Blinded By Bud Light..

Hook and peg-leg, not pictured.

I always thought it would be the alcohol that I drank that would hurt me, but no. The first alcohol related injury that sent me to the ER would actually be caused by a beer I did not drink. Here's the rundown of my little mishap the other day.

Monday started just like any other April day, it was warm and I was reporting for work, a noon to close shift. As I was taking in the sights and sounds of Dorchester St., I thought "What would life be like without my vision?" This came out of nowhere. Ex Nihilo. I didn't glimpse an old man bumping into a fire hydrant or a seeing eye dog or anything.. well maybe some Venetian blinds in a window

"What would you rather lose, your hair or you eyesight?", asked that part of the brain that exists simply to keep me irritated.

"Uh, my hair, moron! That's like Will Ferrell's Harry Carey asking Jeff Goldblum's astronomer whether he'd rather be the top scientist in his field or have mad cow disease."

Well that shut my brain up for awhile, and I thought nothing further about it. Later in the evening, as things were winding down at work, I thought it might be a good idea to stock bottles in the reach-in coolers. As I was stacking the Bud Lights, my head down looking into the darkness, I was blinded by a flash, deafened by a sound like a gun shot, and knocked to my knees with pain.

"Aw fuck! It hit me in the eye!" I yelled. I came out from under the bar, where a guest who had witness the action checked my eye, or what I assumed was merely a bloody, glass-slivered melange of sliced cornea and aqueous humor. Much to my relief, there was no glass (in fact a coworker later found the bottle otherwise intact) or bleeding. Much to my chagrin, I couldn't see much of anything and was in crippling pain. After informing the manager on duty, I, like a good bartender, went along with closing duties to the best of my ability. Finally I had enough, left the rest of the close to the other bartender* and took a cab home.

"Home?!" You might ask, and rightly so. "Why the hell didn't you go to the hospital?!" Well, the reasons are several, and stupid. Primarily, however, I was relying upon my Wolverine*-like healing factor. I have a resistance to trauma and illness that has kept me out of the doctor's office for the better part of 15yrs despite a preternatural proclivity to accidents. So I just went to bed with a bag of frozen peas on my eye.

The next day I was off, and in terrible pain. This was "open the refrigerator and the light from it hurts so badly that I almost take a knee" pain. I turned of the TV to watch "How It's Made". They were making, I kid you not, a fake eye for a glaucoma patient. "Well, at least I don't have glaucoma!" Then I did what any sensible person would do, changed the channel to "River Monsters". It hurt to have my eye closed, it hurt to have my eye open, it hurt so badly I had to turn the back-light of the television off and it still hurt. At this point I should have gone to the ER. But my girlfriend had bought tickets to "Book of Mormon" four months ago for that night, and damned if I was going to let major eye trauma stop me from going.

That's right, I went to a musical. First, I 'McGuyver'ed an eye-patch out of Brawny Basic floral printed paper towels and duct tape. Then I walked to Andrew Square to catch the Red Line. It would be fair to say I got some strange looks, paper towels duct-taped to my face and all. In fact it was rush-hour, and the only two open seats in the train car were the two next to me.

Once off the train, I made haste to the nearest CVS, and to the pharmacy where a rather flamboyant young pharmacist looked at me and hung up the phone saying

"Yeaaah, I'm going to have to call you right back. Hi, can I help you?"

"Yeah, I got hit in the eye by an exploding Bud Light bottle and I need an eyepatch."

"So, it's like just watery and red?" He took a quick look at it.

"Yes." I lied.

"Well, you could go with the medical white-bandage eye-patch which looks kinda..mmmm. Or you could go with the pirate eye-patch, which I think looks kinda tough and bad-ass!" I went with the pirate eye-patch.

I met up with my girlfriend at the theater lobby, and she guided me around like a seeing eye dog to our seats. I spent two hours at the Boston Opera House stubbly and eye-patched, looking like Snake Plisskin with curly hair and a more sensible outfit. It says a lot for the show that I was able to enjoy it immensely in my condition. Afterwards it was a couple of medicinal "Diamondbacks"* and straight home.

The next day I was feeling better, enough to sleepwalk through a slow shift at work, and so I decided that my decision to not go seek a professional opinion was actually the right one. Everything still kind of looked like it was underwater through the left eye alone, but I could read with it a bit. Of course my GF, my friends, everybody on my Facebook feed, my Mom, my boss, and Sadie from the market across the street all demanded that I go to a doctor. Thursday I relented, and she and I (my girlfriend, not the woman from the market) went to the MEEI (Mass Eye Ear Infirmary) to finally get it checked out*.

I won't get into the boring details, but the exam went great at first. Then the doctor actually looked INTO my eye. The retina was in place (nice!) but there was damage to the optic nerve, and some blood, as well as an inflamed cornea (responsible for the 'underwater' effect). She started typing on her computer. Then she asked if my family had a history of glaucoma. (No! Oh Science no!) Then she started typing for a disconcerting amount of time (and I thought I was out of the woods!). She told me it was amazing that I had 20/40 vision considering the amount of trauma I had undergone. I asked her if she was familiar with Wolverine, then explained my similarities to the fictional character.

And she told me I may have glaucoma, and prescribed some eye-drops for the inflammation that can cause.. glaucoma. I won't know until I can get a screening in a month or two. My follow-up visit went well, and a new doctor (when I related to him what had happened he said "That's a new one!") told me my vision had improved in that 48 hours.

"SNIKT! SNIKT!"*

Well, that's my story. The lesson would be, I guess, if a little voice in your head asks you if you would rather lose your hair or your eyesight, always respond 'eyesight!'. Trick the bastard. Also, have a mutant healing factor.. always have a mutant healing factor.


*Thanks, Danny!
*the comicbook character, not the vicious little animal
*Kevin at jm Curley's; applejack, rye, Chartreuse, I forget the rest
*Thanks, Soph!
*the sound of Wolverine's Adamantium claws deploying

Sad Libs..

 

I live in a        adjective                 type of residence          in a             adjective           neighborhood 
 of             city              . I live with my friend name of someone in the room. He is very 
       adjective        and likes to drink            adjective                type of beverage    and              verb              
           plural noun             . Our neighbors enjoy             verb              ing            substance            into 
 their       bodypart, plural         . One of them is              verb               ing a        type of fissure        
 -head who              verb                s in our back hallway. They are very         adjective           when they have    thing/s people do together   .

Nobody there takes his or her              noun                out to the street on        same noun         day, and instead leave it in a      adjective             pile by our       part of a residence     . An entire colony of           adjective                        small animal          s now calls it home. Sometimes a      same small animal      will              verb            out at me when I walk by the pile.

Several people have been        verb, past tense        there recently, a few have been        verb, past tense         or even        verb, past tense        ! One guy was           same verb          in the         type of product        store across the street just last      measure of time    . I live near           boy's name           Station, where there are always people                    elevation         on           substance          . Sometimes they look like      type of undead being, plural    !

But don't worry about me, I'm pretty             adjective             here, because I have a              noun              . Also, the people are            adjective            for the most part and they know I don't have any         noun, plural            !





 

Boston Strongler

I tend to get cynical about anything that people love. You can call me a hipster for that if you want to, but I've been doing it since I was a kid and it's out of my control at this point. This was me as a little kid, on the left*. I had just finished telling that robot kid that we're all robots, going through the motions of our programming by following outdated traditions like 'Trick or Treat".

I hope this doesn't come off as cynicism. I know this is going to be a controversial one, as people in the Greater Boston area get so into rah-rah slogans*,

but it's time to let go of 'Boston Strong".

Yes, on one or more of my delirious righteous-indignation-and-tequila-fueled post-marathon-bombing Facebook statuses, I used the phrase. I definitely ended a couple of tweets with it too, so don't bother looking. That was then, and I had a motive. The city needed a slogan to get behind, because that's how we are, and the one that was prevalent at first was "Pray for Boston". God I hated that one. It sounded so condescending, like we deserved to get bombed because of our perceived godlessness.* At first I thought it was a nice, if quaint, sentiment, but soon I realized every Evangelical athlete or politician who tweeted "Pray for Boston" might as well have tweeted "See what happens when you turn your backs on Jesus and let the Gays marry?!"

Maybe I just read too much into it, but  Since everyone was hash-tagging that, when 'Boston Strong" came around it seemed far more appropriate. I figured if we had to have a cheesy slogan, I would pick the one that doesn't involve muttering to an imaginary deity. Plus I was drinking tequila during that whole ordeal, I would like to reiterate. Now that hopefully I've made up for my indiscretions, I will give you

 

Six Reasons it's Time to End "Boston Strong"

 

1. It's unoriginal

Army Strong and Jersey Strong both predate Boston Strong (I'm done with the quotation marks) as slogans. New Jersey used their slogan after hurricane Sandy in 2012. That's right Boston, we're copying.. NEW JERSEY.

2. It's exclusionary

Many people in this country think that Bostonians are a bunch of drunk hooligans with goofy accents, who curb-stomp people at parades. Here's the video if you haven't seen it. Don't watch if you want to feel good about Bostonians.

Red Sox Parade Fight, Barstool Sports

If that's not off-putting enough, now we have a slogan that seems to imply that we have a special strength sadly lacking in other cities. Maybe we do, but going around chanting about it and covering yourself in the text from head to toe won't win us many friends. My friend Paul (@GrossArticulate) thinks it has a sort of "White Power!" feel to it. I think it's more silly and less menacing, more like "Gluten-Free!", but the point is; slogans that exclude others are offensive to those others. Then we get mad when Toronto puts out shirts that read 'Toronto Stronger' or Chicago with 'Chicago Stronger', et cetera.. like we have a monopoly on strength.

3. It's gone on too long

First there were the t-shirts that went to the One Fund, with the official logo and all that, I was behind that; the money (I hope) went to the victims at some point. The people who bought those walked around with them for a few months feeling good that they contributed. Then they put them in their closets, to be remembered on occasion; like my Red Sox 2004 World Champions hat and my 'Bury the Bears' t-shirt. Some things just have a temporal limitation. That limitation ended for Boston Strong several months ago, or at least after the world series.*

4. People are just wearing knock-offs anyway

like those bright, florescent pink and yellow shirts, sweatshirts and hats. Those are only fattening the pockets of t-shirt kiosk owners. They also make you look like a tourist, which brings me to my next point.

5. It has become the new 'Hahvahd' shirt

or 'Cheers' hat, or Mike's pastry box, or whatever. It's something that tourists buy as a souvenir. There is very little sentiment, and no relief for the victims, going into their fashion statement. It's become something you buy when you visit Boston. It's a tchotchke.

6. It's hybridizing in an alarming way

The original logo has been trademarked, I assume. This has led to unscrupulous vendors making all sorts of twisted, "deformed twin that we lock in the attic and never talk about" versions of it. Also, they just piggyback slogans on top; like "Never Forget"*, "This is our (bleeping) city!"*, "You messed with the wrong city!"*, etc. I've seen shirts with all of those on one shirt, for the value shopper.

Also, this..

In conclusion

I know that criticizing the continuance of a slogan that is loosely but permanently related to the tragedy which unfolded in April might offend some people. That is not my intent. I was deeply moved by those events, they affected me in a real way. Just keep in mind; that slogan was added after the events, externally, by people using social media. It was like a emotional band-aid for the city, and many throughout the world. Just like a band-aid, if left on too long it gets stuck and becomes irritating. So, Boston, World, let's rip that band-aid off, together. Why? Because..

Big Papi saying, well you know..



*Not really me
*Cowboy Up!, Ubuntu, Don't Poke the Bear!, Fear the Beard!, that's just a sample from this decade.
*Since the bombing was done by religious zealots, I think religion should sit in the corner and be quiet on this one.
*An exception, obviously, is the 2014 marathon.. go nuts that day.
*Now we're copying New York
*Don't get me wrong, it was tubular*when Ortiz said it.
*^^^ President Obama ^^^
*I'm trying to bring 'tubular' back.

You don't have to put on the red light..

Hi-Five

I was in Oregon when the Red Sox won their first series in 86 years. I saw the last out in a bar called The Cheerful Tortoise in Southwest Portland, celebrating with other ex-pol Bostonians and other fans from all over the country. It was awesome. Still I wonder how much more it would have meant if I had watched it here.

I'll never know.

Boston has a special feeling. It's cozy. Sometimes people forget that it's not nearly as populous as other major cities because it punches above its weight with important institutions and cultural influence. Sometimes though, I feel it is a little too small, or perhaps just lacking in some things that a metropolis should have. This, then, is my..

Super Unrealistic Boston Wishlist

This is list of things I wish there were in Boston, in no order of importance. Some could be done, others.. well lets just say you can't turn a granny into a go-go dancer.

Wait, I have to wait for Carlow to shut up?! Nobody makes Peaches Strange wait!

1. A Soccer Stadium In/Near the City*

I'm certainly not the first one to propose this idea. Just ask any Revolution fan you can find. Don't worry, I'll wait. No, I don't particularly like watching soccer on TV, but would I go to a game if it were played somewhere with public transportation? Absolutely, I would like to get drunk and sing outside with thousands of strangers, but I'm certainly not going to go to Foxborough to do it.

Ok, I don't know who would pay for this. Americans get excited about soccer the way I get excited about sobriety, which is approximately once every four years and only for a week or so. But it would be good for Boston, and for Massachusetts. We are a sports town, after all.

2. A Central Market

Ok, still there? I didn't chase you away with the soccer bit? Good, that was a test. And you passed.. barely.. barely passed. Why don't we have a great big market? I watch Bourdain on TV and every place he goes, outside of the US at least, has a gigantic market full of fruit, fish, delicious delicacies, people selling homemade salami and cheese, or crazy hot noodle soups that are supposed to be rocket-fuel for your, eh, 'love life'. Not that I need that. Let's move along.

Yeah, they're full of flies most of the time. The rats would have a field day too. It's a small price to pay to have a kick-ass central market where I can buy stuff that didn't come from Monsanto. I don't care about the rats. They already took over Allston; we could put the market there.

 

3. Trains that Run All Night

Not every twenty minutes, but maybe once an hour after midnight. Of course nobody wants to work that shift and the union will block it, but plenty of cities make it work. The public transportation shouldn't stop an hour before the bars close, not if you're serious about stopping drunk driving. Which reminds me..

 

4. No Mandatory Last Call

Yeah, I know everybody is shaking their heads right now thinking I'm a degenerate alcoholic for this one. Just think about it for a second. I'm not saying that every purveyor of alcohol needs to be open all night. I'm not saying any of them should. I think that the bar should decide if they want to stay open later, and the bartender should decide if he/she wants to work there. Most weekend warriors that you see on the street, (you know, the ones that give alcohol a bad worse name) are sloshed by 2am. Do you know why that is?

Well let me edu'ma'cate ya.

It's because he knows that every bar is going to lock its doors at one-thirty, then shortly after some Trapasaurus Pex in an extra-medium shirt is going to throw him out into the street with several thousand new friends.. several thousand new friends that all need cabs. Several thousand friends that are all now fighting over the one cab that is cruising right past all of them. Several thousand friends who are mad because they had to drink so fast to catch a buzz before 1:45, or mad that couldn't seal the deal with the girls they were schmoozing, or mad because they just got out of work an hour ago since not everyone works a nine-to-five and some people are sober and thirsty at 2AM! Yes, I am saying that both the bars and the streets would be safer and less full of obnoxious drunk people if the bars had the option of staying open later. Hey Walsh and Connelly, are you paying attention?

If New York can do it, so can we. It might even keep that well-educated 25-40 demographic from moving to a bigger city with better nightlife. They are clearly desperate. Just look how excited they are over the Seaport District, where frankly most of the bars are nothing special.

5. A Seedy District

OK, here's where Gam-Gam gets those Go-Go boots. I grew up listening to my Dad, who worked as a bartender in the eighties, tell me stories about the Combat Zone. Not that he went there of course. It amazed me that Boston, which I have always known as a rather Puritan town, once had a red light district. So I always figured he was exaggerating. Nope. It existed. That little strip of LaGrange Street with Centerfolds and the Glass Slipper, that's all that remains of this:

Dad, you're totally busted.

That's not even the heyday. I watch a documentary about Old Scollay Square.
Boston, the way it was pt. II (The old ladies at 7:01 are hilarious). It was a really happening place. It was a place where Harvard professors would holler for a girl to take off her top. It was a place where JFK could fall for a stripper named Peaches Strange. Of course I know that people won't line up to see a fan dance in the days of internet pornography. Nor do I want the residents of Chinatown, or anywhere else, to have adult theaters and pimps in their neighborhood. It just seems like Boston was much more fun in those days. I get tired of hearing how clean and nice the city is. It would be nice to have a dirty little secret, a place whispered in hushed tones and removed from the sanitized veneer we see everyday.

Will he ever return? No, he'll never return

That's it. Every writer in Boston has probably done a hack job on this subject. What do you want? I'm just getting into this weekly thing. No, I didn't cover any real social issues. Yes, everything I mentioned has something to do with eating, drinking, or entertainment. That's my area, I'm not trying to save the world. I'm just trying to make it more interesting.

Oh, yeah, GO SOX!

*How the hell did I forget about Happy Hour?! Duh. I want that much more than soccer. (10/23)

Nothing to see here, Russian hackers..

Good News, Everyone!

As regular readers of the blog know.. there IS no way to regularly read this blog. Unless you like to go back and revisit gems like the one where I spoof the Onion (a parody of a parody site- how meta!) or the bit about Downtown Crossing. That's because I am a lazy person when it comes to anything I should be doing for myself or for the world in general. Yes, I write solely for the world; Nobel committee take notice. Anyway, today I will be letting everyone in on one area of my life in which I am the opposite of lazy. I am a regular James Brown. That area is password creation.

Joe sent me..

Passwords were easy back in the days of Prohibition. Chances are if you went to enough of them, somebody would know a guy by the name of Joe. Boom, you're in. If I had any sense, then I would make my passwords all be "Joe sent me" (I'm not going to, so don't get any ideas about hacking into my twitter and freaking-out my 25 non-spambot followers with admissions of hookercide. Is that a word? It is now.) My accounts are basically speakeasies anyway, in that there has been nothing of value in them for years, due to the ready availability of alcohol. But that's not what I do when I create an account, instead I engage in a little game I like to call..

Let's make a password so good you'll never remember it in a hundred tries!

Here is how it works:

• Pick a number, then another.
• Pick a word. No, not in English! That would be too easy. 
• Spanish, no, that's child's play. Loco69? Come on, you'd remember that one!
• For the same reason, don't use 69. (13, 007, and 666; they're out too.)
• Try Ancient Greek, Latin, or maybe one of those Chinese names from the book next to your bed that you still haven't read called Poems of a Thousand Masters. Yes.. a thousand.. that will do nicely.
• Capitalize some letters. Not the first one. Jeez. Do it to random ones.
• If you use the same word for two passwords, just make sure to change which ones you capitalize for each one.
• Add, like, an ampersand or something, maybe in the middle.

Yeah, Sumerian, that will do nicely..

That's how we play make up a password, WTS style. Oh, yeah, I forgot the most important part of the game..

Don't write it down!

Come on now, that would be cheating! Besides, you know that you'll remember 3nAUtes&7wuLIN the next time you need to access that secondary account that you never look at but think might have a couple hundred bucks that you might need to transfer since you're stuck at an Indian casino enjoying the musical stylings of Steely Dan and your rent check is in danger of bouncing if you use your primary account but you don't know if you deposit a check from the account in question whether or not that will bounce and then you'd be even worse off because now you've bounced your rent check and overdrawn both accounts and you will wonder why you ever opened that second account in the first place and then you remember that you did it to hide money from yourself..

 

Which, Congratulations, you have successfully done!

Thank you for playing. Soon, you too will be on the path to being your own worst enemy. I wish you luck, unlike your enemy self. Speaking of which; that is why I suckered you in with Professor Farnsworth. The good news is I am going to try to make this a weekly thing. Yep, Carlow's Corner is going weekly, rather than bi-yearly or whatever. That might mean that quality and length might suffer, but nobody has ever accused me of either. Wild Tuesday Sandwich!? Hmmm..

Welcome to Bunker 14

Welcome!

Welcome, Mr S, to Bunker 14. I am your electronic host, butler, concierge and taxi 1011101010011101010011110111111011011011101, but feel free to call me whatever you like. Please forgive the exterior, we simply cannot have everyone know what is going on here and the ‘rundown trailer-park’ with the ‘blood-thirsty cannibals’ facade keeps most prying eyes away. You have worked too hard to get to this station in life to have the hoi polloi simply banging down the door, so to speak. Being your first time here, it is my duty and honor to give you a tour and explain our amenities. Some of the members here like to refer to this place as “Pleasure Island”; I believe it is in reference to the movie Pinocchio from the mid-twentieth century. I appreciate the irony of calling a bunker an island, although in some ways it is an island, is it not? My irony chip is a ‘Junk’ model and since, as I’m sure you are aware, the devices are even named ironically, that means it is an excellent one. Your jokes and sarcasm and illogical monikers will be fully understood by this unit, should you choose to communicate in that way. Please, have a seat in my plush interior.

Have you brought your lovely wife to the bunker today? Haha. I told you I had a sense of humor. If you do desire companionship of the female (or male) variety, it is offered for a reasonable fee, with services available a la carte and billed discreetly to your membership. Just be careful where you leave your bill or someone might ask about your kayak expeditions and Tai Chi lessons. If you desire kayak expeditions or Tai Chi lessons those are available as well, but will be billed as prostitution. Haha. I am ‘joshing’ you. Are you enjoying my colloquialisms yet? No? Get to the steaks already? I see someone had ‘loose lips’; happens all the time. Haha. Confidentiality means little when it comes to expertly charred bovine flesh these days. Follow me down this lovely mirrored hallway, it is modelled after the one at Versailles. I mean of course the one that used to be at Versailles. It is a shame what happened to Paris, non? I am certain you noticed the checkerboard marble floors, our builders spared no expense.

    Straight ahead to the forum, just to the right of the Trevi Fountain replica, (this place is deceptively large is it not?) you will find our steak house. It is one of only 20 left in the world. How, you may ask, do we get our steak in these troubling times when cannibal kings still control Florida, and even some civilized places? Just listen to our founder, Jim McClintock explain. Please direct your attention to the holograph.

Howdy, I’m Big Jim McClintock. 2032 was a tough year, maybe the worst year ever. Those vegan terrorists finally did it, set off their ‘Final Solution’ biological weapon to end the ‘suffering’ of domestic animals. Now, I’m no scientist, but all of sudden it seemed like a highly contagious zoonotic pathogen targeted the respiratory system of every bovine, porcine, canine, equine and other domestic species on Earth. Well, as you know, most people would rather eat any ol’ critter than go vegan, what with all that soy and kale.. it’s not American! I don’t need to remind you what happened after we hunted and fished what was left! Relax, partner. We are selling you the real McCoy. While all the plebs out there can dine on gluten-free macrobiotic vegan mac and cheese or leg of Steve, you can have a porterhouse. My partners and I, all over the world, rounded-up the few scattered surviving steer from all over the globe with the disease resistant Xa14 gene and secured a breeding population on one of our secluded ranches in West Texas. Not a few ‘eggs’ were broke to make that ‘omelet’ I’ll tell ya’. Thank goodness for our guard drones and their disregard for human life. Well, Ol’ Jim has taken too much of your time already. Enjoy!

Charming, no? He’s from Connecticut. If you are feeling nostalgic, you can eat at our replica McDonalds. It is one of only six in existence. We have replicated everything from the late twentieth century menus, including the pre-2018 buns that still contained gluten! A ‘Number Three”, medium, is only $15,000! The only thing our scientists were not able to replicate was the McRib, but experiments are underway using pork from Florida. Early tests are promising. Not hungry anymore? Perhaps you would like to have a Twinkie? Of course you do not want eat one! That would be like eating a da Vinci, and probably just as tasty. We have one of the only five left in the world, that we know of. And boy have we looked! Haha. If you would like to see it, you need only visit our full-sized replica of the Louvre, located in the middle of the Bunker 14 complex. Feel free to keep your collection there, it will be safer there than anywhere else; our nineteen other bunker facilities aside, of course. Besides, anyone you would like to impress with it will certainly be here on a regular basis. Follow me into this transport unit, please.

Welcome to your executive suite. All we have are executive suites; that you know of at least. Haha. Per your specifications, your patio has a holographic image of Maui, but turn it off to see our indoor ski slope and the 18 hole golf course. Our go-cart track is a full-sized replica of the “Mushroom City” level from Mario Kart, 1990’s pop-culture being all the rage with your set.  Would you like to relax with a Cuban cigar? We have some of the last ones produced before the Mormon invasion; a mere $289,000. Perhaps you like to unwind with a little marijuana? Haha, of course not. The cocaine dispenser is located in your bathroom, between the Viagra dispenser and the automated defibrillator-bot. This is where I must leave you, but feel free to use this device to summon my help at your tiniest whim. You worked hard to get here, enjoy yourself. I am leaving, there is no need to be rude..

Ten-Year-Old Me and the Time Machine

 It was 1989, Weymouth, Massachusetts; Ralph Talbot Elementary School. Ten Year Old Me was at recess wearing brown pants and an equally brown shirt with a stegosaurus on it. The shirt said “Save the dinosaurs.” I think I got it at the science museum, but my mother might have purchased it for me somewhere else. I don’t know if the brown-brown ensemble was her idea; the years have shown her to have better taste than that. I fear I had nobody else to blame for looking like a chubby, pale underage UPS employee.

Most ten-year-olds have a dream future: “I want to play for the Red Sox!” or “I want to be President!” or “I want to be Garfield!” Ten Year Old Me had a slightly different plan. He felt that time machine technology was most likely imminent, and would certainly be made available to a certain chromatically challenged dresser. And for some reason (perhaps the stability of the space-time continuum) only to him. Yes, the brainy lab-coat types would search for TYOM like wandering lamas looking for the reincarnation of their former master. Upon finding my third period class, or possibly waylaying me in the science section of the library behind the ‘Apple Iie’s, they would test me by asking how many planets there were (9, at the time) or what scale began with absolute zero (Kelvin of course).

One possible scenario.

Forthwith I would receive the prototype and be allowed to go home early for beta testing. Not that I knew what beta testing was at that point. Once safely in my parents’ basement I would reach into my Trapper-Keeper and take out the plans, written in front of a mirror ala da Vinci, and begin my plan for World Domination. Ten Year Old Me had a plan. I had read about the Silk Road and the race to find an easier path to the Orient for spices in the 15^th century in history class and remembered the bit about pepper being worth more than gold. I did the math. Mowing the lawn got me 5 bucks or so. Pepper was about a dollar or so per jar. All TYOM had to do was to tear a wormhole through the fourth dimension (or whatever sci-fi plot device I had in mind to explain the logistics) after setting the coordinates for 15^th century England. I picked England because I spoke English, of course. I was vaguely aware that English was different back then but since my best friend's parents were from Ireland and since I could mostly understand them I figured I was aces.

Once I had safely landed in ‘Merry Olde England’, I would seek out the nearest noble; perhaps the king or maybe that “Duke of Earl’ my father was always going on about. I would, of course, immediately be presented to said noble with a hand full of peppercorns. I would wait for him to push his eyes back into their sockets and then commence the negotiations. Now, you might ask, how was I to prevent him from simply taking the peppercorns and having me thrown in the dungeon? I had a camouflaged bag hidden in the woods full of many more, and could sell them at my leisure with the promise of copious peppercorns to keep the Duke of Earl honest. What if some peasant found my backpack? Easy, they had neither nylon nor camouflage at that point in history so it would have been basically invisible. The time machine would be kept on my person, of course, in case of emergencies.

 

OK, maybe I'd bring back a couple of 'princess babes' too.

After being rewarded with gold, land, and titles, I would spend my time between epochs. Concerned about a ten year old catastrophically wiping out life as we know it or creating a dystopian future where the Allies lost World War II and Rick Astley never rose to the top of the charts? Relax! Ten Year Old Me had seen Back to the Future, and was therefore aware of the perils of changing the past. I wouldn’t accidentally start courting my grand (to the power of n) mother or declare war on the Holy Roman Empire. I would only bring the gold to 1989 and buy a Game Boy and a James Bond villain hideout. And some astronaut ice cream, I loved that stuff. How would a ten year old defend himself in Renaissance England? I would have an Uzi, of course. Because if someone was dumb enough to give Ten Year Old Me a time Machine, why not an Uzi too?

Not if You Were the Last Man on Earth

Now what?

Welcome to my new blog! As you know, the Mayans ended up being right about that whole "2012 Doomsday Prophecy" thing all of those kooks were going on about. What a week that was! (and right after my birthday, too) As you also know, you are the last man on Earth. Big responsibility, I know, but you are up to the task. This is a blog to help you (me) along.. I'll be covering such topics as; how to survive, travel, personal grooming, what to do when the apex predators come back for real, literature, and cooking for one.

I would also like to extend warm greeting to the extraterrestrials who will find this world someday. I assume that you will want to know everything that happened on this orb before the.. ahem.. unpleasantness. If you are reading this, I assume you found my gigantic cypher key where I took most of the words in the English language and put a magazine clipping with a descriptive picture next to each one (sorry if I went a little overboard on 'sex'). I hope that my burning houses nearby to create the binary representation of the first seven digits of 'pi' helped lead you to it, because that was really dangerous.  From there you should be able to decode most other Earth languages, because I would hate to see all of our culture and learning and "The Simpsons" lost forever. Don't worry if you can't figure out why some people were famous.. we couldn't either. Also, I hope you enjoyed the statue I build of myself in recognition of this tremedous feat. I also wrote under the names Shakespeare, Dickens, and Beverly Cleary. Enjoy!

Well, back to the lecture at hand. Good news first, the internet is still working. Lucky thing it was invented by the CIA to topple Islamic nations with facebook and is therefore very resiliant. Even as you power this computer with a gas generator (take that, dead hippies!) you can still Youtube 'Drinking out of Cups' at will. That's not all the good news, not by a long shot. You can finally live out your dream of circling the bases at Fenway Park naked, although it's a bit overgrown.. hell, it looks like Angkor Wat.. and it's falling apart. I mean more than it was already. Beer taps are gas powered, and therefore are still working. Whiskey is plentiful! Gasoline is pretty easy to find, although navigating most roads is tricky, what with all the stalled cars and inside-out bodies. Oh yeah, forgot to mention that.. a fog that turned everyone inside-out, that was how it happened. Luckily, you were immune.. unluckily, the people in your red line car at the time weren't (gross).

Valentine's Day is coming up, so be sure to buy that someone special but who cares! You're the last man on Earth; and I don't mean that there are a ton of women and you're the last man on Earth and they're all fighting over you or going lesbian. Sorry, buddy, you're the last person on Earth, but at least you're not inside-out. Luckily you're a man and therefore are no lonelier on that day than on any other. That, however, doesn't mean you don't need companionship, and TV is no longer on the air. Hey, here's an idea! Adopt one of those packs of feral dogs you've seen rooting through the trash and tearing apart small animals. You can name them after glam rockers or something. "There's a good Johnny Thunders.. you want a treat, T-Rex? Bowie, stop humping T-Rex!" You don't need TV when you've got T-Rex! You're a dude, now!

Speaking of TV, remember all of those fantastic vacation homes worth millions that you saw on television? They are all yours! Just find your way South through the overgrown rainforests and deserts to Puerta Vallarta or Cozumel and live the life of caviar and champagne! You always wanted to visit Japan, right? Well, sorry, that's right out. There's no way you have the nautical skills for solo trans-Pacific navigation, or trans-Atlantic for that matter, so unless your new extraterrestrial friends have a spare craft (please?) you're more or less America bound. The greatest former country on Earth! Where you can now actually drive around without a seatbelt, drink in public, walk around pantsless and smoke wherever you want (you would have to start smoking to fully appreciate that benefit).

Remember when you were in college and had to eat ramen noodles everyday? Good news, you get to do that again! Well, there are some other options of course and as long as the supply of Huy Fong Sri Racha holds out they will all taste great! Too bad all of the butter has spoiled, so no mac and chee, unless you learn how to churn (haha it rhymes). Time to use that noodle (haha again!) and come up with some interesting options for making this world a home. Until next time, W.T.S., signing out.

Court Side Seats

You know a Wade Boggs rookie card is NOT a license, right?

I come to the WTS with a confession this time. Despite my decidedly non-criminal lifestyle, I ended up in court last Monday. I know, shocking! Anyway case dismissed, as it was all just a big misunderstanding. I did have to wake up early (before noon!) and sit on an uncomfortable bench in an uncomfortable starched shirt and tie. The upside is I got to listen to the plight of a bunch of total degenerates for an hour and a half, which gave me an idea for a WTS post. So, without further ado..

Three people that made me feel like a goddam responsible citizen, in order of severity, and my analysis.

OK, here we go. The names will not be used, well mostly because I did not care to try and remember them.

Baby Battering Ram. BBR was a young fellow, no older than twenty by my estimation. This is the transcription, to the best of my memory.

Magistrate: So, you kicked down the door to her house?
BBR: Yes, sir.
M: Why?
BBR: Because she had all of my stuff!
M: But you were holding your baby daughter at the time?
BBR: Yeah, I was with the baby's mother earlier, and then she locked me out.
M: So, the mother locked you out with the baby?
BBR: No, my girlfriend did.
M: Where do you live?
BBR: I'm homeless.
M: Okay, mailing address?
BBR: I don't have one.

Expert analysis: It was priceless to see the look on the magistrates' faces during this interchange. I don't know who the worse parent is, though; the homeless guy who kicks down doors with a baby in his arms or the mother who left the baby with the homeless guy who kicks down doors with a baby in his arms.

Neighbor Raper. NR was a stocky fellow, in his forties.

M: So, this man assaulted you. (pointing to a young, goatee sporting fellow of about 21yrs of age, let's call him 'George')
Lawyer for NR: Yes, here are the pictures. (I will cut right down to the synopsis)

Neighbor Raper went over to play cards at his neighbor's house. The neighbor's husband was away (hhmm), and his NR's wife stayed home (double hhmm). After the card game ended, NR made the moves on the neighbor, lets call her 'Nancy'.

M: So, NR made unwanted advances towards you?
Nancy: Yeah, he said he was hungry, and that my [kitty] was on the menu. Then my son George came home as I was pushing NR away with my foot. He had his genitals out in his hand, waving them at me.

Expert Analysis: The case was dismissed, restoring my faith in America. If you come home and someone has his schmenza out and is waving it near your mother you should kick his ass. Methinks, however, that Nancy was keeping something to herself.

Salisbury Dick. SD was in his late thirties, or early forties. He was wearing a velour grey sport coat, wrinkled.. to court.. anyway, he would not move over for me when I tried to sit down on the bench in the back he had completely to himself. He also gave me a nasty look when I (very politely, of course) reacted to that. He had one of those faces, he reminded me of the shittiest boyfriend of every girl I ever knew.

This is how SD got here. A month or two ago, he left some establishment called "King Arthur's" in Everett which I have certainly never been to and will just assume is a medieval reenactment theatre. He then ended up driving down 93 South in Quincy. After hitting a vehicle in the breakdown lane, and side swiping an off-duty police officer, he was eventually pulled over by the State Police. He told them he was going to Salisbury, on the North Shore, apparently by circumnavigating the earth longitudinally.

Expert analysis:
Hey, I'm not one to throw stones here, but this guy is the reason we can't have two beers and drive anymore legally. What a douche. We all make mistakes, but if I can act contritely for what basically amounted to procrastination, perhaps SD could have shown some decency after nearly killing several people.

I would like to say that all of these people got to go ahead of me, as did one blonde tattoed primate who was called to the stand four times, but apparently had better things to do as his lawyer kept stalling for him. Oh, hey, that's a fourth person for my list! Not sure what his deal was, they didn't really say. Pretty interesting Monday, all said and done. Thanks everyone for standing outside with the "Free Wild Turkey" signs, by the way.

Kokomo Nights

Apparently, "Cocktail" was in need of a Bollywood Makeover

For this installment of W.T.S., I would like to talk about a serious issue... bar movies. Every man worth his ..um, boys.. has seen "Roadhouse". It is the single best thing you can hope to find on TBS at one AM. This was actually the only bar themed movie I had been familiar with.. until yesterday. Oh, sure, I had HEARD of "Cocktail".. the soundtrack scarred me for life as a child. There might even be a VHS somewhere where my mother and aunts made my brothers and me sing "Kokomo" (what do you want.. I was ten!). Despite that, or perhaps because of it, it took being alone at the family cabin this week for three days to actually watch it. I had burned through my favorites ("Total Recall", "Life of Brian", etc) and was face to face with the dreaded Bottom of the Camp Movie Box: "S.W.A.T."? bah, "Sister Act"? no thanks, "Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood" sure, if I start ovulating, "Cocktail"? hmmm.. why not?

Now that I have two contenders for "Best Bar Movie That W.T.S. Has Ever Seen", I feel there is only one way to settle this. Rather than go through the synopsis of both movies and save you four hours of your life, I will be using the sports section cliche of a "head to head" match up. I will be using my seven years of full-time bar experience as my qualification, and will be completely objective despite my obvious bias. Actually, I will put my own life in the match up as well. How about that! RH will stand for "Roadhouse", CT for "Cocktail", and WTS for me. Let the games begin..

Back Story
RH: Dalton (Patrick Swayze), a legendary bouncer or "cooler", is persuaded to leave NYC for EBF (look it up) to work at a rowdy.. you guessed it, roadhouse!
CT: Brian Flanagan (Tom Cruise) leaves the military only to find that his quest to become a millionaire is stymied by a lack of education. He reluctantly becomes a drink jockey to get by.
WTS: WTS, a functional alcoholic, becomes a bartender to avoid responsibility and someday perchance write the Great American Novel.

Edge? Me.
Objectively, whose life would you rather watch? If this was all you had to go on, back story; I honestly think I win. Flanagan sounds like many of my chums already, so he comes in  last. A legendary bouncer, working at a hick bar? I guess, but I only know a couple of interesting bouncers.

Protagonist Best Bar Attribute
RH: Kicking your ass twelve ways until Sunday.
CT: Flipping bottles and picking up bar skanks.
WTS: Making your damn drink.

Edge; Roadhouse
Dalton wins hands down. I come in second, only because I can pour ten drinks in the time Tom Cruise is flipping bottles like an asshole. He's also picking up your girlfriend. Actually, I might be too. Is she hot?

Douchiest Hobby
RH: Meditating in tights.
CT: Composing poetry
WTS: Composing poetry

Edge? Roadhouse
Dalton wins again! Or loses. Whatever. Tie for second biggest douche.

Buddy
RH: Wade Garrett (Sam Elliot), an even bigger badass, just a little past his prime.
CT: Doug Coughlin (Bryan Brown), a charming rascal, just waiting for his ship to come in.
WTS: Magnus Cockburn, a charming rascal, just waiting for his ship to come in.

Edge? Roadhouse
Sam Elliot. This blog just got more badass for simply mentioning him. Another two way tie for second.

Location
RH: The Double Deuce, where Jeff Healey might have lost his eyesight from the broken glass being thrown while he played. Where one attractive woman can precipitate the Battle of Thermopolis, except with pool cues and jagged bottles. This bar really sucks, actually.
CT: One corny late-Eighties Upper East Side bar after another, Jamaica, and back to New York for "Cocktails and Dreams" (gag)
WTS: A rowdy but not too dangerous bar in an Arizona ski town, and an oyster bar with an outdoor cafe in downtown Boston (come find me, if you dare).

Edge? Cocktail
This was close, but bartending in the eighties in Jamaica and New York? Hard to compete with that. I would rather work for the cantina at Mos Eisley than the Double Deuce.

Love Interest
RH: Dr Elizabeth Clay (Kelly Lynch), a small town doc who patches him up after a fight. Chicks dig bad boys.
CT: Jordan Mooney (Elizabeth Shue), an heiress who likes to draw.
WTS: So ronery..oh so ronery...

Edge? Roadhouse
Dalton found himself a doctor! Handy, when your job is "legendary bouncer whom everybody wants a piece of". If he didn't screw it up, Flanagan would have won hands down. A young Liz Shue whose father owns half of Manhattan..yes, please! A pregnant struggling artist who was disowned by her family and is a horrible server, I'll keep looking. Fun fact: Kelly Lynch played Swayze's love interest in Roadhouse and drew the attention of Tom Cruise's character as Bryan Brown's love interest in Cocktail.

Worst Line
RH: "I used to fuck guys like you back in prison!"
CT: "Cocktails and dreams.. you know that would be a good name for a place!"
WTS: "I'm out of booze. Want to come over for some.. water?"

Edge? Roadhouse
"Cocktails and Dreams" is a horrible name for a bar. It's a name for a template on "Tumblr" at best, not a bar. Still, the line from roadhouse is bad in an awesome way. Dalton gets the points, even though he didn't deliver the line. I get second because she said yes, much to my surprise.

Best Line
RH: "Be nice.. be nice.. until it it's time to NOT be nice."
CT: "It always ends badly. Or else it would never end."
WTS: "Now get back in there and arm-wrestle your dead mother!"

Edge? Cocktail
It wins for general quotability. I'm giving Roadhouse second for the same reason. As for mine, you had to be there. But if I were a movie, you WOULD have. You will just have to trust me on this one.

Soundtrack
RH: A bunch of blues songs covered by (mostly) Jeff Healey, plus a couple of tracks by 'The Swayz'.
CT: Oh God! Make it stop! Phew.. Okay, with a recurring Jimmy Cliff 'love-theme', a Beach Boys redux, and a list of artists both classic and unknown this soundtrack won numerous awards.
WTS: Hmmm. Tom Waits, "16 Shells From a Thirty Aught Six" and "Cold Water"; Talking Heads, "Slippery People" and "Swamp"; NEU!, "Hallogallo", Electric Six, "Future is in the Future"; Steely Dan, "Show Biz Kids" and "King of the World"; Cameo, "Candy"; The Clash, "Mustapha Dance"; Rick James, "Give it to me Baby"; just of the top of my head.

Edge? Me
Of course I am going to pick a soundtrack I put together to accompany my adventures over some tired, dated music from that culturally bankrupt period before the nineties.

And Finally, Cultural Impact
RH: Bouncers with Philosophy degrees
CT: Douchey bartenders who think they are poets and jugglers
WTS: Not sure yet

Edge? Me
First.. Do No Harm. I win, they tie for second. Of course someone may want to retally this after I get famous.

Added on 12/4
Last night I was visited by the ghost of Patrick Swayze, who reads this blog on the regs and was very disappointed in my arbitrary result. After a long night of shirtless pottery making, while listening to the Righteous Brothers, he convinced me that ties were unAmerican. He pointed out that the quote from Cocktail was the best, while mine was nearly unquotable. I agreed, and changed it as you may have noticed. This gave him the win. He also pointed out that I had neglected to mention villains. duh. So here we go..

Villains
RH: Brad Wesley, a local town rich guy that has people murdered and drives monster trucks over car dealerships. He also has henchmen, mostly bumbling of course.
CT: I don't know if there is one. Nothing bad really happens to him. Lame
WTS: WTS
Edge? Roadhouse
In my defense, at least Dalton could kill his villain. I'm stuck with the SOB my whole life.

Fight Scene
RH: At least a third of the movie. Roundhouse kicks and all.
CT: Tom Cruise punches three guys.
WTS: Most of my early twenties, I'll tell you about it sometime. Only a couple of roundhouse kicks, though. One beer bottle to the head.

Edge? Roadhouse
You, win. Swayze.

There you have it, people. The universe has been set right. Roadhouse wins by, I don't know.. 12. Well, it's ending badly for Cocktail. But it always ends badly, or else it would never end. What's that, Swayze? Did you just say.. "ditto"???

Is there gas in the caaaarrr?

The Dan, relaxing after a long tour.

Yes, there's gas in the caaaarrrrr!
Hello from the Abyss!
Welp, Summer is over, and with it the tremendous tequila soaked orgy that is my life May through September. I would first like to say to those whom I promised a new entry during that time, don't trust any thing I say at Zuma after six shots and eight tacos.

So what's new in my life? Let me tell you!

1. I finally got to see Donald Fagan and Walter Becker (aka STEELY F'N DAN!!!) play live for the first time. It was a "fan request night" to boot. With most bands, takeforinstanceidontknow.. Journey, that would be awesome. Nobody wants to hear new stuff with the little Malay guy singing in that eerie Steve Perry impersonation. They want to close their eyes and hear that diminutive leather-panted vocal doppelganger blast out, in  reverse order, Journey's Greatest Hits. (Reverse order because they can't make Don't Stop Believin' the second song. In reverse order it's the last song, with Only the Young as an encore, but I digress) Steely Dan fans are several, more varied types:

• The Casual Fan; This is your mom and dad, or whoever, who listens to WZLX or WROR and might have owned Aja but more likely Can't Buy a Thrill or Countdown to Ecstacy. They occasionally get the Doobie Brothers and Steely Dan confused. They might even think Dirty Work was by the Eagles. They want hits.. Reelin' in the Years, My Old School, Hey Nineteen, Rikki Don't Lose That Number. The songs that were played at parties when they were single and doing rails and smoking joints and having promiscuous sex. They all fall into the Journey concert catagory.
• The Music Snob Steely Dan Nut; This guy (or gal, but like with the Simpsons, Star Trek, Zombies, Metal or online war games most hardcore fans tend to be guys) could be a hipster, a musician, and/or a cynical a-hole.. Yes, I fall firmly into this catagory. They were in the balcony (65 bucks versus 200+) saying things like "I voted for Here at the Western World like 50 times!", " I hope they do Green Earrings or Razor Boy." or "I like this guy on guitar but I wish they were touring with Drew Zingg, I went to school with him." et cetera. Their arch enemies are the Casual Fans, whom they are afraid will doom them to a night with no deep cuts. They want to hear the songs that they listen to at Emerson or Berklee or in their parents' basements while doing rails and smoking joints and wishing they were having promiscuous sex.
• The Hybrids; These are people that want to hear the hits but know some deep cuts. They also want to hear Dr. Wu, Haitian Divorce, Bad Sneakers, Peg, Showbiz Kids.. popular songs but not necessarily hits. They know the drum fill in Aja but don't know the drummer's name. Some of these were friends or offspring of the two groups above. I won't comment on their drug use or sex lives, they were demographically all over the place.

So I 'hit the Wang' (Wang Center, tee hee) and sat in the nose bleeds with these characters. Donald Fagan looked like a white Ray Charles with the DT's, but sounded good. Walter Becker likes to play leaning on a chair with his ass. I mean he leans on his ass, he doesn't play with it. Fagan traded his awesome keytar for a rad melodica. The show was great, "The Hybrids" and "Casual Fans" won out with the rest of us muttering under our breath as we left that the voting site was dubious at best.

Well, that's all I have at the moment, what do you want? Nothing to see here.. (yes, I deleted the part about not drinking anymore. I KNEW that would be the kiss of death to my sobriety. oops)

Downtown Crossing Guard

Boston may be one of the safest and most tourist-friendly cities in America, but even the Hub has a few less than savory spots. One of the most glaring is Downtown Crossing, a once bustling area where now a giant orifice which formally was Filene's oozes decay over the entire area. I often recommend to my out-of-town customers not to walk through there at night, which is difficult due to the fact that all the train stations seem to be located around there, especially my train the Red Line. Because of this, I have come up with some ballsy ways to avoid being mugged in Downtown Crossing, in increasing order of insanity.

1. Wear a hoodie. Not the fuchsia one you got at Epcot Center with Figment the Dragon on it. A plain black one, with the largest cowl possible. If someone can't see your face, they are less likely to mess with you. Walk with a confident swagger. This is the method I use. If someone comes from the other direction, give him a nod and a quiet but confident "'sup". It helps if you've had a couple of shots of tequila and are over 200lbs.
2. Dress in a manner that is completely out of place, for instance a fisherman's yellow slicker, preferably replete with trident and net. It will give you an "I Know What You Did Last Summer" look. I'm pretty sure the entire ensemble can be purchased within the confines of Faneuil Hall. Whatever you do, no lobster or tri-cornered hats or anything else that makes you look like a hapless tourist. We are going for weirdo/oddball here, not chump.
3. Pretend you are mentally challenged. It helps if you carry a plastic lunchbox and wear a helmet. If someone comes up to you in a threatening manner, say "Do you want to be my friend? Mom packed me a sandwich this morning. A blueberry sandwich! I like pidgeons."
4. Act like you are insane. Yell gibberish. Channel Charlie Sheen channelling Gary Busey. Gesticulate wildly. Talk to Jesus like he owes you money.
5. As your potential assailant makes his move, grab your shirt and speak down to your chest loudly. Something like "The fox is in the henhouse! I repeat the fox is in the henhouse! Move in!" This works best if you have a cop mustache (May for my buddies and me). As the guy (hopefully) runs panicking yell "Suspect heading down Washington Street, southbound!" Then run like hell to civilization.
6. Turn the tables with creepiness. It helps if you have a sort of John Waters look going on for this method. When you are accosted, say something like "Oh! Mister scaaarrry mugger guy! Did Ramon from the agency send you? I suppose you want to show me how you stick up, huh?" Then unzip your fly or lick your lips or some other creepy gesture.  If that doesn't scare him off, you might actually have to go through with your bluff, so don't try this method unless you are down for that sort of action. I won't be using this method any time soon.
7. I was going to say packing a weapon and waving it around with abandon was the ballsiest solution, but after re-reading "#6" I am starting to wonder. About a lot of things. Jeez, where do I get this stuff?

There you have it. Seven increasingly ludicrous ways to safely get through Downtown Crossing after dark. On second thought, just grab the Orange Line or Green Line outbound at Haymarket and switch trains when necessary.

Mr. Wallbanger, I presume?

I was reading in the newspaper the other day that Dior fired their chief Boy George impersonator, John Galliano, for delivering a pro-Nazi rant in a Paris bar. Although fashion is more the realm of my staff celebrity gossip writer Klams Kardashian, I must applaud them for this move. I can't stand Nazis, and I hate Illinois Nazis. More to the heart of this post, Dior have fulfilled every bartender's dream; getting rid of Galliano.

For those of you who aren't bar savvy, Galliano is an herbal liquor with over thirty flavorings, but to me tastes like a liquorice marshmallow. It is viscous and neon yellow. The bottle is obnoxiously large and hard to place anywhere but the top shelf, where it stands out like Manute Bol (RIP-you are missed) in those old SNL sketches. It is used in cocktails such as the Harvey Wallbanger, the Slow Comfortable Screw Against the Wall, the Harvey Wallbanger, the West Indian Yellowbird (known at here at "The Dog" as the Mongolian Sweatervest), and the Harvey Wallbanger. The bottle is terrible to wield behind a bar, being 2ft long or longer. It is good, however, for smiting enemies and beligerant drunks.

I now present several ideas to help fellow bartenders rid yourselves of this menace;

• Pour it into narrow shot glasses or pousse cafe glasses (does anyone have those?) and float Jagermeister over it. Call it the "Maahhchand" and sell it to Bruins fans after games! (or Steelers fans, or Latin Kings, or Wiz Khalifa, or anyone else who likes black and yellow/gold)
• "Oh, you said mojito? I could have sworn you said Harvey Wallbanger. I'll just add it to your tab.." (rinse and repeat)
• Write in the snow in front of your snooty neighbor's house, preferably something like "Stop putting me in those stupid sweaters! I'm a frickin' dog!"
• Pour it into tiny glasses and float cream on top. Wait, that's actually a good idea. Elf-beer! (Keebler, not Legolas)
• Empty it into the toilet and say, "Man! Was I dehydrated!"
• Pour it into one of those ubiquitous creme de banana bottles that no one admits to having ordered and yet a new one appears every year.
• Apply it to the underarm area of your roommate's undershirts if he drinks your last PBR tallboy.
• Pour it into Chickalob Ultra to give it a more "beer-like" appearance!
• Apply it to a snowball, then eat it in the middle of Fanueil Hall.

I hope that I have motivated you to rid yourselves of this liquor in a fun and exciting fashion (ahem). Perhaps our children, perhaps their children, will live in a world where Galliano is relegated to Italian restaurants where it belongs instead of every bar in America. Drink a Harvey Wallbanger, if not for yourself than for the U S A, U S A, U S A! (or whatever country in which you happen to reside) Goodnight, and stay away from Nazis dressed like the female keyboard player from Prince and the Revolution.