day and I'll spend the rest of the time changing diapers and riding seesaws.
Saturday morning in Chicago was a beautiful sunny day. As such, it was the perfect setting to have a knock-down drag out fight with your fiance about absolutely nothing.
You see, I shaved a ridiculous handlebar moustache into my face for the rehearsal festivities Friday night. Everybody liked it, including the parents of both bride and groom and I myself thought the delicate mix of sophistication and cousin-marrying redneck that I achieved was nothing short of sublime.
Of course, Sarah is smarter than I am and told me I couldn't go to the wedding like that. I disagreed and we fought about it for.....well....it felt like forever, but was probably a couple hours. Oh well. I have since conceded that I was wrong and we're friends again.
Anyway, the wedding itself was the bomb. I stood up for Gordon as a groomsman and will be the first to admit that I cried my goddamn eyes out during the service. I cry at all weddings. I'm a 74 year old woman at heart.
Afterwards I cut a rug like nobody's bidness, which is odd because I hate dancing unless I'm plastered, and even though I drank about 739 diet cokes I don't think that counts.
All in all, the whole night was pretty damn great. Gordon and Karen both have wonderful families and they work hard to make you feel like one of your own.
Oh shit, I'm getting weepy all over again. Damn these filthy emotions!
This weekend Ladybetrothed Sarah, myself and Brendo Frendo headed out to Chicago to celebrate Gordon's wedding.
I will admit that I was sort of dreading this trip. For one, I don't like flying, not really because I'm afraid of crashing, but because airplanes always make me feel headachy and sick. Another thing I don't like is attending events centered around drinking when I no longer drink myself. I always end up in a corner listening to the sob stories of the loneliest drunk in the place and wishing that I would somehow be crushed under a falling piano.
However, like many other times, I was wrong. Don't get me wrong, the plane wasn't fun, but when we got to the hotel I realized that this weekend was going to be great and that I should stop being such a cynical asshole. And so I did.
That night we went to the rehearsal dinner and it was a blast. It had at least a measure of all the good things - laughs, tears, friends, taquitos and cheap plastic instruments like the slide whistle I used to annoy the hell out of Brendo. For future reference, Hot Cross Buns makes him absolutely homicidal.
Eventually it was my turn to toast and I got up and spoke from the heart. In many ways the reality of the life changes we are all going through has been easy for me to ignore, and I'll admit that facing them in preparing my remarks made me pretty emotional. But it was such a lovefest that I wasn't even embarrassed. Dag.
Anyway, eventually the dinner was over and we headed back to the hotel, where I had baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad Mexican farts and watched a show about the aborigines on the Discovery Channel. Folks, never let it be said that I don't know how to live.
Tomorrow I'll give a full report on the wedding itself. Will you be ready?