Monthly Archives: April 2009

Do you have. . .

. . .the dreaded swine flu? Here’s a simple, world-wide government approved test to find out:

Conflict Resolution

I know this is going to be hard to believe but, some people elicit me as a conduit to a peaceful resolution to situations. Many times I can pull it off with an aplomb of a seasoned diplomat. But how interesting could that be?

“Why thank you, Chris, for reminding me that hitting someone in the face with a post hole digger could be considered assault within the legal community.”

That leads us to assume this visit to the conflict resolution booth didn’t turn out as smoothly.

A mother, who I am familiar with, her pregnant daughter, who I’ve been familiar with since she was a virgin, are in a tussle with the daughter’s husband, who I have yet to meet.

Because I’m an idiot I walk over when I am summoned. I’m seriously considering signing up for some don’t pay attention when screaming people call your name classes.

I position myself between the lovely couple and ask them to explain why they are sullying my previously sullied day. Boy, was that a mistake. I won’t go into the gory details (non-parenthetically) (turns out, since she was de-virginized she really wanted to erase those tracks. He’s upset because she fucked his best friend, he got pissed at her and punched his best friend in the face) but, as you can assume, it was a big old spoonful of ugly dumped into a saucepan full of bile.

I tell the husband he has a right to be upset but he shouldn’t hit people in the face and, this is what I really emphasized, he shouldn’t be bringing this issue out in a public place. Especially in a place it’s my responsibility to keep peaceful.

I guess the mother (who, I will remind, is the one who called me over) didn’t like that solution so grabbed my arm sticking her fingernails into my flesh. Actually, below the flesh. You know, the place where blood lives.

With her talons still making their impression I look her in the face and ask her, softly, quietly, politely, to disengage. I know I used that word, I know she’s smart enough to know what that word means so imagine my surprise when she pushed her pretty damn hard nails deeper into a place I’d prefer not to have them.

What’s a boy to do? Here I am trying to keep the peace and end up in a kerfuffle of my own. So I did what a peacekeeper of my ilk would do. I smiled, leaned close to her face and said,

“Release right now or I will headbutt you so hard your daughter miscarries.”

Needless to say, I now have everyone’s attention. And ire.

“You wouldn’t do that.” She says.

Because I no longer feel the need to have hands on or nails in me I take her hand and pry her fingers from my arm. Still smiling I say,

“I would not only headbutt you but as you were falling I’d kick your legs out from under you and stomp you the moment you hit the ground.”

She releases her grip. I hold her hand a beat longer and harder than necessary.

“Hey!” The husband says. “What’s that shit? You said not to hit people.”

I turned to him and said,

“I said you shouldn’t hit people. I’m the boss here and can do whatever the fuck I want. And, right now, I want you all to pack the fuck up and get the fuck outta here.”

I step back to take them all in. It’s funny how situations ebb and flow. Mere moments ago the three of these people were at each others throats. Now they are docile and comforting to one another while focusing on a common enemy.

Conflict resolution: it’s all about redirecting the anger.


Chris Rock


Pootie Tang

Reasons To Be Cheerful

Part 4:

In case you’ve forgotten, here’s Part 3:

I don’t like. . .

. . .when people smile like this. How much do you think I’m not liking this?


This tiny spider, which measures just a few millimetres across, has developed bizarre markings which look just like a smiling face.

The so-called happy-face spider, which is harmless to humans, has evolved to confuse predators, scientists think.

The rare species is found in rainforests of Hawaii.

My Own Personal Guts

It’s weird when you find out someone hates your own personal guts. I’m not oblivious, when someone’s in front of me crying, screaming, threatening to call the authorities, getting a restraining order, you know, a Tuesday, I catch on pretty quickly.

But when someone I know I’ve never met hates me, well, to paraphrase NASA, “Moron, we have a problem.”

I’m talking to a guy when he introduces me to someone. I offer my hand and he refuses. I’m not surprised (even though I am quite hygienic!) and give it no thought.

“You’re an asshole.”

I guess I’ll have to give that some thought.

He went on to explain that I was mean to him. I’ve got to start taking notes or pictures. I think it’s a good thing to remember people you’ve been mean to. Even if just for survival sake.

When I told him that would be difficult because, personally, I’ve never met him. Turns out he didn’t believe me and, well, that should be the end of it. Once I’m at an impasse with someone, to me, that stalls communication.

He started talking to the other guy and it turns out he had a bad experience with the company I work for. Not me. Wasn’t my project. But I guess, in a shit storm, I’m just as good to hate as anyone.

I went on to explain that, although I’m sorry he had a bad experience, I wasn’t involved in it. He went on to say that it was, indeed, my fault.

“That’s like blaming your math teacher because you skipped class so failed.”

I disengaged and, again incorrectly, thought it was over. What else is there for me to say?

“You hate me.” He says.

“Untrue. I have no emotion for you at all.”

I guess what he meant to say was he hates me. I became aware of that when he pulled out a knife.

“What would happen if I cut you?”

“I’d bleed. Guess you didn’t pay attention in biology either.”

In closing, nothing happened. I kept my precious fluids, he kept his rusty hate. I went back to ignoring him. He went on stewing.

Let’s Go Back

Let’s go back to a time in Boston rock ‘n roll when there were some band names. Names such as The Archbishops Enema Fetish, Smegma And The Nuns, Human Sexual Response, Unnatural Axe, oh, them’s were some names, boys and girls.

Now that we’re here, let’s visit with one of those names, The Sex Execs, as they tell us the story of ‘My Ex’:

War, Huh

This man was giving me his views about war. All wars and their reasons. Religious reasons.

Yea! Sit back for another jaw-dropping another episode of ‘Unsolicited Babbling Of A Self-Important Twit’!

He hit all the major attractions,

‘More people have been killed in the name of god than any other reason.’

I guess he’s never seen a Jean Claude Van Damme movie.

‘As long as everything is cloaked in religion no god can stand out.’

Sure one could. Get ’em all together and have them whip out their holy Johnson’s. As usual, the biggest dick wins.

He went on for the full thirty minutes (including commercial breaks) before I nodded and said,

“Yeah, it sure is a god eat god world out there.”

Opening Day

It’s opening day in Red Sox nation so that can only mean one thing: rain.

There’s a reason the Red Sox haven’t opened the season with a home game since 2002. It’s early April. It’s Boston. Baseball is played outdoors.

I’ve been to opening day games (back when humans could afford tickets) and the weather was generally good (back when there were four seasons). But things have changed. Nowadays the only difference between November and April is decorative. A turkey motif gives way to bunnies but frostbite still stings.

I’m sitting home watching live feeds of people who’ve camped over night in hopes of getting standing room or tickets returned by the original purchaser for whatever reason (reason #1: they woke up and said, “Fuck it! It’s cold.”). The reporter wanders down the street past a winter jacketed throng all excitedly chanting,

“We want a dome! We want a dome!”

No, that’s heresy. People would rather torch Paul Revere’s house than hear speak of harming one speck of lead paint on Fenway’s wall.

When the latest owners began speaking of changing things around the park, not tearing it down, not moving it out of town, updating a few things (like toilets with water, seats not designed for 1912 asses, maybe even useable steps) people went into an uproar.

But these owners were brilliant. Brilliant, I tell you. Do you know the first thing they did? Close streets around the park (Yawkey Way and Landsdowne Street) and allow public drinking before the game!

These people got to the heart of a Sox fan, let me tell you! They have so much good will now I’m sure if they wanted to have Ted Williams’ head toss out the first pitch the biggest complaint would be old Ted’s not bringing heat the way he used to.

Then, for all those who’ve taken the day off for this special occasion, the bad news comes down from on high. The game is postponed.

“Excellent!” Is my response.

Don’t get me wrong, I feel bad for the people who’ve made the trip in, some from many miles away, I’m happy for entirely selfish reasons. We have to drive the kid back to school and her school happens to be a few blocks from Fenway. Bye, bye shitty traffic!

We fly in, drop the kid off and we’re free. What to do? What to do? My girlfriend wants to eat lunch at the House Of Blues on Landsdowne and it sounds like a good idea.

Sure, there will still be people around, but it won’t be hectic. After a few moments of discussion it’s decided we’ll take one trip past and if we get good parking (an impossible task in the dead of winter) we’ll hang around for a while.

Wouldn’t ya know it? Rock star parking on Landsdowne Street. Another rain out miracle. We wander over to the restaurant and it’s hopping but not bad. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot something across the street.

“Hey, let’s grab a beer over there first.” I point to the park and a sign that reads: Bleacher Bar. It’s a bar! Under the bleachers of Friendly Fenway! Those crafty owners! They’re evil geniuses!

We go in and it’s what you’d expect: a bar. It’s a nice, spacious room but the highlight is toward the back. It’s an open grate that opens so it’s like you’re standing on the warning track in center field, three hundred eighty nine feet nine inches from home plate. It truly is another great view of the park.

As great as the view is it’s the people who garnered most of the attention. At least the group that was around us. They vacillated from being pissed (“Fucking rain!”) to being happy (“Fucking Red Sox!”) but sure weren’t happy about not being seated in Fenway at this very moment.

A few people are making calls to see if they can get someone to take tickets off their hands for tomorrows game; some are trying to get the day off; some are drunk calling people to bitch about having tickets they aren’t going to be able to use because their asshole boss said no.

All the conversations were to be expected except for one. As you’d expect, there were many pictures being taken. People posing at the grate with the field stretched out behind them; people doing the standard bar ‘we’re having BIG fun’ pose. It wasn’t until I heard this next line I knew this bar was different than most.

“Hey,” said a gentleman to his lady friend. “I’m going to the bathroom. Take my picture.”

Now I’ve said many strange things in my day but I’m sure I’ve never said anything close to that. Oh sure, I’ve said,

“Take a picture of my head. I want to see for myself if I need stitches.”

But even I have decorum enough to allow my urination to remain an undocumented experience.

I turned around to see what the girls reaction would be. I know what my girlfriends would be and it sure wouldn’t be,

“Yeah, okay, just don’t take long.”

Call my curiosity peaked!

I watch the guy walk up the stairs, turns the corner and, holy fucking shit! I can see the guy! Well, his head, but still! What I thought was the DJ booth is the men’s room.

I point this out to my girlfriend and, at first, as always, she thinks I’m wrong. Then she notices a movement that can truthfully only cover one action. Then she watches that guy walk out without washing his hands!

“Hey!” She calls across the room. Amazingly the guy stops and looks at her. “You didn’t wash your hands you dirty bastard!”

And he walks back in! I’m dying! He’s washing his hands, turns once he’s done and shows them to her as he’s drying. She nods. He nods. And we all laugh.

So if you’re in Boston, take a trip to the Bleacher Bar. I’m sure you’ll have a good time. But, if you have shy pee, plan accordingly.

Be Sixteen With Me

Many people have been telling stories of their kids having to move back with them or not leaving at all.

To paraphrase The Man In Black, this world is rough and if a man’s gonna make it he’s gotta have understanding parents.

That’s why it comes as no surprise to me that local folk legend, Don White, captured this phenomenon perfectly in the song, Be Sixteen With Me.

Check Don out. You won’t be sorry.