You know, I discovered something else today:
To a guy, ‘Hey, I bet you used to be smokin’ hot!’ is kind of a compliment. To a woman… well, apparently, not so much. Apparently.‘
Okay, that’s all for today. See ya!
Nah, not really. I couldn’t possibly post entries that short two days in a row. You might as well ask me to sit down to pee. It’s just not natural.
On the other hand, I’ve got my irons in a couple of other fires right now — and no, that’s not sex talk for anything kinky, people. I wish. I’d like to have my ‘irons’ in a couple of ‘fires’ right now — nudge nudge, wink wink. Actually, it’d be pretty cool to have ‘irons’, in the plural sense, at all, come to think of it.
Of course, then I would have to sit down to pee, probably. So maybe that’s not such a great idea, after all.
Anyway, leaving my ‘irons’ out of this for a moment, I’ve been trying to write more lately. Not here, of course — hell, if I wrote more here, I wouldn’t have time to sleep, or work, or fiddle with my irons.
(That’s my golf irons, there, puppysnort. Don’t get all snippety and shit.)
See, the thing about writing here is that I don’t have to apply any of that… oh, what’s it called? You know, that stuff that real writers have… damn, it’s on the tip of my fingers — ooh, ooh, I know: discipline. Hell, I don’t even proofread most of this shit any more — I just go *blaauuuughhhh* on the keyboard for an hour or two, and there it is. Who’s got time to double-check their work at this rate?
(Actually — as though anyone really cares here, but still — I used to edit my posts, back near the beginning. When I was unemployed. And not doing standup yet. Back when I had eighteen free hours or so a day, minus a while here and there for showers and meals.
A lot of those posts were really long, too — up in the two, three, four thousands of words every damned day. Now, I’m lucky to throw down a few hundred words five or six times a week. I know, I know — I’m a pussy. Meh.)
Anyway, meandering back to the point — I think it’d be cool to write ‘for real’ some day. Maybe not ‘for real, for real’, like as a profession… but maybe. Someday. In the meantime, having something published would be pretty awesome.
So occasionally, I submit a piece for consideration. And it gets considered. And then it gets rejected. And then I make my sad little puppy dog face, and try again a little while later. And in between, there’s a lot of bitching and drinking and *blaaaauuuugh*-ing stuff around here. Someday, dammit. Someday.
I tell you that to tell you this — today, the ‘Humor Issue’ of the Improper Bostonian magazine came out. There were three submitted pieces published by local comics on ‘Boston life’. The following was not among them. See the puppy dog face? That’s the stage I’m in right now. But I’m also looking for the next opportunity to make that face again already, and that’s a record for me. I call that ‘progress‘.
(Psychologists would call that ‘delusional‘, but fuck them. Those bastards never got published in the Improper Bostonian, either. Fuckers.)
So, here’s the piece. Since they didn’t use it, I’m free to present it to you. Aren’t you privileged and snooty? And look for more of these half-baked rejects coming soon. Just hopefully not all the half-baked pieces. Somebody’s got to bite some day, right? Some day. Some day…
Eh, screw wistful. Here’s the damned thing. Maybe they’ll get better. Someday. Ha.
Boston, all things considered, is a fairly spectacular city. It’s filled with fun and fashion, Fenways and Fanueils, and lots of other interesting ‘F’-y sorts of words. But it can be daunting to the uninitiated. For a newcomer, Boston takes some getting used to — like a new pair of sneakers, or the latest Affleck arm candy, or the Sox winning the World Series.
(And be sure to take full advantage of that last one. Remember, this is our afterglow — it’s the only time in our lives when the Red Sox can distract us from other depressing stuff in the world. Use it or lose it.)
Anyway, I moved to Boston myself just a few short years ago. You’ve probably already noticed from my accent that I didn’t grow up around here. I don’t ‘pahk my cahr’, for instance. I don’t ‘faht in chuhch’. And I don’t get chicks ‘hammehed’ and chain them to the ‘radiatah’.
(Well, okay — just once. But she was wicked begging for it.)
Now, I’ve learned a lot about Boston life during my time here. I’ve learned that Sam Adams was a brewer and a patriot — in that order. I’ve learned that in Cambridge, both geese and college students have a ‘blank check’ right-of-way for crossing the streets — and that the geese are generally smarter about it. And I’ve learned that winter here lasts six months — or nearly as long as the ‘Broons’ NHL hockey season.
(There’s no ‘I’ in team, and apparently we’re not supposed to pronounce the ‘I’ in ‘Bruins’, either. I learned that, too.)
I’ve also learned that, somehow, ‘MBTA’ shortens to ‘T’, as opposed to something boring and predictable like ‘M’ or ‘Mibta’ or ‘subway’. Speaking of which, I’ve also learned that it’s generally best to treat the T like a Taco Bell restroom — which is not to say that you should pee on the walls when you think there’s nobody looking. Rather, it’s best to use the T when there are relatively few other people using it, too. Riding the T during rush hour is a lot like holding a family reunion in the trunk of your car. Assuming your reunions are catered by Dunkin Donuts, of course.
Getting around Boston by car poses its own issues — the ‘Big Dig’ foremost among them. You see, there’s no real end to the Big Dig. The project has been ongoing for many years — perhaps since ancient times, when cavemen first scraped dirt away from the Sumner Tunnel with their bare, hairy-knuckled hands. And it will continue forever, in some form or another. Today, they’re fixing ‘normal’ leaks in the tunnel under the Charles River. In a thousand years, it’ll be costly repairs to the hoverbus lane on the Tom Brady Memorial Bridge, or orange pylons blocking access to the express teleporters outbound to the airport. Get used to it.
If you’re determined to drive your way around the Hub, there’s still the problem of getting directions. Never mind that there’s a Harvard Street and Beacon Avenue in every postage stamp-sized town surrounding Boston proper. I have more trouble with pronouncing the names of those towns — squeezing ‘Meffid’ out of Medford took some practice. Or how about ‘Leominster’, with its mysterious silent ‘o’– that’s just nonsense. There’s no such thing as a silent ‘O’; Dr. Ruth’s been preaching that for years. Worst of all, though, is Dorchester.
(Yes, I know it looks just like it sounds — and that’s precisely the problem. I just got used to Worcester being ‘Woostah’, and Gloucester morphing into ‘Glahstah’. So why wouldn’t Dorchester be ‘Distah’, then? If you’re going to mangle the language, at least be consistent. Work with me here.)
Honestly, though, I’ve grown accustomed to life in Boston. The endless snow shoveling, the annual Patriots Day hullabaloo, setting out for Chelsea and ending up in Chelmsford — all are small prices to pay to live in one of the finest cities on the planet.
(And the only place where it’s acceptable etiquette to chant ‘Yankees suck!’ in any situation — baseball games, Pops concerts, weddings, you name it. It’s sort of the unofficial city motto. We should have it tiled into the City Hall floor.)
But after five years in Boston, I�m still learning about how to get along here. There’s still much to learn. Wicked much.Permalink | 5 Comments