Pop Culture Blog: Music, Movie and Humor

Leveraging low-hanging synergies outside the vertical fruit box since 1999.

Not Only Do I Hate Mondays, I’m Having Them Killed.


in

Not even the Park Street Jesus freaks could cheer me up this morning. After a weekend full of horrible movies, a Saturday afternoon at the office, a Christmas Party at which I got intimately acquainted with Mrs. Claus and a bout of insomnia that would have made Rip Van Winkle perky – it was Monday yet again. And I felt like I’d been drinking absinthe and snorting No-Doz for 72 hours. And you know full well you can’t get absinthe in this country. Dance with the green fairy, indeed.

I have to break this vicious cycle. It stems from staying up too late and then sleeping in the next day. My homeostasis gets thrown out of whack to the point where I’m as effictive and original on Monday morning as Jayson Blair on sodium pentathol. I’m not sure where I’m going with this. Maybe I do. Bed. For 12 hours.

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Friday’s Quizzlet: Tales From The Boiler Room.


in Monday's Quotelet

Appetizer: Name something you’ll miss about 2005.
I’ll really miss the way the number 5 looks like a little testicle at the end of the two zeros. I look forward to 2007, when I’ll get emails and letters sent to me with dates at the top and I’ll wonder – is this really a bill from Keyspan, or is James Bond sending me a secret code? Is my gas about to be shut off, or has Blofeld escaped from the underground MI6 volcano prison. It will be exciting to try and figure that out every day.

Salad: What is one thought that went through your mind today?
Sweet Charity am I ever late for work! I got all the way to the Haymarket T stop and had waited for the train a good 10 minutes before I realized I left my laptop in my living room. I had to go all the way back to get it and bounded into the office 10 minutes before a conference call. So I was wicked prepared, covered in snow and still nailed it.

Soup: On a scale of 1-10 how compassionate would you say you are?
If I can quote Duran Duran for a second – City living, heavy trouble. City living rough. We are given angry hearts, but angers’ not enough. I think what Simon leBon is saying here is along the lines of living in the city for an extended period of time can make you apathetic, please get me another young cock.

Main Course: If you could invent something, what would it be?
I’m not telling you, you sneaky patent-collecting quizzlet. My supersonic peanut machine gun vibrator will be ready when it’s ready. And I’ve already invented whatever the lifeform is that inhabits the boilers in my building and keeps blowing out the pilots. Not to be confused with criteria for joining the Mile-High Club.

Dessert: Do you prefer salty snacks or sweet treats?
Salty snacks I’d have to say. My friend Mike once pointed out the error in calling someone a saltoholic. And alcoholic is called that because they are addicted to alcohol. So by the same logic, someone addicted to salt should be called a saltlic. So you’ll frequently find me hanging out in meadows being tongued by dairy cows. You haven’t lived…

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It’s All Greek To Me. And My Ass Hurts.


in

Many thanks to everyone who attended my last minute birthday dinner last night, and to Janet for pulling it all together. The Greek food was great, and the retsina was definitely flowing. I knew a few folks were coming, but I had no idea we’d have a big table of about 10 or so. Well done, everyone. I was allowed to tell inappropriate jokes and speak too loudly with the people I love. And what the hell do those sexually deviant Greeks care anyway? Malakas.

Also, what is it about fried cheese that has me so very fascinated? Take a hunk of sharp aged fromage, soak it in brandy, light it for a few seconds, put the whole thing out with a big hunk of lemon and watch Dave’s pants get a little tighter. And not due to a weight gain, if you get my drift. I long for the day when scientists deem Saganaki good for your health. I won’t hold my breath. But then – I won’t need to as I’ll be long since dead from blocked arteries. Opa!

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Thirty Two Problems And A Bitch Ain’t One.


in Reminiscent

Last year on my birthday I made many hilarious references to Pearl Harbor. This year I’ll simply reflect on birthdays past, and there’s been a lot of them. Last year we all had dinner in the South End. The year before that was the big 3-0, and I organized a huge party for myself (as you do) at Tiernans which was thwarted by the largest snow storm Boston had seen in years. The year before that, Janet organized a party at Harvard Gardens which was a lot of fun – I sang all the way home in the cab, and then made everyone wait until the song was over until we got out.

Prior to that it starts to get fuzzy. I think 28 might have been at Silvertone. 26 or 27 was a surprise party at Janet’s old place in Inman square. Before that I was in England, and that year they midread the birthdate on my work papers at the pub (they reverse the month and date when reading it metrically) and shocked me with a cake on the 12th of July. Yesterday, my workmates took me out for lunch, also mistaking the numeral 7 for the square root of “DERRR”.

But it’s the thought that counts, and I always have fun with good friends around. This year it’s subdued – some Greek food in Watertown and then early to bed before an important meeting tomorrow. Thank you all for putting up with me for so long, and here’s to another longevitus 32 for all of us.

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