Christmas Without Mom

I'm not the first person to face their first Christmas without their mom. Billions before me have had the experience.

But this is my first Christmas without my mom, and the experience is my own.

It didn't really hit me until the holiday cards began arriving from the people that somehow, despite my best efforts to contact everybody in the universe, didn't know she died this year.

I just opened a Christmas card that was forwarded to me, addressed to my mom, from a couple who was very close to my mom a lifetime ago. They were good friends even before my mom and dad were divorced in 1974. I clearly remember spending afternoons playing with their kids, who were the same age as me, at their house in Pennsylvania.

Ugh. It's just all very "real" now. What the heck am I going to do on Christmas Eve this year? Usually I'd be at my mom's house, eating undercooked shrimp cocktail, watching my multitude of aunts and uncles pretending to get along, and sharing all-knowing glances with my wife and kids. It was always great when my dear friends would stop by for a drink (after making a dozen stops for drinks with friends and family) and exchange presents with mom.

Bah humbug. For now.

Blog Frustration

I have a post ready to go that's taken me weeks of thought and computer work to create, but it won't load.

I'm pissed off for two reasons. The first reason is that since I'm a lifelong Macintosh user, I expect technology to work for me effortlessly and elegantly. The second reason is that I don't post all that often, and when I really work hard at creating one I expect it to be seen.

Any advice on sharing a whole bunch of 30 - 90 second sound clips in MP3, AIFF, WAV, MPEG, or any other format would be greatly appreciated.

All I get is an error message that the post failed to load.

Unconventional Holiday Songs

I just forwarded this to a friend of mine that happens to be Jewish, and I was shocked to learn that she had not previously heard of it (although she likes Sarah Silverman).

There's something slightly uncomfortable about sharing a song or joke that's blatantly politically incorrect. Meh. I'm an alcoholic Irish boy that understands full well what's it's like to be raised in a Catholic drunken family. I laugh harder than anybody else at the jokes about my background.

If you're offended, I am sorry. To clarify, I'm not sorry because you're offended, but because you can't laugh at yourself.

Low Blow

I couldn't believe what I heard this morning while watching Robin Meade on CNN's Headline News this morning. They actually ran a story about the Nutty Buddy, a new athletic protective cup.

Let the video speak for itself.

Good lord, television news has sunk to an all time low (shot to the crotch). I don't mean to sound like a ball breaker (ha), but couldn't they have spent those 90 seconds on, oh I dunno, the wars in Afghanistan or Iraq? The (yet another) thinly veiled arms deal given to Libya by France? The economy? The latest purported photographic evidence of a sighting of Big Foot in New York?

A Girl and Her Dog

Well, okay, a girl and her dad's dog.

This is a picture of Nicole and Lindsay kicking back in a hotel room in White River Junction, Vermont over the Thanksgiving break. Ann and I had the bright idea of staying at a hotel with an indoor pool for a couple of days while the boys were with their mom in Pennsylvania. The pool was effectively in a big glass greenhouse outside of the main building. That's cool. The pool's heater was broken, so that's cold. It was pretty much was a waste of a night's rent.

For the record, while Ann went shopping with her mom, Nicole and I did get into the pool. We lasted about two minutes.

At least we all got to watch TV for six hours! There's only so much SpongeBob SquarePants a father can take . . .

Monday Morning Blues

Forgive me if you're a reader of my former blog which I deleted about a year ago. I'm a huge fan of Apple's Garage Band but I'm an even bigger fan of the blues. This is a tune I created on my computer last summer.

Everything you hear, from the audience to keyboards to guitar, is all computer generated, with my input of notes and tempo. Ain't that cool?

Before the music critics jump in to tell me that I suck ... I'm beating you to it. I know. Deal.

Yeah, while you're at it, listen to me play the drums. Unlike the computer generated blues song, this is an actual recording of me, something I do every day. And yes, I'm fully aware that I suck, but I'm better than Meg Ryan, er, White.

Blogalanche

I can't sleep, so here's a blogalanche of stuff. Since I've been going through a period of not being motivated to put stuff onto my blog, this is a smorgasbord of completely unrelated topics that have been knocking 'round my folder of things to post. The upside is that I'll now consider this folder cleared. The downside is that none of them will be developed fully to become what I had originally considered, but, um, that's that.

Carmelita's on the radio, the godmother of Boston rock, and I'm enjoying hearing some good and some not-so-good bands from the Boston area on WAAF's Bay State Rock program.

Everybody likes pictures. Why is that? Who knows ... but we do. Whenever I'm on a particularly boring conference call or have a few minutes to kill I'll click on this link that shows me the last 50 pictures uploaded to LiveJournal. I'm not a member of LiveJournal, and don't even know anybody who is. But I get a kick out of seeing what people are choosing to share with the world.

So here's my little contribution to sharing pictures with the world.

Isn't my daughter the most adorable girl ever in the history of the world? That's not rhetorical. The answer is yes. She's absolutely precious. She was a pink cat for Halloween, so my wife Ann bought a can of "washable" pink hairspray. Ha. Um, no. It's washable with what? Sulfuric acid? Nair? More than a month later she still has pink highlights. So be it. It's cute.

A couple of weeks ago in the midst of my goatee experiment I was in the bathroom shaving the scruff from my cheeks. In my peripheral vision I noticed a short person dressed in pink watching me. "Whatcha doing, Daddy?"

I explained to Nicole that I was shaving.

"But what's that thing you got there, Daddy? Why don't you shave with a razor and white stuff on your face?"

Once I got over my chuckling at the look of her youthful curiosity, I told her that I didn't want to shave all the hair off my face, just some of it, so I was using an electric razor, and it doesn't need the white stuff. She asked if she could try it. And, hey, since I didn't care if she made a mistake or two or three, I agreed. She accepted the task with a reverent seriousness that awed me. No kidding -- she embraced the job with a maturity belying her years.










Next is a picture I took last week of one of my cats, Sonny, in all his autumnal glory. He's experiencing a modicum of celebrity status lately due to a guest appearance in the household of a blogger with umpteen-million weekly hits. I think his fame is going to his head. He bit my dog Lindsay on Friday. Lindsay whimpered and ran to me for comfort. Who's the pussy in that pair?

Short Reviews

Recently I've been cleaning off my reading table. This means that I sit down in my favorite chair, pick up one of the books which has disappointed me after I've suffered through three quarters and then put aside. When the pile of books starts looking overly sloppy (which for me is quite a statement) I force my way through them.

Here are a couple of decent reads that were never relegated to my Group W Bench along with the literary father rapers and mother stabbers.

The Lisbon Crossing by Tom Gabbay got my attention because I'd heard good things about his first book The Berlin Conspiracy, and I enjoy period fiction.
A moment of silence for James Michener, one of my all-time top five writers, and the best historical fiction writer of all time. To be fair, Gabbay never claims to write historical fiction, just fiction that's written around a particular time or event in history. Big difference.

The Lisbon Crossing was almost tossed into the "I'll finish it later" pile, but the plot kicked into gear by the third chapter and held my attention. Set during World War II, it's centered around a Hollywood stuntman of questionable history but strong character. He needs to leave America quickly because he's got a price on his head after having an affair with the wife of a wealthy movie executive. Conveniently, a starlet in decline hires him to accompany her to Lisbon in search of a childhood friend that's gone missing after escaping Nazi Germany.

Right about here is where I had to force myself onward. The story is just a tad too improbable for my taste. The book recovered with a cat-and-mouse game between Allied spies, German intelligence, the French resistance movement, and some good ol'-fashioned car chases, casinos, gunfire, and fists. The improbability factor soars higher as the novel progresses, but I found it entertaining to find out how Gabbay intended to tie up all the loose strings.

All in all, an okay read for purely entertainment purposes. 2.5 out of 5 stars.

If you want a really good read, I strongly recommend The Fall of Rome. I'm getting tired now, so I'll come back sometime soon and explain why I enjoyed this book so much.

This weekend my gorgeous wife Ann worked both Saturday and Sunday. It's the busy season for selling books for kids. Here's a picture I took of her and Nicole over the Thanksgiving break at her parent's vacation home in New Hampshire. Ann's gorgeousness aside (sigh), that meant I spent Saturday and Sunday with not only my biological kids, but my extended family of kids. Yes, Karlee helped me, Joey and Nicole cook an artery-clogging breakfast two days in a row. We also had Donnie and his buddy Brad on Saturday night and all of Sunday.


I'm going to have to revisit this blog post and fill in more details later, because now is getting to the point of being ridiculously late at night (morning). Here's the extremely short version. Karlee from Friday night through Sunday night. Haircuts for everybody. About a cord of wood burned in the fireplace. Five pounds of bacon and two dozen eggs. Kids eat a lot.

Yeah ... this post's layout of pictures and text is horrible. I'll clean it up later.

I only got through a few of the six items in my "to be posted folder," but that'll have to do for now. I've got to get some sleep, then get to work in a few hours.

I Confess

I confess to my crime, but I'm not sorry for it. I do apologize for this post being so brief, but I'm on a cargo ship somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic ocean. I'm sending this via satellite uplink connection to the Internet.

The news reports of my crime is fairly accurate. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of serious drinking to do, and not much time remaining in which to do it.

Saturday Mornings -- Playing House

Except for the winter months, my wife Ann works on weekend mornings. That usually means that I'm home with Joey, my 15-year-old son, and Nicole, my 5-year-old daughter.

It also usually means that Karlee, our 13-year-old neighbor and my "emergency backup daughter," comes over as well.

Karlee was only a couple of years old when her mom died. Her father has done a respectable job bringing up Karlee and her older sister Kim. Both girls are mature beyond their years, probably due to life's hard knocks forcing them along. They both seem lonely somehow.

I'm not going to even pretend that having been a single parent of two boys for three years is anything like being a widower, but Karlee and Kim soak up family time with us. We enjoy having them here, and consider Karlee and Kim as part of our clan.

However much she might pretend to hate it, I know that Karlee loves it when I grab her and forcibly hug her. She smiles and squeals, half-heartedly tries to get away, but always ends up squeezing me tight and putting her cheek on my chest. I don't think she is used to getting hugs. Once in a while, when nobody's looking, she'll even come up behind me and put her arm around my waist. That's her way of asking for a squeeze and a kiss on the forehead.

So, getting back to the point, Saturday mornings have become somewhat of a tradition with me, Joey, Nicole, and Karlee. The kids make a huge breakfast, and I supervise. I treasure the time spent with these kids.

My sole job is to turn up the music (BB King, Clapton, Dave Brubeck ... you know, Saturday morning stuff) and get out of the way. I watch, glow with pride, and chuckle in amusement. The kids "play house" without realizing they're doing so.

Nicole, being an adorable little girl, is the center of attention. Karlee dotes on her, and Joey takes on a stern "dad" role. Karlee cooks the bacon, Joey and Nicole mix ingredients for pancakes from scratch ... then add experimental ingredients. Karlee decided that this Saturday's experimental pancake batter ingredient would be food coloring. She had us each put a few drops in our mouths. I got yellow, Karlee green, Joey blue, and Nicole red.

Karlee good-naturedly pushes Joey out of the way when the mixing begins, orders him to take over the bacon duty, and stirs the pancake batter with Nicole. Joey finishes cooking the bacon, Karlee "steals" a piece or two from Joey, then Karlee cooks pancakes while Joey asks us how we all want our eggs prepared.

It's noisy, chaotic, and a mess. It's absolutely wonderful.

My wife calls Nicole "Baby." Karlee picked up the habit, but I think she does it because she likes playing the part of a mom. She's trying it on for size, and enjoying it. Even if it's only playing house, I think she needs it.

When Karlee was walking out of my house this morning, she suddenly turned around and came bounding back in like only a coltish teenage girl can, gave Joey a hug, Nicole a kiss, and me a squeeze that almost cracked my ribs. Then in a flash she was gone.

Until next Saturday morning.

I'm so deaf that it doesn't matter . . .

Every day I play drums when most people take their lunch break. Let's not get heady about this, I fully admit that I suck.

I've only played in front of an audience once, and, um, it wasn't great. I kept the beat very well with the bass drum (the "prime directive" of all drummers), but missed horribly just about every riff and cymbal highlight on the song I played. For the life of me, I can't remember what song it was. I'm pretty sure it was a Stone Temple Pilots or Pearl Jam song, since it was in the early '90's when I used to hang around with an employee and friend of mine that was in a band that frequented the haunts in and around Frederick MD.

I play the drum set with my iPod Nano earbuds implanted as deeply as they'll go, and crank up the volume to the maximum setting. I'm losing the ability to hear the songs as I play along. I'm deaf, getting more deaf, and it's disturbing.

My kids and wife laugh and joke about my inability to hear things. That's cool. I understand the humor about it. I can hear high pitch tones (like, thankfully, a fire alarm or that very unique squeal made by a moisture-laden log in a fire place), but not conversational discussion.

But losing my hearing is very upsetting.

Getting back to the point of this blog after a wild tangent, I've been trying to master Joey Kramer's drum part on "Falling in Love" by Aerosmith.

It's a real challenge not only because I suck, but I can't hear the song even with my iPod at maximum volume.

Great Star Wars Spoof

I'm a big fan of the Star Wars films, and an equally big fan of Adult Swim. Here's a brilliant mixture of the two.

The "Good Luck Goatee" Experiment

I'm not a big fan of bearing facial hair. No, hold on a second ... let me be honest. I detest it. Facial hair itches, I find myself absent-mindedly pulling or scratching it, and I feel downright unclean. I'm often scruffy, but not downright hairy.

For the readers of this blog with facial hair (and I hope you're all men), I want to clarify that my bearded experience is my own. Some great men have proudly shown their beards. Abe Lincoln, Jason Varitek, and Jesus are merely three.

I don't know how they stand it.

About five years ago my buddy Mark from Oklahoma sent me a t-shirt featuring the "Okie Noodlin'" contest, an event which has gained some minor notoriety recently. Rednecks free dive in an attempt to seek out massive catfish, put their hands into their mouths, and pull them ashore. Fingers are frequently lost to the huge catfish, which often outweigh a 14-year-old boy.

As a return favor I grew a goatee and sent him a picture of myself imitating (to the best of my ability) an "Okie Noodlin'" contestant.

When the Red Sox beat the Indians to reach the World Series, I grew a "good luck goatee" in honor and support of the players with facial hair on the Sox roster ... Varitek, Lowell, Papi, and so forth.

Since we swept the Rockies in the Series, I decided to keep it for the Colts / Patriots game. I headed to Columbus Ohio this weekend to see my Buckeyes beat Illinios ... but then my goatee jou jou ran out.

Maybe it wasn't long enough to handle the load. Maybe more Ohio State players need facial hair. I dunno. I draw the line at growing dreadlocks.

Either way, I'm shaving the goatee off in the morning, and I can't wait.

Top Ten Songs

Yep ... that old chestnut. I brought out this topic on my former blog (long since deleted, but perhaps still available in a mossy cache somewhere).

Cliché? Yes. Annoying? Probably. Easy to answer? No.

This list changes from day to day. Right now I'm burning time until the first pitch of the World Series and am listening to music alone at my office at ear-bleeding volume.

So, here it goes. As "they" say, this is in no particular order, just my top ten tunes. Whenever possible I've included a link to an iTunes snippet.

1. When I Grow Too Old To Dream -- Nat "King" Cole. Is there another song that is as smooth and full of loving adoration as this? No.
2. Aganju -- Bebel Gilberto. This song haunts me, and all I have to say to the musically educated, Phil Ramone set the tone with Joao, and he is a fucking genius. Bebel is even better.
3. Hold of Myself -- Cracker. This has been a favorite of mine for many years. It makes me want to pull up my bootstraps when the going gets tough.
4. River of Tears -- Eric Clapton. Put a gun to my head and demand I name my all time favorite song, this would burst forth.
5. Soulshine -- Gov't Mule. Given a millisecond, this might be the next words out of my mouth before they pull the trigger.
6. Rx for the Blues -- Mike Bloomfield. If you don't dig this tune, never speak to me again thankyouverymuch ... this is the song that epitomizes the smoky blues club at a very drunken 4:00 AM.
7. Yellow Ledbetter -- Pearl Jam. I could listen to this song over and over and over and over and over ...
8. Riviera Paradise -- Stevie Ray Vaughan. This is musically as close to God as one can be. I do not make that statement lightly.
9. Guabi Guabi -- Pork Tornado. No other song has ever made me smile so brightly, to the point of happy tears, as this song. It's a celebration of life, family, sunshine, and all things fuzzy bunnies. It's simply awesome. I sing along at top volume, butchering the indecipherable lyrics all the way.
10. Fugue in G Minor -- Johann Sebastian Bach (the Stokowski transcription, not the original composition for organ). Maybe it's my 13 years of playing oboe, but this song makes me stand up and wave my arms like Keith Lockhart on crack. I love love love this song.

This list, as I'm sure you will agree when you attempt to compile your own "Top 10" list, is akin to choosing which of your children are your favorites.

I feel horrible for leaving so many out of the list. But, tomorrow is another day.

Five Languages

I had an interesting chat with a buddy of mine today. We were talking about our kids learning foreign languages at an early age, and laughed about our disastrous failures to speak anything but English or "drunkenese."

If a genie were to pop out of your coffee mug and grant you immediate fluency in five languages, what would they be?

Mine are:

1) Latin
2) Spanish
3) Mandarin Chinese
4) Japanese
5) French

Excellent Musical Parody

The "Brohemian Rhapsody!" No, that's not a typo. "Brotherhood's forever, anyone can see."

Maybe it's best that I didn't go to college and join a frat.

Welcome to Title Town

The Red Sox will dismantle the Rockies. Maybe Colorado will win one game, but I doubt they'll take two.


You might as well just give the Patriots the Superbowl trophy now.


The Celtics are being tagged by the national sports prognosticators as a lock for the NBA finals.


The Bruins are off to a solid start, and gunning after #1 Ottowa in the Northeast Division.


The Boston College Eagles are now #2, nipping at the heels of Ohio State at #1.

I Don't Know Much about teh internets

I scored a paltry 3 out of 20 on this quiz about the 'net. I'm not sure if I should be proud or ashamed.

Embarrassing 80's Hilarity

Try to watch at least 90 seconds without laughing out loud or wincing in sympathy. I couldn't do it.

Mind Bending Science Fun

LaunchBall is a fun and creative problem solving at it's best. Oh, okay, at better than most. Some of the puzzles were damn near impossible, and I admit to cheating by finding clues online for two of them (both involve the flashlight).

Use fans, Tesla coils, generators, springs, wind turbines, escalators, and other associated gadgets to get the ball into the goal.

Dreams of Flight

Recently I've had two extremely vivid dreams of flying. Both were joyous experiences. When you're having a particularly enjoyable dream, do you fight in your subconscious to keep the dream alive and control what's happening? I do.

I'm not going to bother trying to explain the dreams in high-def detail because, well, dreams are surreal. They're more about feelings than imagry. Describing surrealism and emotions in literary terms are a difficult and time-consuming task.

The first dream involved a high school classmate named Julie with whom I have had no contact since the day I graduated over two decades ago. In this dream I was the manager of a construction crew that had just finished building the world's tallest skyscraper. The building's owner showed up on the final day of the project, quite coincidentally with Julie in tow. She was a reporter covering the completion of the property. As a reward for a job well done, the building's owner told me that his private jet was going to take me and Julie for an aerial tour of the building.

I don't know all that much about private jets, but I'm fairly certain they can't perform maneuvers like I experienced. Before you filthy-minded people get on the wrong track, I have no idea why Julie was in the dream, nor did she have a starring role other than that I was proud to have her on the plane because she was excited and happy.

The plane defied real-world gravity by rocketing straight up above the cloud layer, stalling out, plummeting back toward the building, swooping around it in impossible G-force-defying circles, doing barrel rolls, and generally treating me and Julie to the world's greatest roller coaster ride.

I awoke to find myself laughing out loud and beaming from ear to ear, forced myself to go back to sleep, and resumed the dream. The second round was far less vivid, and the dream was off into the ether.

My second dream occurred last night. It was so engaging, so enjoyable, and so deceptively life-like that I talked about it with my boys this morning as I drove them to school. In this dream I had discovered that I could fly if I built a tiny airplane (think of a child's ride outside of your local grocery store or Wal-Mart) and held in my hand a paper origami model plane. While I could only fly about 100 feet off the ground, and at a very slow speed, I spent hours cruising around my former hometown. I visited a particular street (Moore Lane), even though I never lived there. Across from the area I was circling was a marsh, and so I puttered in that direction. I flew too close to a few tall trees and saw nesting eagles.

In my dream I had a moment of fear that somebody might have seen me coming too close to the eagles because they're endangered or protected or whatever they are these days. But the eagles didn't seem to mind. They were just as curious about me as I was about them.

The dream started getting "dream weird" at this point. The paper origami plane (which I had to hold out in front of me in order to fly) became unstable. I had to keep re-folding it in order to stay aloft. Eventually I couldn't keep it together and coasted in for a landing on another road in my former home town. I wasn't upset in the least bit ... I was thrilled at the experience, and immediately wanted to start making a better, new-and-improved, more durable version of my origami paper plane.

For anybody wanting to pop-psycho-analyze these dreams, bah. Dreams are dreams. My mom was always quick to whip out her book about the interpretation of dreams whenever I shared one with her. I find those interpretations to be much like the circus Tarot card reader -- full of generalizations which could fit anybody's life.

I'm looking forward to bedtime tonight. Maybe I'll pilot the F/A-18 Hornet.

No More Blogs

From what I can tell from personal feedback and obscure techno-babble sitemeter reports, about 83- 120 people check in here once a week.

I want to apologize for not posting in a long time, and to let you know that I don't plan on posting much in the future.

Unless you want to share what's going on in your personal life (in many cases for great reasons, as some blogs give people strength and hope) or need hits, blogging is a pain in the ass. Neither describes me.

So, I'm taking a bow for now. I'll post things from time to time, but don't hold your breath.

Weekly iTunes "Single of the Week" Review

Welcome, readers! It's time for the iTunes Single of the Week Review.

This week's "Single of the Week:" Songs for the Fields by the Fields.

[iTunes writers' words follow . . .]

We get a lot of music coming through these parts, but the Fields struck a chord with us that we wouldn't mind being struck more often. "Song for the Fields" is a traditional folks tune as it might have been if the Flaming Lips and My Bloody Valentine took the place of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger. Boy/girl harmonies that coo and curl around each other and moody, frantic acoustic guitars culminate in an expansive full-band, swooning blow-out at the end. Very nice and very free.

My review:

Ugh. It's difficult for me trash a band that clearly has talent but fails miserably to manifest it into a song. The iTunes writers were sort of on the right track. It's folky, and I suppose one can take a leap to compare them to the Flaming Lips, but it's stretch. Frankly, the song bores me. Nothing makes me sit up and pay attention.

Rating from one to five stars: **

iTunes Library Result:
DELETED

Wild Hogs

Okay, so I'm the first one to admit that Wild Hogs was a cheesy "feel good" flick that borrowed heavily (*cough* copied *cough*) from a number of other cheesy "feel good" flicks. "The Three Amigos" is essentially the same movie except instead of riding horses, the protagonists are riding motorcycles.

So what. It was an enjoyable picture. I laughed a few times. I found the performances by Ray Liotta and Marisa Tomei to be very good, despite the weak script. They made the very best from what they were handed.

A host of cameo appearances lets you know right away that it's the cinematographic equivalent of a Twinkie, but it's all good. The snack food guilty pleasure is to see Tim Allen, Martin Lawrence, William H. Macy and John Travolta having fun on screen. Add those guys to the dudes from Orange County Choppers, Paul Teutul Sr. and Jr.; John Travolta's wife Margaret; Ty Pennington from Extreme Home Makeover; Dr. Drew; Tenacious D's Kyle Gass (where was Jack?); and none other than the original bad-ass biker, Mr. Peter Fonda (where was Dennis Hopper?).

As somebody who actually rides motorcycles, watching this movie required me to muster a great deal of the literary edict of "suspension of disbelief" to enjoy. There were many scenes in which a character is accelerating while holding up his right hand (the throttle), bikers riding in perfect synchronization (on a trailer while being filmed without the road being shown), and bouncing off the pavement at upwards of 45 MPH without a scratch. Huh. Go figure. I suspend my disbelief!

A special thanks to Wendy for sending me the movie. My extended lunch hour was an enjoyable one. I want to go home and fire up Val.

Now only if any of my friends knew how to ride a motorcycle . . .

1961 Red Sox Baseball

My mom died a few months ago. Recently I was sorting through a mountain of "stuff" in her office, and came across a baseball. It was wrapped in a very worn plastic bag. The ball is old, yellowed, and has a small blemish (pine tar?) on one of the faces.

Oh yeah, and it's signed by most of the 1961 Boston Red Sox. Including Yaz. For those of you who are not Sox fans, 1961 was his rookie year. It'll take somebody with better handwriting interpretation skills to be certain, but I can easily recognize some of the other signatures: Chuck Schilling, Dick Radatz, Frank Malzone, and Galen Cisco among others.

The strangest part of this story is that nobody in my family (aunts, cousins) have any idea how, when or where my mom got this nifty piece of Red Sox history.

The Dramatic Prairie Dog

The "Dramtic Chipmunk," a.k.a. "The Dramatic Prairie Dog," is the most hilarious clip I have ever seen. It's a five second dose of super-concentrated funniness. Please ... please ... no more ... my stomach is killing me from laughing so hard. I sincerely wish my buddy had not sent me a link to this clip, because I can't resist from playing it over and over and over, laughing harder every single time. There are tears pouring down my cheeks, and I really need to blow my nose. Oh God, please make it stop.

Without further ado ... THE DRAMATIC CHIPMUNK!

Who the @#$%^&* is Henry Simandjuntak?

On average I receive around 1,000 SPAM messages each day. This is largely my own fault, as two of my e-mail addresses are scattered across countless publications and websites. It's the cost of doing business for a PR guy who's listed in the "contact" section of articles.

I'd love to get my hands on one particular fictitious sonofabitch. Who the @#$% is Henry Simandjuntak, and why do I receive so much mail intended for him? This bastard is responsible for about 30% of my SPAM. [Note: If you don't realize those questions are meant in jest, please close this window right now.]

I really can't complain too loudly, since Henry never shows up in my inbox. His messages are always snagged by the mother of all SPAM filters for the Macintosh OS, SpamSieve. You can read the glowing reviews here if you need more convincing, but lemme tell you, it rocks.

On a related note, a thieving SPAM dirt bag has been caught. He is one of the infamous Nigerian identity scammers on the U.S. Secret Service's "Most Wanted" web site.

'Ello, Gov'nah!

As the old adage goes, "everything is for sale." I believe this also applies to one's job. Why not listen to an unsolicited offer? Who knows? One might just pop up which pays better and is equally or more personally satisfying.

I got a kick out of an offer I received today, quite out of the blue. It was to launch the exact same business I run now, but in England. The money was nearly identical, and I would have somewhat greater freedom to implement programs a bit better than I have put into motion here in the United States, but it's not worth uprooting my family to Nottingham.

Just the same, it's nice to get an offer.

The only time I've ever seriously considered moving to Europe was way back in 1991. I had an offer to work in Ireland for Digital Equipment Corporation. Since my father (and countless hundreds of other people in the towns around Maynard) had all worked for DEC and loved it, the offer was tempting. The deal breaker was when I spoke with the Irish consulate and received real estate listings in my price range. Grass and thatch roof? Built in 1510? Two bedrooms? No thanks.

Níl aon tintéan mar do thintéan féin. There's no place like home.

Weekly iTunes "Single of the Week" Review

Welcome, readers! It's time for the iTunes Single of the Week Review.

This week's "Single of the Week:" Daisy by Halfway to Hazard.

[iTunes writers' words follow . . .]

Halfway to Hazard are a duo from southeast Kentucky - Chad Warrix and David Tolliver. This track is a mixture of sweet, harmonized country pop and a big ol' southern rock ballad. The tale within the tune is worth noting - it goes from young love to tragedy and redemption. It also might be the first song to use the phrase "and the day her water broke" in music history.

My review:

Admittedly I know next to nothing about country music, so all I can offer is a general impression of this song. And that impression is ... this song sounds exactly like any other country song I've ever heard. Halfway to Hazard exploits the same old recycled melody, the same old slide guitar harmony, and even that ultra-annoying tendency to vocalize the first note in each measure by ranging in a split second from an octave below to the correct pitch. While this song is not vomit-inducing, I struggled (really, really struggled) to listen to the entire track.

Rating from one to five stars: *

iTunes Library Result:
DELETED

Movie Awards for Real People

I'm not kidding. I think this idea has legs. Screw the Oscars, People's Choice, MTV, and all those other Hollywood bullshit awards. I think it's time for a "Real People" movie award. So many movies get accolades that are pure crap. Who wants to help?

Simpsonized

Yes, I feel like an Internet trend whore. So be it. That's me Simpsonized.

Is this pro-Windoze or anti-Windoze?

Either way, this guy feels extremely strongly about computing. Read the full story here.


Even though I'm a hard core Macintosh fan and have a number of tattoos, none of which are any of these:

Can you use my tickets?

104.1 FM WBCN Boston sent me two tickets for tonight's "Adam 12 Cruise." The boat departs at 6:30 from Lynn (Marine Boulevard), and returns at midnight. Unfortunately, I can't use the tickets.

If you want 'em, and can promise me that you'll use 'em, leave a comment.

Weekly iTunes "Single of the Week" Review

Welcome, readers! It's time for the iTunes Single of the Week Review.

This week's "Single of the Week:" Born Losers by Matthew Good.

[iTunes writers' words follow . . .]

Matthew Good's brand of reverie and disconcerting personal analysis in song has made him a favorite in Canada for years. His newest album, Hospital Music, is an especially riveting portrait of a man who's been to the edge and back. We're offering you the rumbling, epic folk-rock of "Born Losers" as a free Single of the Week in the hope that you find the time to bring a little Matthew Good into your life. You won't regret it.

My review:

No, you won't regret it. However, unless you're into early R.E.M. then you probably won't be bowled over either. To utilize an overused term by 'tweens ... *meh*

This is plugged-in acoustic folky chorded rock. Got that? Vanilla soft serve ice cream with a few sprinkles. On a plain cone.

**

iTunes Library Result:
KEPT
I might hit the "next" button on my iPod if it rolls around, but maybe not.

A Bike Meet 'Round the Bend

Last night I attended a small bike meet at Sky Cycle in Lunenburg, which is less than 60 seconds from my house. They were celebrating new management and rebranding as Central Mass Powersports.

Unlike the Tyler Ride, the mix of bike brands was inversely proportional to the usual Harley-to-Honda ratio. That's probably because Sky Cycle sells and services Hondas. Duh.

Although I didn't stay very long, I had a nice time checking out the bikes, talking with other riders about my 1520 Valkyrie Dragon, and meeting former Boston Bruins enforcer (with over 1,000 penalty minutes in 279 games) Lyndon Byers. LB isn't so big. I could take him ... if he had both hands tied behind his back. And I had a hammer.

Here's LB's bike:

And here's a view of about a quarter of the bikes at the meet:

Google Reader

A relatively unknown feature of Google to which I've become addicted is Google Reader. If you use a personalized Google home page as I do, then this service will let you know when a website has been updated. It's kind of like e-mail.

It rocks.

Weekly iTunes "Single of the Week" Review

Welcome, readers! It's time for the iTunes Single of the Week Review.

This week's "Single of the Week:" Black Heart Queen by Gallows.

[iTunes writers' words follow . . .]

Brace yourself for the uncompromising English metal / punk of Gallows. "Black Heart Queen" is fueled by a contagious, spitting anger and playing with a fury that recalls classic early '80s hardcore mixed with the melodic heaviness of newer acts like Funeral for a Friend and Bullet for My Valentine. Not for the meek.

My review:

I'm fortunate to live in the Boston area (for many reasons), and thereby am lucky to have radio access to WAAF's Mike Hsu, recognized nationally as one of the most knowledgeable DJs when it comes to heavy metal. I'm not a huge fan of the genre, but only because there's far too few diamonds and way too much rough. When it's good, it's great. When it's bad, it sucks.

Despite what the iTunes writers claim, Gallows is not punk. No no no. The Ramones are punk. Gallows is heavy metal. And furthermore, they are far more reminiscent of Scissorfight than Funeral for a Friend. The comparison, frankly, is downright laughable. It's like saying Godsmack sounds like 311. To illustrate the point, listen to Black Heart Queen and then listen to Scissorfight's "Victory over Horseshit." They sound very similar, no?

Hard core, head-slamming chords by guitarists Laurent Barnard and Steph Carterand backed by a kick-ass drummer Lee Barratt make "Black Heart Queen" a definite keeper.

*** 1/2

iTunes Library Result:
KEPT
... and I want to hear more ...

Boston, Oregon

Well, almost. While channel surfing between innings of tonight's Red Sox game featuring the nationally celebrated return of Jon Lester after his successful battle with cancer, I caught a neat factoid.

The city of Portland, Oregon was named on a 2-to-3 coin toss. The contending name? Boston, Oregon.

From TravelPortland.com, "the official tourism and meeting website for Portland, Oregon,"

It all began in 1843 when Tennessee drifter William Overton and Massachusetts lawyer Asa Lovejoy beached their canoe on the banks of the Willamette River .... Overton [sold] his half of the claim to Francis W. Pettygrove.... Lovejoy was determined to name the site after his hometown of Boston, while Pettygrove was equally adamant about his native Portland, Maine. They decided to flip a coin, now known as the "Portland Penny," to settle the argument. Pettygrove won on two tosses out of three.

Two Sad Losses for Baseball

Ugh. What a sad weekend for baseball. First we suffered the loss of Mike Coolbaugh, killed by a line drive as he was coaching first base during a game of the Colorado Rockies minor league's team, the Tulsa Drillers. Mike was only 35 years old. He had a wife, two young sons, and a baby due in October. Ugh.

From young to old, the oldest former major leaguer, Rollie Stiles, died at the ripe old age of 100. He pitched to Babe Ruth over three seasons, and Rollie said that the Babe only ever had three hits off of him. Cool.

Yeah, people die every day. I know that. But why so many people lately -- people close to me and people for which I feel such a connection?

The Test of a Classical Pianist

I'm listening to classical music tonight, good and loud as it's supposed to be played.

Here's a thought. And before you jump all over me and claim that another song is the real test of a classical pianist's ability, can we at least agree that mastering Scherzo No. 1 in B minor by Chopin is probably a decent benchmark by which one can separate the "I wanna-be" crowd from the "I am" crowd?

Spare me the examples of pianists that stuff their repertoire full of composers utilizing dramatic minor chords in the lower 30 keys. It's the 19th-century equivalent of a hack garage band twisting the distortion dial on their guitar's amplifier as far clockwise as it'll go. Even I can sound good using that trick, and I only know five chords.

Chopin was the Stevie Ray Vaughan of his day. That man knew how to throw down.

A Day I'll Not Soon Forget

Once in a great while I am fortunate enough to experience "one of those days that I'll never forget." Last Saturday was one. It was awesome.

From 8:30 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon I participated in the 8th annual Tyler Ride, a yearly gathering of hundreds and hundreds of motorcyclists to benefit Tyler Ricard, a 13 year old boy who has Muscular Dystrophy. There's something really cool about being a small part of a huge gathering of people all doing a singular thing. It make me stop and think about the communal human spirt, and our innate care for others less fortunate than ourselves. I'm a relatively healthy nearing-40-years-old guy, have a beautiful wife and three healthy, smart, well-fed kids. Probably less than 1% of the fathers in the world can say that they own their own home, vote, have access to clean water, own a motorcycle, health care, and cable television.

I am truly a lucky, lucky guy, and I appreciate it.

Tyler's a really nice kid. I've had the pleasure of eating lunch with him and shooting the breeze. Perhaps obviously, he loves motorcycles. In 2005 the Make-A-Wish Foundation even arranged for him to meet the crew from Orange County Choppers.
This was my second Tyler Ride. Based on unscientific observations, it was a smashing improvement from last year. I clearly recall four rows of two bikes in 2006. This year, the parking lot of the Westford VFW was so full that they had to begin cueing bikes up facing the wrong way because there was no more room to turn them around to face the road.

Aside from the incredible 100-mile ride throughout central Massachusetts and southern New Hampshire, with police blocking off every intersection for us, crowds lining the streets and cheering wildly as we roared through their towns, I enjoyed perusing an unprecedented gathering of every motorcycle known to man. 95% of the bikes were of course Harley Davidsons, the popular choice of American riders. But there were also a host of custom choppers, along with Victory, Honda, Kawasaki, Yamaha, and even Triumph bikes. I'm proud to say that there was another Valkyrie Dragon present too! Naturally, Val was jealous that I was staring at the other gorgeous 6-cylinder beauty.

A picture of my most prized possession, Val:

A picture of the only other Valkyrie at the ride:

Here's a small selection of pictures from the event:

Nice chopper.


Another nice custom job.


Old school Harley.


I have huge respect for the owner of this humble bike -- he (she?) rides a motorcycle, regardless of how "flashy" or not it is, plus the owner rode for Tyler.


My sister's boyfriend Ken on his Harley, with the often admired custom paint.


One of seven towns' motorcycle escorts.


A sweet Triumph. I want to ride it.


Two stunning Victory motorcycles, heavily customized.

To cap it off, I rode to New Ipswitch NH to see a fireworks display unlike any I've ever seen. I was invited by my buddies Jeff (who helped wire up the pyrotechnics) and Jimmy. Forgive me for being a bit sketchy on the details, but apparently this is an annual display put on by a guy from my home town. He spends tens of thousands of dollars, and it shows. Imagine the five-minute finale of the fireworks in your hometown ... dozens upon dozens of simultaneous explosions ... and then extend it for an hour. That's what it was like.


What a great day. I'll likely add to this post when time allows.