Believe it or not, I went to see the over-anticipated New Moon. (If you are unfamiliar with the popular “Twilight Saga,” allow me to fill you in: It’s a story about a plain, boring girl who falls in love with an awkward pale freak who happens to be a vampire. The conflict? He wants to eat her.)
In this sequel, the main characters face another challenge – distance. The vampire “takes a holiday” like any well-respected Brit and blah blah blah. In an attempt to get over the absence of her blood sucker lover, the girl starts to fall for a childhood friend – who she later finds out is a werewolf. Awkward!
Now I will NOT spoil the movie for the rest of you, but I will say it is actually quite entertaining. A lot of action, some flashes of comedy and a whole lot more intense staring in the woods – the film has something for everyone. And the “teen wolf” is pretty hunky. I’m not into guys, but this guy’s a keeper. If I was in the movie, I would be “dancing with wolves.”
I didn’t see this film on my own. My wife made me see it. As a husband, I’m obligated to do these sorts of things once in a while.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
The Write Stuff
Yes, it’s been forever since I’ve posted anything, but I have an excuse. I’ve been busy.
And by “busy”, I mean real busy. I have more jobs than Ryan Seacrest at the moment, and it’s not for the money. (It’s for the glory!)
I’m involved with a lot of things (writing clubs, disc golf clubs, marriage, freelance writing and more) and I can honestly say that I haven’t had a chance to sit down and write my thoughts.
The last time we visited our mutual friends, Kristin and Scott (which I think was over a month ago now), Kristin was grillin’ me as to why I no longer post. I really had nothing more to say than what I’ve written above. But it’s the truth, and I hear it time and time again by others who are more and more busy every day. We are just too busy!
Plus, I also don’t have the luxury of having a big fat communications device that comes with its own skinny little stylus and tiny keypads that require me to grow my nails long so that I won’t hit four letters at once while typing. Those devices are too expensive and I believe I have yet to earn one. Sure, life’s crazy, but not so crazy that I need to have my email at my hip 24/7 and update my facebook status to let everyone know that I think the rain sucks.
I just wanted to tell anyone who may be missing me that I am fine and have not given up on writing. In fact, the very opposite is true. I’m writing more than ever (you just have to look harder to find it!).
And by “busy”, I mean real busy. I have more jobs than Ryan Seacrest at the moment, and it’s not for the money. (It’s for the glory!)
I’m involved with a lot of things (writing clubs, disc golf clubs, marriage, freelance writing and more) and I can honestly say that I haven’t had a chance to sit down and write my thoughts.
The last time we visited our mutual friends, Kristin and Scott (which I think was over a month ago now), Kristin was grillin’ me as to why I no longer post. I really had nothing more to say than what I’ve written above. But it’s the truth, and I hear it time and time again by others who are more and more busy every day. We are just too busy!
Plus, I also don’t have the luxury of having a big fat communications device that comes with its own skinny little stylus and tiny keypads that require me to grow my nails long so that I won’t hit four letters at once while typing. Those devices are too expensive and I believe I have yet to earn one. Sure, life’s crazy, but not so crazy that I need to have my email at my hip 24/7 and update my facebook status to let everyone know that I think the rain sucks.
I just wanted to tell anyone who may be missing me that I am fine and have not given up on writing. In fact, the very opposite is true. I’m writing more than ever (you just have to look harder to find it!).
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Ultra Buff Women!!!
Wow! Where has the time gone? It seems as though it’s been years since I last post. Can you believe the “I Kissed a Girl” song (the theme song for our lesbot nation) has dominated the airwaves and I’ve written NOTHING about it?! I’ve been too busy preparing for wedding bliss!
Speaking of wedding bliss, we are now in the final preparations for the big day (which is nearly two months away!). Noooooo!!!! I mean, Yessssssss!!! (Honestly, the only thing I’m concerned about is everyone looking at me while I wait at the “altar” and the plane ride to our honeymoon destination. I’m cool with everything else.)
The other night, we decided to relieve some pre-wedding stress by wining and dining at Station Square. I was super-psyched as any dope-ass Brookline native would be, but as we drove through the parking lot, I could tell something was amiss. The nearby hotel was hosting an ultra-buff women convention!
Now I have nothing against women who workout or do cardiovascular workout or the ever-useless yoga, but the women I saw walking through Station Square were uber-buff, body-building women with muscles throbbing all over. Their veins sprung from their appendages as if they were part of some bas relief created by God. These tan, solid women stuck out of the crowd like Baldwin residents at a prestige country club. People weren’t familiar seeing them there!
The buff women received glances from nearly everyone they passed. Shifty eyes focused on their robust figures as they walked through the courtyard. Personally, I found their larger-and-stronger-than-the-average-man look unattractive – however many of the women were accompanied by guys! The guys themselves were not body-builders, but I had to wonder: How do these guys feel? Do they feel emasculated? Are they usually on the bottom?
After awhile, I stopped thinking about it because my head started to hurt. (This sometimes happens during humid evenings. It’s not because I’m dumb or anything.)
Speaking of wedding bliss, we are now in the final preparations for the big day (which is nearly two months away!). Noooooo!!!! I mean, Yessssssss!!! (Honestly, the only thing I’m concerned about is everyone looking at me while I wait at the “altar” and the plane ride to our honeymoon destination. I’m cool with everything else.)
The other night, we decided to relieve some pre-wedding stress by wining and dining at Station Square. I was super-psyched as any dope-ass Brookline native would be, but as we drove through the parking lot, I could tell something was amiss. The nearby hotel was hosting an ultra-buff women convention!
Now I have nothing against women who workout or do cardiovascular workout or the ever-useless yoga, but the women I saw walking through Station Square were uber-buff, body-building women with muscles throbbing all over. Their veins sprung from their appendages as if they were part of some bas relief created by God. These tan, solid women stuck out of the crowd like Baldwin residents at a prestige country club. People weren’t familiar seeing them there!
The buff women received glances from nearly everyone they passed. Shifty eyes focused on their robust figures as they walked through the courtyard. Personally, I found their larger-and-stronger-than-the-average-man look unattractive – however many of the women were accompanied by guys! The guys themselves were not body-builders, but I had to wonder: How do these guys feel? Do they feel emasculated? Are they usually on the bottom?
After awhile, I stopped thinking about it because my head started to hurt. (This sometimes happens during humid evenings. It’s not because I’m dumb or anything.)
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Cleaning With Trash
I recently decided to take on an additional job as a custodian/maintenance man. (Sure, I may not promote or practice cleaning at home, but I will sure as hell do it for some cash!)
At this new job, I’m considered a “floater”, meaning that I go to different buildings every night to do different things; whether it’s cleanings doors, scrubbing walls, collecting trash or dusting horizontal surfaces.
There are 10 buildings in the complex and each building is home to several offices (for lawyers, radio stations, PR consultants, etc.). There are cleaners designated to certain areas in these buildings. If someone calls off, I go to their assigned building and essentially do their job for the evening. Therefore, I get to do something different every night.
For the last few evenings, I’ve been assigned to Building 1 – mostly scrubbing stairwells and walls. Sure, theses tasks were a pain, but so was sharing the Building with Chud, another cleaner.
Chud is in his early fifties and looks very tired. He has a good tan, but it may actually be dirt. He lives with his dad in a neighborhood down the street, across from Sammy’s Salon and up the road from Tim’s Tavern. He likes Coors and thinks the Cocker Spaniel is one of the meanest breeds of dog.
He comes into my work area every chance he gets to ask me questions like:
“Hey, you worked here before, right?
“You drink Coors?”
“You an animal lover?”
“What bar do you go to?”
“You’re Marcus, right?
“Doesn’t your wife work here?”
“Were you sick?”
“Yeah! You’re Marcus!”
“You an animal lover?”
One night, Chud was kind enough to tell me that I look like a particular midget from studio wrestling. It must be my delicious sausage fingers.
Later on, he interrupted one of our intellectual conversations to tell me that I looked like some guy from a TV show.
“Do you mean MASH?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been a while.”
“Are you talking about Radar?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “You think you look like him?”
“No,” I assure him. “Radar wears glasses. I don’t.”
Another day, Chud tells me that he doesn’t get along with our supervisor.
“I fuckin’ chased him into the parking lot. Tommy had to hold me back,” he said.
“Jeez,” I said. “When was this?”
“About three months ago. I can get pretty angry.”
I tried to relate to him.
“I used to be angry a lot too,” I said. He looked at me for a second, a grin appeared on his face. He lowered his voice and said: “You’re still fuckin’ nuts, aren’t you?”
Chud also think I’m in my forties and suggested that I hurry up and have kids while I can.
I tried to explain to him that guys can have kids at any age and that it’s the woman who needs to be younger than 40. He just laughed and said, “Aw man! I can’t believe you just said that!”
At this new job, I’m considered a “floater”, meaning that I go to different buildings every night to do different things; whether it’s cleanings doors, scrubbing walls, collecting trash or dusting horizontal surfaces.
There are 10 buildings in the complex and each building is home to several offices (for lawyers, radio stations, PR consultants, etc.). There are cleaners designated to certain areas in these buildings. If someone calls off, I go to their assigned building and essentially do their job for the evening. Therefore, I get to do something different every night.
For the last few evenings, I’ve been assigned to Building 1 – mostly scrubbing stairwells and walls. Sure, theses tasks were a pain, but so was sharing the Building with Chud, another cleaner.
Chud is in his early fifties and looks very tired. He has a good tan, but it may actually be dirt. He lives with his dad in a neighborhood down the street, across from Sammy’s Salon and up the road from Tim’s Tavern. He likes Coors and thinks the Cocker Spaniel is one of the meanest breeds of dog.
He comes into my work area every chance he gets to ask me questions like:
“Hey, you worked here before, right?
“You drink Coors?”
“You an animal lover?”
“What bar do you go to?”
“You’re Marcus, right?
“Doesn’t your wife work here?”
“Were you sick?”
“Yeah! You’re Marcus!”
“You an animal lover?”
One night, Chud was kind enough to tell me that I look like a particular midget from studio wrestling. It must be my delicious sausage fingers.
Later on, he interrupted one of our intellectual conversations to tell me that I looked like some guy from a TV show.
“Do you mean MASH?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s been a while.”
“Are you talking about Radar?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “You think you look like him?”
“No,” I assure him. “Radar wears glasses. I don’t.”
Another day, Chud tells me that he doesn’t get along with our supervisor.
“I fuckin’ chased him into the parking lot. Tommy had to hold me back,” he said.
“Jeez,” I said. “When was this?”
“About three months ago. I can get pretty angry.”
I tried to relate to him.
“I used to be angry a lot too,” I said. He looked at me for a second, a grin appeared on his face. He lowered his voice and said: “You’re still fuckin’ nuts, aren’t you?”
Chud also think I’m in my forties and suggested that I hurry up and have kids while I can.
I tried to explain to him that guys can have kids at any age and that it’s the woman who needs to be younger than 40. He just laughed and said, “Aw man! I can’t believe you just said that!”
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The Penguin Next Door
On a recent evening, while the city stared at televisions broadcasting the Penguins game, I sat around my house enjoying the eerie quiet in the neighborhood. (Who am I kidding – it’s always quiet around here!)
Just when I thought everyone was preoccupied, my doorbell rang. What the hell?!
I opened the front door to find two little boys. The kid who rang the doorbell had painted his face black and gold for the occasion while his friend (or brother) sat inside of a red wagon.
“Is Marc here?” the kid asked.
“No,” I said. “Marc doesn’t live here.”
“Where is he?” the kid pressed on.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. I don’t know Marc,” I finally said. “Sorry.”
I watched the boys leave in disappointment – the painted kid dragging the wagon containing the other kid. It was cute in a Norman Rockwell kind of way.
I later learned that the boys were looking for Marc Fleury, the Penguins’ goalie. It turns out he’s a neighbor in the hood! Hell, even if I saw him, I wouldn’t recognize him. I could have gone swimming with him in the pool – who really knows?!
Time to get autographs!
Just when I thought everyone was preoccupied, my doorbell rang. What the hell?!
I opened the front door to find two little boys. The kid who rang the doorbell had painted his face black and gold for the occasion while his friend (or brother) sat inside of a red wagon.
“Is Marc here?” the kid asked.
“No,” I said. “Marc doesn’t live here.”
“Where is he?” the kid pressed on.
“I don’t know. I have no idea. I don’t know Marc,” I finally said. “Sorry.”
I watched the boys leave in disappointment – the painted kid dragging the wagon containing the other kid. It was cute in a Norman Rockwell kind of way.
I later learned that the boys were looking for Marc Fleury, the Penguins’ goalie. It turns out he’s a neighbor in the hood! Hell, even if I saw him, I wouldn’t recognize him. I could have gone swimming with him in the pool – who really knows?!
Time to get autographs!
Monday, April 28, 2008
My Beautiful Mommy
There is a new children’s book on shelves titled “My Beautiful Mommy.” The picture book (whose audience is 4 – 7 year-olds) is meant to reassure kids about mom getting new tits and a facelift. It was written by a cosmetic surgeon.
According to an article I read online, this controversial book has stirred up debates (and outrage) from feminists as well as other surgeons.
In one part of the book, the mommy tells her daughter that mommy’s clothes no longer fit right and that “Dr. Michael is going to help fix that and make me feel better.” She also assures her daughter that mommy’s nose job will make her “not just different, my dear – prettier!”
I happened to catch a glimpse of the book’s cover – a small cartoon child holding a teddy bear welcomes her shiny new mommy with open arms (there are actual sparkles around the mom toon). And of course, toon mommy has more curves and perks than a windy road in the mountains. (Was that a bad metaphor?)
Anyway, my point is that this book breaks barriers for other “what strange and unnatural thing is mommy doing?” books. Here are a few of my ideas:
My Drug-Induced Mommy
Why Do I Have a Different Daddy Every Other Week?
Mommy’s Funny Pack of Smokes
Why Mommy Likes Needles
Why Mommy Likes Two Guys (this is also a number book)
Metal Detector Mommy
Botox Beauty
Mommy’s Two Sides: A Ride on the Bipolar Express
Hmmm. I may actually write the last one.
According to an article I read online, this controversial book has stirred up debates (and outrage) from feminists as well as other surgeons.
In one part of the book, the mommy tells her daughter that mommy’s clothes no longer fit right and that “Dr. Michael is going to help fix that and make me feel better.” She also assures her daughter that mommy’s nose job will make her “not just different, my dear – prettier!”
I happened to catch a glimpse of the book’s cover – a small cartoon child holding a teddy bear welcomes her shiny new mommy with open arms (there are actual sparkles around the mom toon). And of course, toon mommy has more curves and perks than a windy road in the mountains. (Was that a bad metaphor?)
Anyway, my point is that this book breaks barriers for other “what strange and unnatural thing is mommy doing?” books. Here are a few of my ideas:
My Drug-Induced Mommy
Why Do I Have a Different Daddy Every Other Week?
Mommy’s Funny Pack of Smokes
Why Mommy Likes Needles
Why Mommy Likes Two Guys (this is also a number book)
Metal Detector Mommy
Botox Beauty
Mommy’s Two Sides: A Ride on the Bipolar Express
Hmmm. I may actually write the last one.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Update!
So after a month on hiatus, I’m back (sort of).
Too much has been going on in my personal life to sit down and write anything remotely entertaining. Working 12-hour days doesn’t leave much energy for anything else.
On the other hand, I’ve recently received a fresh dose of inspiration for my book, and I hope next weekend includes at least a few hours of writing time. If only I can hold onto the motivation…
Too much has been going on in my personal life to sit down and write anything remotely entertaining. Working 12-hour days doesn’t leave much energy for anything else.
On the other hand, I’ve recently received a fresh dose of inspiration for my book, and I hope next weekend includes at least a few hours of writing time. If only I can hold onto the motivation…
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