Friday, March 13, 2009

Soles'n'Bowls

  • Rush who now? I can't imagine discussing a joke radio character in any serious fashion. And I knew Hank the Angry Drunken Dwarf.
  • Whenever anyone calls my landline on their digital phone and it's picking up the ambient conversations as clearly as the person who is calling, I always yell. That'll show you how old I am.
  • Or, how much I'd rather just text.
  • If you're at the Massachusetts Maritime Academy -- and if you want a job on a ship, you should be -- you'll be learning how to fire guns and handle risk management since the public's love affair with peg-legged, hook-handed, eyepatched parrot tenders has led to a general tolerance for people who identify themselves with the P-Word. Thanks to Mass Maritime, the rest of us can feel a little safer knowing that some idiot won't think that Johnny Depp is climbing up the hull when somebody yells "PIRATE!"
  • A few years ago, a friend of mine pressed me and another friend into an escapade involving acting and dancing that was her presentation for her Master's Degree at Emerson's College of Oratory.
  • She succeeded wildly, of course -- choice of play and participants notwithstanding -- and I'll always remember hopping down to the corner tavern for awful chicken wings and loud tourons calling their waitress "Carla."
  • It was the old Bull and Finch Pub, Back Bay's most recognizable ... what? Wrought iron railing recreated by Hollywood union set fabricators for brief weather-establishing business, usually involving a guy named Norm?
  • Back in the days before the InterToobz, people found out about location shooting by word of mouth, and the news of an actual bar that might possibly could have something to do with teevee folk brought a number of people out to seek T-shirts and shot glasses that had the pre-established comfy logo of Cheers on them.
  • Speaking of teevee and bars, the NYTimes has a swell bit on some places around NYNY where they don't have any. First time that we up at this end of The Beach have been ahead of the curve. I cannot name one bah that doesn't have at least three screens hollering some gibberish at me while I ... But I digress...
  • Eddie Doyle was the senior bartender at The Bull and Finch, with thirty-five years of experience being patient and pleasant, drawing one after another for the folks who wanted a piece of the star that he shone under. He's another guy who is being tossed to the wharf because the dogs who own his rig can't figure out a way to keep both his and their own tidy share of the take.
  • Eddie Doyle was the real deal. He wasn't a womanizer. He wasn't a hotdogger flipping bottles over his head and inventing horrible concoctions with smutty names. He enjoyed his work, and did it at the same place for thirty-five years. (I envy anyone who's had the same job for more than thirty-five days.)
  • They finally figured out that the reason that I have diabetes (the juvenile-onset one, not the hipster one that everybody gets just to be cool) is, according to a Glaswegian smartypants, the fault of a little enterovirus plus some unfortunately-placed genetic factors that enabled an autoimmune disorder to destroy insulin-producing cells in my pancreas.
  • I will thank everyone to NOT TELL MY MOTHER!! Who will automatically assume that it was her fault. I assure her now -- as I always have -- that she is in no way culpable, (because she never is, dammit) since she kept an immaculate house and kept me pretty much boiled and disinfected and well-groomed throughout my early formative years. And terrifically well-dressed, also.
  • But I do suspect those nuns. No matter what dental hygiene products...

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