Guest Post

Hi Everybody!

This is the demon that sits on Gary's left shoulder.  Yes, we exist, and yes, I have horns, and my partner on his right shoulder really does have wings and a halo.  Hey - I don't need a halo; they're uncomfortable as hell.  Puts strain on your neck, don't you know. I like my pitchfork anyway.

Anyway, Gary's asleep, the poor dear.  He and I spent most of the day together.  I whispered in his ear for hours today, gave him some good advice that I hope he takes.

Like for one, this weight loss thing, the whole quest, is just absurd.  First of all, there stands a good chance that Gary will die shockingly young; I know he's discussed his poor genes with you guys but let me tell you, it's worse than he lets on.  His blood pressure is high; his body type and his family history make him a poster boy for an incipient heart attack. Plus I remind him often that half of his family has diabetes; the other half died from it already. Har! Har!

So why lose weight?  His father never weighed more than 180 in his life, and he preferred to carry about 150.  And he had three heart attacks before that last one.  Boy, he needed my help that day.  Been helping him ever since, by the way, but that's neither here nor there.

And I keep telling him, his wife couldn't give a shit less; he needs to know that as often as possible. Nobody loves him now; nobody possibly could.

So why fucking bother?  I've been trying to convince him all day that since he knows his life is already nasty and brutish, and it's bound to be short; he should just shut the fuck up and eat a twinkie.  Oh man, sometimes I can describe the taste of one so accurately to him - that inimitable yellow-flavored cake, the arterial spackle that is the creme filling - that we both want to drive to the local Quickie Mart and grab one.

But lest you think that all I do is fill his head with ridiculous notions, I actually provide a valuable service. I tell him that people are conspiring behind his back; that he's being made a fool of in a dozen conversations at any given time; that he's held in disdain by those he thought loved him.  I'm not saying I don't have a fun job, but it's work all the same. This is important stuff.

Hmm.  I think Gary's waking up.  At least, his snoring is getting lighter.  God, that guy could shatter glass.   Hey: I've enjoyed talking to you all, and if you ever need me, don't worry - I'm usually calling the shots these days, so I'll be around.

Yours infernally,
Demon #253723-LL-37625-J
Left Shoulder for Southpaw, Crafty
email: Jewcifer666@hell.org

Cravings are Killing Me

As regular readers of my little chucklefest already know, last year sometime I cut out sugared soda and juice from my diet and lost some weight (and a full pants size).  More recently I decided to be a little more proactive about dropping some weight and have started dropping weight pretty fast. It's all working out about as well as I could reasonably expect.

But now the cravings are starting to set in, and some of them are downright monstrous.  One craving in particular is kicking my ass right now.  While I'm not on a no-carb diet, I have cut way back on them, and eliminated stuff like white flour, high-fructose corn syrup and that sort of nonsense entirely. So right now, and for the last few days, I've been craving...

pancakes.  Oh my Lordy Lord, what I wouldn't give for a big ass stack of flapjacks, perfectly cooked, drowning in maple syrup. Then, maybe, after I was done with that, maybe...

another stack of pancakes.  Then, maybe after that...well, you get the idea.

Listen, I've never been a cake guy; there are sweet things I like but I don't really have a sweet tooth to speak of.  But you take a big pile of pancakes, glistening with wayyy too much syrup, a rivulet of butter floating lazily atop, and that's about as good as life gets.  Keep your fucking cake.

But there are probably not a lot of pancakes in my immediate future.  Every so often I'll grant myself a free day, where I can eat whatever I want, but this coming Sunday is Tootsie's and my anniversary, and we're likely going out to a restaurant where pancakes aren't on the menu.

But one day soon, friends, you're gonna find me face down in a giant plate of pancakes - eating my way to freedom!

Beatles Weekend Song Spotlight: Birthday

Some of my favorite Beatles songs have become so especially loved because of their story, as much as the song itself. "Birthday" is one of those songs. Herewith, in addition to a little background, is its story.

In 1968, the first cracks in the foundation of the Beatles personal and professional relationship started to appear, but the stress that created those cracks started in late 1967, when the Beatles' manager, Brian Epstein, died of an accidental overdose that August 27th.

Epstein's role in managing the Beatles was significantly reduced since they stopped touring in 1966, but he was still critical to them by keeping the Beatles in a four-person cocoon, addressing every non-musical concern they had and allowing them to float through their careers with no barriers to their creativity.  And though it would come out much later that his dealings with the Beatles' finances were far more mercenary than at first thought, the individual Beatles all respected Epstein and the job he did.

When Epstein died, John's first thought was, "Well, we're fucked now." And they were. Disagreements on their business dealings, the disaster that was Magical Mystery Tour, John's falling in love with Yoko - all these elements put stress on the relationships between all of them, especially John and Paul.

So when they got back in the studio for the recording sessions that would produce 1968's double-album The Beatles (also known as The White Album), everything was tense. John insisted Yoko be right there in the studio. Worse, there was no real musical collaboration taking place - as John would later say, "[those sessions] were me and a backing band, Paul and a backing band, George and a backing band." Everyone was walking on eggshells and still getting on each other's nerves.  Especially galling was that Yoko would interject her opinion on the music the Beatles were making; that really pissed off Paul and George.

One day during the sessions, John and Paul found out that the BBC was going to be broadcasting The Girl Can't Help It on TV for the first time later that week. They had a few laughs remembering seeing the movie in the theatre years ago and decided that when the time came, they would bug out of the studio and head over to Paul's house to watch it.

But they didn't want to waste a whole day of studio time, so the day the movie was to be broadcast, September 18, they went into the studio by themselves early in the day (they were accustomed to recording at night) and hammered out a tune like the old days, just sitting with their guitars in their laps and getting it done. They had most of the song's structure worked out by the time they left for Paul's house to watch the flick.

After the movie was over, all four of them met back in the studio and added vocals, a second guitar part, handclaps, etc. Whereas the Beatles usually were quite methodical in their recording, and individual songs could take months, this song, "Birthday," was done in about 18 hours altogether.

I think it's a nice story on a bunch of levels.  First, amidst a swirl of negative emotions ranging from tension to downright animosity, John and Paul dropped any petty bullshit because a flick they wanted to see was coming on TV.  Second, they went in the studio and co-wrote - truly collaborated on - a track for the album, working together for the first time in a long time (indeed, "Birthday" was the only song on the entire White Album that was actually co-written by John and Paul), and coming out with a really good song on the other side.

Thirdly, and most importantly, I would like to think that John and Paul remembered that they were still friends that day.

So yeah, even though I like the song - it's a nice bluesy vamp in E, a great song and easy to play besides - it's one of my favorites because of its backstory.

And there's also this: I mentioned that in 18 hours they finished the song. They started on the afternoon of September 18th, and they had a completed mono mix at about 4:30AM the following day, September 19, 1968 - thus completing the song "Birthday" on the very day I was born.

So there you go - let me know if you enjoyed this and if I should do more of these from time to time.

Of Fire and Prime, and Other Matters of Little Consequence

Busy day, relatively speaking, for The Kid today. Actually a busy 48 hours, which is even more noteworthy given the fact that the normal pace of my life is so slow that the untrained eye perceives it as going backwards. But the rumors are true: I actually left the house two days running.  Huzzah!

Wednesday found me at the VJ's for an evening of poker and conviviality.  Always a lot of laughs.  Came in 2nd in one tournament and was maybe the bubble for the second one (Jo, do you remember?). Either way, I was down $5 for the night but as always it's a small price to pay for that kind of entertainment value.

I have to admit that heads-up, Josie kinda has my number.  Her style heads-up is almost unrelentingly aggressive and I like to play a more patient game one on one, and that's a bad combination. I like to see flops, and her style makes me pay for them.  You know, it strikes me that I shouldn't really be talking about her play; I don't think I'd like that if someone did that to me, so we'll skip the details and just say that she wins heads-up with me all the time - really, like 70-30; she just kills me.

And regarding luck, the only ugly-ish suckout went in my favor, against you-know-who in fact, when my decidedly-worse hand earned a tie on the river, via some two-pair ace high boogaloo.  She beat me fair and square.  I know! I'm as surprised as you are.

But my god, it's just so much fun.  Except for this:  Noodles brought over some Bazooka gum; he always has it for some reason.  None of us could read the comics! Not a one of us.  In the last 6-12 months, we have all lost our ability to read small print, despite that the age differential between us all is eight years! Only one of us had our reading glasses with us and we had to pass it around desperately like it was a pot pipe made out of a can of Tab. Yeah, that's right - Tab.  Kids, look it up.

Anyway, that was my Wednesday.  Today I ventured forth to see an old friend of mine, M. He lives in the middle of New Hampshire. Kind of a schlep from hither to yon, but it's always a good time when we can sit down and have a good conversation. He and I can sit down and discuss anything from politics to woodworking to quantum theory, and fill the hours with lively, funny, satisfying conversation.  It's a lot of fun.

M was diagnosed with a relapsing-remitting course of MS here about 12 years ago, and his life is a more or less constant struggle with his own body.  So his life circle is even smaller than mine is, which is why I'm always the one doing the driving. Which is fine; it's a Mitzvah. The driving bit, that is; the visit obviously is its own reward.

So: Mama Frisbee's baby boy Crafty is tired this evening.  Probably be an early one, meaning I'll prolly turn in around 3.  Tell you what:  if/when I re-integrate into society I'll miss being a nocturne.  It just suits me so damn well.

---

Before I forget I wanted to mention something to everyone out there who owns a Kindle Fire or who is considering buying one:  Amazon has this thing called Amazon Prime.  I've been a member of it since before I had a Kindle.  If you buy a fair amount of books and stuff from them it's a pretty good deal: for $79 per year, everything you buy that is stocked in an Amazon warehouse gets shipped to you free 2nd-day air, with an option for overnight shipping for $4, which includes Saturday delivery if need be. For Tootsie and me, who did most of our on-line (non-clothing) shopping there, it was an easy decision.

BUT- with a Kindle Fire, it goes from easy decision to an absolute steal.  If your account has Amazon Prime, you get access to thousands upon thousands of videos, both movies and television shows.  And the depth and breadth of content is staggering: I search for something and it's almost always - like 80% of the time - available free because I am a member of Amazon Prime. Some actual stuff I've watched because it was free:

* Every episode of Monty Python's Flying Circus (actually I'm up to most of the way through season 3, episode "Dennis Moore")

* Great movies from my adolescence and youth: The Big Red One (one of the best World War II movies ever made and Lee Marvin's final major role); Caddyshack; Time Bandits.

* Delirously stupid comedies that are so close to my heart: Mars Attacks!; Dumb and Dumber; Ace Ventura, Pet Detective

* Comedy specials of Whitney Cummings, Louis C.K., Daniel Tosh, Zack Galifinaikis

Every bit of this free of charge. Next on my list is Good Night and Good Luck, the Edward R. Murrow story.  Seriously: if you have a Kindle Fire, go to amazon.com and check out the list of available content.  It'll make your head spin. And don't forget, you still get free 2nd day shipping on everything they send you!

Anyway, there you go.  Fair Warning: I feel a Beatles post coming up in the future.  Finally, I'll close with a joke: What's the difference between a boa constrictor and a Jewish mother?  Eventually the boa will let go.

Uplifting? I'll give you uplifting...

So some dude here in Shangri-La challenged those of his readers who are also bloggers to write something with an "uplifting" quality to it.  So I figure I either write a bra commercial (uplifting - get it? Wokka wokka wokka!) or search the ol' noodle for something uplifting that I can share with you.

For something genuinely uplifting, something that will give you confidence in the generation coming up after us, click here for my best day at Fenway Park ever.

But for those of you who appreciate the multiple and nuanced meanings of the word "uplifting," I thought I'd tell the tale of the day I lost my virginity.  Buckle in, kids!

It was October 23, 1983. I was 15 years, one month and four days old. She was 17, but her birthday has long since been forgotten by me, if indeed I ever knew it.

Let's call her M. M was a girl of limited physical beauty, which she made up for by having a giant set of tits and a somewhat cavalier attitude towards who she would show them to. Bizarrely she had dated my oldest brother a few times but had long since moved on - the phrase "long since," of course, being relative to the fact that all parties in this story weren't yet 18.

She came up to me at lunch the first week of school and before she could dig in to her scrambled hamburger, she suggested I tell my brother to go fuck himself. Not being a fan of him at the time, I told her it would be an easy message to deliver.

Well we got to talking, became friends, snuck a few kisses on her, threw up spectacularly all over her, and before too long went by she was only my second girlfriend, but the first one I suspected would give it up if I asked her just right.

And friends, how right I was. I call no woman who likes sex a whore; a female shouldn't be criticized or ostracized for liking sex as much as men do. So it's just a statement of fact: she knew just what it felt like and liked it - and didn't mind getting a little dirty in the bargain.

But being teenagers, and not imbued with an excess of money, we did what we could to garner some privacy in a public world. We would go to a movie and neck throughout the whole thing; I'd have her half-undressed and moaning - literally moaning - in a movie theatre, to the amusement and/or bemusement of the theatre-going public. To this day, even though I paid good money to see "Firestarter," I have no idea what it's about except that there was a lot of fire, and when there's fire on the screen the seats are lit up rather embarrassingly well.

We finally got our chance when M got a job babysitting about a mile or two from my house, so I could hop on my bike and go see her. By this time the prospect of getting it wet was heavy in the air; in either naive optimism or the intelligent pragmatism for which Jews are rightly famous, I had already purchased a box of condoms. Mind you, this was before AIDS made buying rubbers an everyday event; there was still a large element of cloak-and-dagger to buying a box of safes back then. Anyway, one fine afternoon I get a call from M: she's "up the hill," would I care to come over?

Hmmm... let me thinkYES. I grabbed a condom from my secret hiding place and put it in my wallet, along with a prayer. I pedaled as fast as my fat little legs could carry me.

Soon enough, the kid was being completely ignored and we were fooling around in the family room.  With a come-hither stare, M guides me into the bedroom. This was happening.

We get on the bed and pretty soon things are serious.  After using various of her garments as hats, it was time.  I retrieved the condom from my pants pocket, now on the floor, and put it on. And before I could even pause to consider my luck in this situation, I was actually losing my virginity, performing some 15-year-old version of coitus, of which the most charitable thing that could be said was that it was rhythmic, to a point.

Well, I guess my punishment for not considering my luck was that right in the middle of things, and I mean RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THINGS, the phone rings! I thought that my afternoon of fun was over, and would I be able to legitimately lay claim to having lost my virginity when there was no, er, completion?

But at the last minute, the god of 15-year-old boys, Deflowerus, decided to take pity on me.  It was the neighbor across the street; did the little kneebiter M was watching want to go across the street and do some damn thing or other?

Hmmm... let me thinkYES.

So it was maybe five minutes for M to get dressed, get the kid's coat on, walk him across the street, and come back to bed - during which time...

During which time...

Look, you have to remember: This was the first time for me.  It was a VERY BIG DEAL. Also that I had only one condom with me.  So for the time my coitus was interruptus, I had to keep the rubber on, making my unit none too comfortable - and kinda itchy too. However it's amazing how much gets forgotten when the pussy is imminent. She jumps back into bed, purrs "where were we" at me, and we were neck-deep in it within seconds.

And let me tell you, that was the most glorious 80 seconds of my life to that point. A propos of nothing, for those of you who have yet to experience it, can I recommend it?  Sex is AWESOME!

Anyway, so there it is.  Lots of firsts THAT day, I can tell you.  And I can honestly state that for me, that day was uplifting on many, many levels.

Grrouchie: does that qualify as uplifting?

One More Thing...

...I know you didn't know them, but in case you're looking to increase your charitable donations, or were moved by John's tale, or for whatever reason, there's a scholarship fund set up for the two hardest-hit victims of this horrible tragedy.

Spend ten bucks, or twenty bucks, or five bucks, or whatever, and five minutes to put a check in an envelope, and mail it to:

The Emily and Jack Cronin Scholarship Fund
c/o Bank of America
20 Walkers Brook Drive
Reading, MA 01867

If you would like to make an anonymous donation, contact me via email and we can discuss the particulars.

My Heart Is Broken

You'll have to forgive me if this post is a little disjointed; it will likely be full of half-formed thoughts and might be tough to read.

One of my oldest friends is named John.  I knew him from the time I was about 20 or so, and I'm 43 now. He's the kind of guy who does things for his friends because that's what friends do; for example when Josie's front steps needed to be fixed, he swooped in with some PT lumber and a nail gun and made her a new set of steps in about 20 minutes.  He drove from the North Shore of Boston to suburban Providence, RI, so he could personally inspect a house I was considering buying - the very house I'm sitting in right now in fact.

When I met John he was still going out with his high school sweetheart (let's call her S.), notwithstanding the fact that he'd been through high school and college.  When anyone would ask when he would marry her, his standard joke would be to respond "May.  As in, 'may the day never come.'"

But the day did finally come, and John eventually asked his girlfriend to be his wife, and she agreed, with shining eyes and an optimism for the future.

I was privileged to attend his wedding.  John and I were charter members of the poker game that is currently being hosted by the Very Josies, so John and S. sat all the poker peeps together at the same table.  Somewhere - I've been looking for it all night - is a picture of all of us with a hand of cards, each of us in our Sunday best, looking at the other's hand. It was a funny scene that required us to break out a deck of cards at a wedding reception, to the consternation of the other attendees.

After the wedding, the two of them set about the business of starting and raising a family.  It was not an easy thing, based on some health issues that S. had, but they eventually had a daughter, E., and a son, J., shortly thereafter. And being a husband, and now a dad, John dropped quietly out of poker night, and though I spoke to him somewhat infrequently after that, I still considered him a close friend.

Shortly after J. was born, S. was diagnosed with leukemia. 

She went through a round of chemo, had a stem cell transplant that failed to eradicate the leukemia from her body, had to endure a second round of chemo, and fought a case of pneumonia so severe that they had to place her in a medically-induced coma to give her exhausted body a chance of fighting off the infection.

It was a gallant fight from which she never backed down, but not two hours ago I discovered that some little while ago, S. lost her fight, and died. 

And right now my head is swimming with emotion, for John, who I don't think ever loved anyone else in his entire life; for their daughter who will miss her mommy for the rest of her days; and for their son who is too young to remember his mother except perhaps as a far-off memory of his first grief.

It makes my complaining about mall walkers and Jay Leno seem petty and small, and it makes my heart heavy.

S. and I shared a running joke - we both fancied ourselves masters of the Scrabble board, and we threatened each other with the pasting of a lifetime that we both believed we could administer.  But we never quite got around to it. 

I'll miss her - but in truth, my heart is heaviest for those who are left behind. It's very sad, and I feel like my heart might just break in pieces.