The Dose is proud to present: The Barbie Collection.

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I went to a wedding reception in Chinatown last weekend. A wedding I could walk home from. Wow. I’ve been waiting for this my entire life. And before the reception started I made a pact with myself that I would try every dish thrown my way. And I held up my end of the bargain through all ten courses served. If I go the rest of my life without again eating jelly fish tentacles or sea urchin, I will not complain.

This was a traditional Chinese wedding. There was an emcee who spoke 95% Chinese the entire night. The bride sung a karaoke song to her now husband. There was no dancing. No dancing?! Hey! I think I like Chinese weddings!

Now I’ve been at the singles table before. The out-of-towners table. The relatives table. The kids table. The odds-and-ends table. But this was a first. I was at the white table. The round eye table. The cracker barrel.

And even though I felt a bit insulted when we were the only table to be given forks, without asking for them, while every other table was given only chopsticks…. I slurped down my shark fin soup and smiled, genuinely happy for the lovely couple.

In what I’d like to call an accidental mistake in etiquette but will admit was really the presence of insecurity, I snuck ahead of the farewell line to avoid the bride and parents and went straight to the groom at the end. “Hey man, thanks so much for coming, really.” “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t miss it.” “Seriously man, thanks, when I get back we have to get drinks.” “Sure thing.” I slipped him the red envelope, so proud of myself for doing the extra research.

It felt strange to be wearing a suit in Chinatown as I wound my way tipsily through its narrow corridors. I didn’t feel like a king. I felt like I looked like I was trolling for hookers or something. Not a soul in sight and I was still concerned about what people were thinking of me.

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Behold my slimmerizing sheath. It is breath-taking.^*

Ever since I can remember I’ve kept my Bank of America debit card in its protective sheath. Of course I did. In fact, I’ve even been known to go to the bank and request a fresh replacement sheath when it was called for. Of course I have.

Like a samurai’s sword, once it was removed from its sheath it had to be used else I’d bring great shame and dishonor to me and my family. “Yeah, that’s what I said. a VENTI decaf latte with a shot of peppermint, extra whip. On the card.”

Well, are you sitting down? …. After over a decade, I have finally thrown out my Bank of America debit card sheath. Yes, it’s true. I am sheathless. I’m raw cardin’ it baby. And it feels greeeeat!!

I will give you a moment to compose yourselves.

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About a year ago I started collecting a small pamphlet called “This Week in Boston”. They’re small booklets published in the 1940’s full of news tidbits and things to do around the city. It’s like seeing a snapshot in time and it’s fun to look at the vintage ads and read about establishments that once were or that are still standing today.

On page forty two of each issue are the personals ads which I defy you to not enjoy. The ads are very sincere yet unintentionally hilarious. If you weren’t seeing them with your own eyes you might think they were fake. They’re surprisingly brief and written in such a formal style.

“Personable young lady would like to correspond with ‘older’ man, interested in discussing the problems of present-day society.”

“Poet — poor, romantic, good company, owns dress suit. Would escort ladies for small fee.”

“Away from home town and secretary — businessman needs companionship of businesswoman, secretary or teacher for theatre, sports, trips, races. Age 30-40.”

This stuff is priceless.

One day an idea hit me. What if I took these ads and posted them verbatim on Craigslist today. Same city. Same words. Would they still garner a response a full 60 years later? What would that say? As society and technology hurtle us forward through the years, are people still yearning for the same things in their lives?

I typed up the ads and I broke them down into present-day Craigslist categories. W4M. M4W. Services. Resumes. And on a rainy Saturday afternoon I posted the ads. I felt a bit of guilt over what I was doing. I mean, I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I didn’t want to get any one’s hopes up and since I already knew I wouldn’t be responding to any of them would I be doing just that? Would my lack of response do damage to someone?

I stepped away from my computer. Maybe I’d go get some Indian food. Like a backyard chef I was ready to leave my ads in the Craigslist grill, close the lid, and let them marinate for a few hours before I proudly checked in on them again later. As I turned the handle to leave I heard it. bee-boop! An email response had already come in. And as I tried (bee-boop) to read the email (bee-boop) I found myself distracted (bee-boop) by all of the other emails (bee-boop) coming in. bee-boop. bee-boop! bee-boop!! bee-boop!!! I was wholly unprepared for the deluge. Good Ganesh. Indian food would have to wait. Over the next twenty four hours the response count would continue to climb steadily, exceeding the 100 mark. And I would scramble to keep up with it all…..

First up, the ladies:

Phytophilous Female of perspicuity would epistolate with young male of same inclination.

This ad is an enormous hit and several people admit having run to their dictionary in order to respond properly. Just hearing that triggers the pangs of guilt (people *did* something because of my ad) but I push the guilt down. Luckily this guilt evaporates completely when I open an email from “e” which simply says “25 M, blessed” and before I know it I’m staring at an enormous shot of his cock. Yup. My first dick pic!! And he’s at his full “blessed” attention too. A vegetarian woman wants to write letters to another vegetarian and this guy thinks, “Hey, I got it. I’ll send her a photo of my penis!” It’s like sending a picture of a cow to someone who’s lactose-intolerant. Aside for this lovely visual the responses vary. Some are clever, “Weed-B-Gon will eradicate pre-emergent, obfusticating arguments.” Some are predictable, “how would you like a massage with oil from my aloe vera plant?” And some are hard to explain. James tells me nice try but that I should check my syntax, signing off with “I’m not what you are looking for.” I guess after crushing the Sunday Times crossword puzzle and looking for more conquests James likes to point out mistakes in personal ads that he’s not interested in. I’m tempted to send James back a shot of my junk, but I resist.

Young Woman, just out of college, is spending summer at mountain retreat with elderly (and rich) relatives. Bored to extinction. Will somebody write me a nice sparkling letter. I’ll answer promptly.

This ad gave me instant mental images of Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray. I kept waiting for a response of “Nobody puts Baby in a corner!” but it never comes. This innocent request for letters is answered by men who want to meet the young woman in the secluded woods in whatever idyllic town this mountain retreat resides in, and ravage her repeatedly. Or they want the letters to be about her sexual fantasies. One responder cites his “massage skills” and another in all caps just says CALL ME followed by a local number. A response of “HOW DO YOU LOOK LIKE?” and many others like it start to confirm my hunch that for many of the respondees, English may not be their first language….. and half of the internet seems to be suffering from a broken caps lock button.

Tall, green-eyed miss, lover of indoor sports would like correspondence with young men of like tastes. (Age 28-35)

I didn’t think anything of it when I read it originally, but the “indoor sports” reference has the men in a frenzy. This is obviously a green light for much raunchier emails and references to flexibility and endurance are found in 90% of the responses. This ad also garners lots of photos. Some faces. Some body parts. Scott confidently lets me know about his “34 inch waist - killa eyes & butt im told.” Stephen about his “strong hands.”

Vulture for Culture — Wish to meet young man with sense of rhythm who likes Slavonic dances.

Ha! The responses include a link to a guy’s MySpace page, a response of just “Love to Dance! I am Game!” and last but not least a little history lesson, “Hi, you’re looking for slavic dances. Slavonic is 300 yr old russian used by some eastern rite catholic churches.” Why thank you, Professor.

Young, active, attractive private secretary would engage in exchange of letters with a nice young man on outdoor sports– not fishing.

The “not fishing” requirement is what made me love this ad so much, but that point goes relatively unnoticed. Alessio sends me a pic of his face and his abs with an email that just says “DINNER??? IF INTERESTED LET ME KNOW!” Another email simply says “real secretary?”

Time for the men:

Write A Letter to a lonesome guy on a farm far from the bright lights. Smart-Alec females save your postage. I am a nature boy, aged 27.

Gentleman — 6 footer with quizzical smile and twinkle in eyes would like to meet attractive woman 35 or 40 (no junior miss or college student) to discuss frailties of life and do something about it.

Male Ph.D. seeks interesting and stimulating correspondence from Ph.D. of opposite sex.

Gentleman Explorer, leaving on private expedition to the South Seas would like to correspond while en route with lively miss. Will send snapshots of interesting places and people.

Smart-Alec females. *snarf* I eagerly await the replies but the response rate is disappointingly low. Still, every ad gets at least one response. The responses are intelligently written and polite. “What are you doing there on the farm far from the bright lights?:-)” “what woman wouldn’t want to see the south seas?” “What do you like to chat about?” “What a great post! Short, sweet and to the point. How old are you?” It’s a lopsided wave of civility and lower-casing that is more than welcome.

I’M LONESOME.

This one was a special case since there was no clue as to what gender wrote it, and I made a point to post it that way as well. When I read this ad in the pamphlet I knew I would post it. Of all of the ads this one spoke most to the core of what I was trying to reveal. I wanted to know if this sentiment was something that would persevere through the years. Would it resonate. The fact that there was no elaboration in the ad made it that much more poignant. Well, it got two responses, both from men. Art, in an act of selflessness wrote, “are you a female? if so i would love to cheer you up if you are a guy i have no intrest in you thankks” And Joe wrote back something that shocked me. His email simply said “get a puppy.” Wow.

It’s not just about romance….

If You Bulge in all the wrong places let me fit you to my slimmerizing sheath– it is breath-taking.

Even this ad gets a response! A plus-sized model on the North Shore of Boston would like more information.

Jealousy Promotion Co. — New service! Will telephone anyone anywhere– sweet male and female voices used. Possibilities of creating imaginary competition unsurpassed. Brings hesitant lovers to heel. Individual attention by trained psychologists. Brochure on request. Confidential.

I love this ad! And for reasons I can’t explain it gets flagged and removed by the community. But not before a request comes in for a brochure.

College Grad. Harvard. Matrimonially inclined. Has the girl but not the job. Wants Boston position. Advertising and sales promotion experience. Latest effort– moved record quantities of nationally-advertised product. Lusty, loyal, ambitious, imaginative, indefatigable, magnetic but unobtrusive and modest personality. Interview may prove profitable to us both.

Would you ever use the word lusty to describe yourself on a resume? Well, you might be surprised to learn that this ad had five responses. Four seemed like robot responses from recruiters, but one seemed legit, “Do you have a contact #?” Sad that that is what constitutes a real response at this point.

My goal was not to give a commentary on the denizens of Craigslist and their email habits, grammar, or potential demographics. I just wanted to see if people were still reaching out for the same things today as they were in the past. What they buy may be different. What they drive. How they dress. Their jobs. But what about their hearts?

I don’t know if I succeeded in proving anything. But as crazy as these ads were I couldn’t help but re-read them all one last time and think….. I like indoor sports. I don’t like fishing. I’ve fantasized about sailing the South Seas. I’m lusty. I’ve wished for imaginary competition. I write sparkling letters. I fight a few bulges. I’m lonesome.

Maybe I should get a puppy.

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I’m quite brilliant. I’ve devised this whole system of where I buy things on eBay. Then once I’ve amassed something substantial I feel the need to purge my belongings and I sell it at a fraction of the price or donate it to a historical society. Obviously this is an outstanding use of my precious free time and an excellent way to invest one’s discretionary income.

The Historical Societies of Brookline, Boston, and Charlestown have all received donations from me this year. I guess donating the items removes any guilt I might have about throwing them away. I’m giving them to someone who will genuinely appreciate them and it removes any wiffle-waffling I might have about it.

But not all of the items are things I’ve bought. When I moved into my new apartment I did the customary exploration of every nook and cranny of the space. And in a recess on top of my kitchen cabinet I found a vintage ad for Chesty Morgan. Holy chesticles. Not particularly appealing to me. Yet still it is something to behold. It’s vintage. It’s local. It’s iconic.

I consider framing it and keeping it in my office. But then I think of my nephews coming over and gawking at it or asking me about it. At which point I’d brush some Lady Finger crumbs off the shoulders of my red satin robe, blow into my pipe causing some tiny bubbles to come out and say, “There’s a lot to be learned from old Uncle Andy…. please, sit down….”

I just can’t throw this thing away though. It wouldn’t be right. I do some research and find what I think would be the perfect place to donate it to. Exotic World in Helendate, CA. A museum honoring all things burlesque. They’ll love this thing. A fine piece to add to their collection.

I slip Chesty… hey, she should’ve done some Vicks VapoRub commercials in her time. I slip Chesty in an envelope and address it to Exotic World. I don’t have any stamps so I plan to take it to the post office the next day.

And therein lies the problem. I’m in line at the post office with envelope in hand but I’m scared to go up to the counter and have Mr. Crankypants look at the envelope, then look up at me, smirk, and raise an eyebrow. And then he’ll notice that I haven’t put a return address on it and tell me I have to or it can’t get mailed. Then I’ll put a fake address (so Exotic World doesn’t try to thank me) but being a postal worker in Boston for the past 40 years he’ll know it’s fake and call me on it and then in a “Doris, price check on the anal beads!” moment he’ll say “You can’t send something to EXOTIC WORLD unless you put a valid return address on the envelope!”

“Next customer please.” I go outside to get some fresh air and de-panic. I decide to take a walk. I pass several trash bins but resist the urge. I take stock of where I am and I have an idea. I walk a few blocks over to Centerfolds. I don’t know if they’re open or not but the door is closed and there’s no bouncer. I slip the envelope under the door….. and I run like the wind.

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There were only two games left in their season and if I didn’t go to one of those I’d have to wait until September for a chance to see the Boston Derby Dames play again. So up to Wilmington I went to the Shriners Auditorium. Shouldn’t it be the Shriner‘s Auditorium? Shriners‘?

I watched three periods of action packed all-female roller derby. But I still don’t think I could explain the rules to you very well. There are jammers and there are blockers and even though these girls have knee pads and elbow pads and helmets on they don’t have any hip pads and when they fall on the cement track I wince and make one of those quick inhaling hissing noises.

It was the Boston Massacre vs. The (Baltimore) Mobtown Maulers. The Boston Massacre mascot is a guy dressed up in a lobster suit and I caught myself smiling at watching him rhythmically slice his big red claws around as he danced to Jump Around blaring on the loud speakers. Is there anything more Boston than that? A lobster dancing to an Irish-centric rap band?

For some unexplained reason, and still unsolved, is why the Baltimore mascot was a kid dressed up in a hotdog suit. wtf?! A crab would’ve made more sense, right? And what an epic battled that would’ve been. Lobster vs. Crab. Two crustacean enter. One crustacean leave.

What struck me as most interesting was the mix of the crowd. Considerable lesbian contingent; butch couples hand-in-hand. Considerable goth contingent; piercings, colored hair. Yet very family friendly too, and in fact just a generally friendly vibe all around. But what added another great layer to it were the Shriners. This is their house remember, and they’re there taking tickets, acting as security, manning the concession stands. Cute overweight old men in their red windbreakers and tiny red fez hats with the tassels falling off them. A-dorable. I want to take a pottery class and make a Shriner-within-a-Shriner set of nesting dolls like those Russian babushkas. I’m convinced I could make a killing. Then again I also want to hand one of them a pair of cymbals and slap him on the back and yell “Clap Monkey Clap!”

To fuel my passion for this new business venture I eat cheeseburgers. Three of them. These are ordered one at a time and I try to time my visits to the concession stand so that I get a different server each time. I’m concerned they’ll remember me and judge me. Or call me a fatty fatty bobalatty. “Eat Fatty Eat!”

[ see: roller derby pics ]

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It was a rainy week night and I was at a local bar getting dinner by myself. Cup of clam chowder and buffalo chicken tenders. I vacantly stared at the tv mounted above the bar pretending to be engaged in the basketball game in progress. I could be questioned about the status of the game at any moment and this was an unsettling thought. I watched intently for a few minutes until I at least knew which team was which color. I felt comfortable knowing I was slightly more prepared now for any basic questioning.

An older woman came into the bar and took a stool two down from me. She was in tears. Blubbering. My head remained up, eyes transfixed on the game with a geniune purpose now. I did not want to be drawn in. Her sobs seemed obvious and loud to me and whether she was meaning to or not, I felt like she was trying to engage me. But I wouldn’t bite. This was a very important game. The blue guys were winning! They try to score when they run to the right. I congratulated myself on becoming quite the b-ball expert.

I felt guilty about not wanting to interact with the woman. How dare I withold sensitivity and sympathy from someone when I know how much I crave it in my own life? I stopped mentally flogging myself when the female bartender came to the rescue. They were obviously familiar with each other and they chatted and the bartender asked her if everything was ok. The woman waved her off, still in tears. “I’m ok. Nothing bad has happened,” she said. “It’s just.. what is happening to this world?” Upon being pressed, “Have something to eat, you’ll feel better dear”, she ordered a pint of beer and a bowl of chili.

By now the buffalo tenders were kicking in and I was blowing my nose into my napkin. Lovely. This always puts me in an awkward spot. I’m ok with blowing my nose in public if I have to but I can’t get myself to hand over the results to anyone. I just can’t make someone else handle this object, it’s just not fair. Even the idea of putting it on a finished dinner plate where maybe it can just be dumped into the trash doesn’t work for me. So the napkin ends up in my pocket for me to dispose of later on my own.

The woman got up to go to the bathroom and I asked for my bill. I gave the bartender my card and asked her to put the woman’s beer and chili on my tab but made it very clear not to tell her about it. I didn’t want to be thanked and I didn’t want this to be a big deal. The bartender immediately loved me for this and told me that she was so surprised to see the woman this way since she’s “normally such a classy lady.”

I settled the tab and made it out the door before the woman returned from the bathroom, just like I had hoped. I had a pleasant image of her asking for the bill in 30 minutes only to find out that the young man, who didn’t talk to her and is no longer there, took care of it. At a time in her life when she was feeling overwhelmed and lost I showed her there is kindess in the world.

I felt the moist napkin in my jacket pocket and headed home to discard of what I didn’t want others to touch. And to hide the fragile parts of me that I didn’t want others to see.

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A casual mention of the ostrich farms between Tucson and Phoenix is all it took to set me in motion. A little bit of googling and I had located Rooster Cogburn’s Ostrich Ranch in Picacho, AZ. The largest ostrich ranch in America with over 1100 african ostrich in the middle of the Arizona desert. It was now a mandatory stop on my trip.

And as it turns out I had an absolute blast seeing and feeding the ostrich! An experience I won’t soon forget. Who knew I could have so much fun in a town named after a pokemon? Among other things I learned that ostrich bite. Their necks swaying and lurching at me like giant angry cobra snakes. My digits persevere today only by the grace of god and by the biological fact that ostrich don’t have teeth.

On my way off the ranch as I rid my hands of ostrich saliva with a handi-wipe, I noticed a ranch hand who could have been Rooster, Jr. This made me think of RJR as a good nickname for him. Which made me think of ‘Who Shot JR?’ Which led me to thoughts of ‘Who shot RJR?’ and an image of detectives showing up at the ranch to find the answer to this burning question and all of the ostrich sticking their heads in the ground upon their arrival. But I digress….

A trip like this wouldn’t be complete without buying an actual ostrich egg. They’re enormous and outrageous and when it arrived at my desk at work I was pretty eggcited to say the least. But what to do with the egg?

A lot of options ran through my mind:

• get revenge on the punks who egged my car in the suburbs back in September.
• carry the egg around with me wherever I go for an entire month without breaking it to teach me the responsibility of having a baby.
• go see Rocky VI and when people start filing out at the end of the movie stand up proud and tall, take out the egg and crack it into a big gulp cup and drink it down raw, and then sprint from the theatre screaming Eye of the Tiger lyrics….. “Risin’ up to the challenge of our rival!!”.
• walk into the public library during a children’s hour and slam the egg into the middle of the reading circle and yell, “Special delivery from all the king’s men!” splosh. And run away.
• leave the egg under the Make Way for Ducklings statue in the Boston Public Garden.

But these are all utterly ridiculous ideas, obviously. So what should I do with my precious egg then? I decided to make the largest sunny-side up egg anyone has ever seen! Yessss! This couldn’t be achieved at home so a vital key would be finding and approaching a local establishment that would let me use their industrial size grill to make this happen. Can you imagine walking into a place and broaching this subject? Call it the old Andy charm. Call it fate. But to my amazement I found a local cafe that was not only accommodating but was actually as eggcited as I was to make this idea a reality.

I felt like a covert operative when I got a text message from the cafe that simply said “Sat. 2:45pm. Ostrich egg.” A time had been set. And I was a bit surprised to find some select patrons waiting at the cafe, having gotten wind of the event. Word had gotten out.

I think what transpired next can best be conveyed through pictures.

I was given the honor of cracking the egg open and pouring it onto the grill. But after that point I handed the reins over to a more seasoned chef. (note: the hand in the pics is the chef, not me)

It was a success beyond my greatest expectations. The yolk was intact, something I was sure would have broken during transit. It poured onto the grill and cooked perfectly. And it was delicious! Fluffier and much sweeter than a normal egg. We put the closed sign on the front door and all enjoyed our treat. Lots of cell phone pictures were taken and a few “Hey, guess what I’m eating right now?!” calls were made. There were five of us there that day and we couldn’t finish the egg on our own, which they say is equivalent to 24 chicken eggs.

I walked home from the cafe with a proud smile on my face. I felt like I had not only experienced but initiated something world record-ish. And I had entertained not only myself but others in the process.

I got home and found a Beacon Hill Times on my stoop. I opened it to page two and saw something very very …. intriguing.

(*wink*)

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When I called AAA to opt-out of their quarterly Horizons newsletter, and they obliged, I felt like I had removed a significant roadblock (no pun intended) in my life. This had to be the albatross that’s been holding me back and with it finally gone nothing could stop me now. Look out world! The fact that I had felt similarly about five other things earlier in the month didn’t faze me. I was convinced this time I was right.

So I was a bit dismayed when a week later a friend took out her copy of Horizons to show me an ad in the back pages that she knew would be “right up my alley,” and she was right. Uh oh, what had I been missing in Horizons? Should I re-subscribe? No Andy, stay strong.

The ad was for onederwear — underwear you wear once and then discard. One look and I knew immediately that I’d be making a purchase. One week later my package arrived. I let another week pass with my new purchase remaining untouched. What I did and where I went with my onederwear was significant and I wanted to choose wisely.

Finally I broke down and donned my first pair. They weren’t exactly stylish and even though I bought the large size they were still too tight. Surprisingly though after a few minutes I forgot I was even wearing them. And I wanted to tell the world. I sought out lulls in everyday conversation as an opportunity to share my news in a matter of fact tone. “I’m wearing disposable underwear.”

Thanksgiving rolled around and I made travel plans. Me. Traveling by choice. On the busiest travel day of the year. This was a milestone in itself and I was very proud of myself for the big step forward. But when I got myself to the airport a full three hours before my departure time it felt like two steps back.

I saw the trip as the perfect opportunity to bring and use my disposable underwear. Not only would I wear a pair in flight, but I’d return from my trip with less belongings than I left with! Somewhere in my soul that felt satisfying. Like the goodness that washes over me when I slip a sales receipt into my shredder. I have a sickness.

In line at airport security I started to sweat. My man bag was filled with disposable underwear, each pair rolled up tight and shrink-wrapped like little white burritos. I’d seen enough movies in my time. My manties looked just like cocaine! I was going to get pulled off to the side and have to explain my lifestyle undergarment of choice to someone!!

The airport gods shone warmly on me though as my onederwear and my quart sized zip-lock bag of liquids passed through security without issue. *sigh*   I may be a jackass but I’m no mule.

As we lifted off the ground and began to gain altitude I kept my eyes on the Horizon… until it disappeared.

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Hello Andy,

We actually take the “Inner Bean”quite seriously. We get a lot of requests from people about the job, but our screening process is tough. Because of the constant interaction with children we do background checks and/or reference checks. Beans must also practice choreography and complete media training. Athletes and actors are usually the people that make it as a Bean.

This said, I do not think that we would want to take the chance of a slip-up by having someone be the Bean for a day. You are welcome to tag along at one of the many events the Bean participates in, and craft a story from that experience. The Bean’s schedule is posted on his website, but feel free to call me with any further questions or concerns.

Thank you for your interest in Boston’s new Goodwill Ambassador!

Director of Public Relations
The Boston Baked Bean

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People are dropping like flies at work. I’ve never eaten more bad cake or been to more painfully awkward goodbye lunches in my life. And I can’t stop myself. As soon as the person says their final farewells and is halfway down the hall for that last ride down the elevators…. I’m already standing in their cube, arms akimbo, surveying the mess. I’m not looking to take anything. I’m a cube vulture of a different kind. I’m looking to clean. Everything must go. With dramatic sweeping arm movements counters are rendered bare, office supplies and debris dropping into a waste basket below. Kung-fu-like finger strikes leave bulletin boards denuded. *schwoop* A Clorox Disinfecting Sheet is released from its sterile chamber. The Cleaner is at work, and he is masterful. From a single Post-it Note I craft a perfect yellow origami swan and rest it gingerly in the curve of the office chair’s seat. My calling card.

Being thorough I open the cabinet drawer and I hear the unfortunate metallic slide — another case of office furniture used as a piggy bank. *sigh* I can’t throw money away. But it can’t stay here either. It just can’t.

I leave the office with my pants pockets literally bulging with coinage. “Hey Andy, happy to see me or is that Gina’s last day in your pocket?” I have to walk slowly to the subway to avoid injury. I can’t walk normal. I get into a groove and start to pick up some speed in my modified gait. I sing to myself softly, “You know it’s hard out here for a Giiimp. When he tryin’ to stop this money make him Liiiimp….”

A few subway stops later and I’m standing in front of a Coinstar machine. Brilliant concept here: Put money in, get some of it back. wtf?! But what can I say, I’m willing to sacrifice 8.9 cents on the dollar to avoid having to stand in line for an hour on Saturday morning with fifty men who look like my Uncle Saul.

It takes several handfuls to transfer all of the coins from my pocket and into the Coinstar tray. When all is said and done I’ve netted $15.81. I bring the receipt up to the cashier and collect my earnings. There’s one small problem. I still have 81 cents in change. Wasn’t the goal to get rid of all of my change? And I start to wonder….

What if you put the 81 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 72 cents?
What if you put the 72 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 63 cents?
What if you put the 63 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 54 cents?
What if you put the 54 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 45 cents?
What if you put the 45 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 36 cents?
What if you put the 36 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 27 cents?
What if you put the 27 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 18 cents?
What if you put the 18 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 11 cents?
What if you put the 11 cents back into Coinstar, took the receipt to the cashier and were left with 2 cents?

And what if you put those 2 cents back into Coinstar and learn that once you get below a certain amount Coinstar stops deducting a processing fee from your total? What if that sucks you, against your conscious will, into an infinite loop. Putting in 2 cents. Taking the receipt back to the cashier. Putting in 2 cents. Taking the receipt back to the cashier. Putting in 2 cents. Taking the receipt back to the cashier. What if this routine eventually prompts the store manager to ask you to please leave the premises? What if you were me?

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The first person I meet when I walk into the Church of Our Savior in Arlington is Walter. He introduces himself very proudly as the volunteer webmaster. “I like to make funky websites,” he says in a Scandinavian accent. I almost burst out laughing, having seen the amazing ArlingtonLaughterClub.com just a few hours prior to my arrival. Wow, here less than a minute and almost laughing already. This is a good sign.

Walter is arranging garage sale items on cafeteria-style tables at the edge of the room. One of the laugh club ladies has recently moved to Arlington and is giving away what she can’t fit into her new smaller home. I wonder if she moved to be closer to the laugh club. I wonder if her new apartment is really smaller or if it just feels that way because she’s tripled her cat ownership.

I’ve come with lofty goals. My plan is to experience every form of laughter I know of in a single hour at the Arlington Laugh Club. I am going to guffaw. I am going to cackle. I am going to giggle, titter, chortle, chuckle, howl, snicker, and snort. I may even crow.

There are nine people here today including our Certified Laugh Instructor, all of us seated now in a circle of metal folding chairs. The attendance surprises me considering it’s 11:30am on a Monday. We’re given a brief introduction and then asked to say our name, laugh, and then say something about why we’re here. That’s say your name, and then laugh, for no reason at all. Just laugh.

One person says that they’re going through a tough time right now and that they just really need to laugh. One person is using the laugh club to help take her mind off a medical problem. Some are here because they’ve been coming for so long it’s routine.

Walter says his name and then proceeds to fill the next several minutes up with straight laughter. His hands are on his knees and his whole plump upper body is jiggling. He is laughing his ass off! He’ll laugh one way for a while, then switch to another. It’s like he’s giving a laugh concert. His laughter causes a few others to let out their own chuckles, acting as nice triangle notes to his virtuoso performance.

As luck would have it I have to follow Walter. “Hi, my name is Andy.” (pause) “Uhhh. I’m not an overly serious person or anything but I’m not sure I can just laugh without anything to get me started.” I’m smiling hugely though, thinking that this helps make up for my lack of laughter.

The instructor explains that she knows how forced it can feel at first. She tells us that whether the laughter is forced or spontaneous it still triggers the same chemical response in our brain. Our brain doesn’t know the difference so we still benefit from the same positive feelings associated with laughter regardless of why we’re laughing. One laugh clubber says that she too found it very awkward and forced at first but over time got used to it. She says forcing herself to laugh at the club had the effect of allowing her to laugh more easily at socially appropriate times. I don’t feel this really applies to me but it does makes sense.

The rest of the hour is spent doing laugh exercises. We walk around the room with our hands covering our faces and then randomly open them up peek-a-boo style and laugh at the person in front of us. We laugh silently, which makes the room sound like it’s filled with a family of asthmatic sleestacks. We hold our stomachs and belly laugh to an instructed count. (ho, ho, ha, ha, ha.)

To my dismay I am starting to sweat from all of this laughing. This must be due to the boost in circulation laughter is supposed to provide. Other benefits include lower blood pressure and a stronger immune system. Anyway, I’m pissed. I bust my ass on the elliptical machine for 45 minutes at the gym and a few tee-hees is getting my blood all worked up? By this account shouldn’t Santa Claus be all ripped slithering down chimneys in a bright red & white mandex onesie?

Even when I’m not near him during the exercises I can still hear Walter. As kooky as I think Walter is I’m glad he’s here because it’s so much easier to laugh when someone else is laughing and he hasn’t stopped yet. He’s the laugh club equivalent of that friendly extroverted friend of yours that gets you talking to other people at a party.

For the next exercise we walk around the room with our hands up to our ears like telephones. When we encounter a fellow laugh clubber one acts all stern and serious, and instead of reacting in kind the other person just laughs in response. “Your TPS reports were due yesterday, Johnson!” “Haaa haa ha ha!”

I’m completely faking my way through these exercises. I can’t just laugh for no reason. Someone slip on a banana peel. Someone fart, please. Something.

An ex-girlfriend once told me that if I were an animal I would be a turtle. This wasn’t exactly a compliment but it was said in such a sweet “but you’re my little turtle and I love you” way that it took any sting completely out of it.

Well I’m feeling like the turtle right now. These people… I’m sorry but I have significantly stronger social skills than all of these people. But look at them. They’re totally whooping it up. Letting loose. Being in the moment. And I’m just standing here frozen with a big dopey smile on my face. My cheek muscles are starting to ache. What’s my problem? My eyes check the clock on the wall every two minutes hoping we’ll end right on time.

The exercises continue. One involves us walking around like penguins which I don’t quite understand since it doesn’t really involve laughter. I expect Morgan Freeman to bust in and scream, “Just stop it, people!” And then run back outside and be whisked away in a black sedan driven by Ashley Judd.

One exercise has us pretending to conduct an orchestra. Another has us taking a bow and laughing as others applaud us for no reason. At one point we’re in some sort of laughter conga-line and I can feel Walter tickling me from behind. God damnit! No one was supposed to touch me here. Didn’t I suffer enough at the Cuddle Party?

The hour is finally up and as the club winds down Walter reminds us that everything on the tables are free to take. I walk over to the table and I see a lamp shaped like a turtle with a stained-glass mosaic shell. For the first time since my arrival I laugh out loud for real. Heads turns. “Sorry,” I say, realizing how ridiculous it is to apologize for laughing at a laugh club. I palm the turtle and walk out.

He’s my little turtle, and I love him.

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deet-ditty-deet-deet.     This just in…

In an attempt to make your commute a more pleasant one all MBTA employees were recently required to attend Diversity & Sensitivity Training. This is wonderful news. You can now shuttle across our fair city feeling well respected by your conductor while that one creepy guy rubs his crotch up against your ass all the way from Kenmore to Government Center. And when the guy sitting next to you decides that the subway is the perfect place to catch up on his fingernail clipping, swallow down that little bit of vomit in your mouth with a smile knowing that the civil servant in control of your vehicle is sensitive to your many differences.

One special nugget to come out of this training effects our city bus drivers in particular. MBTA bus drivers often talk about their work day in terms of what route they’ve been assigned to. “I’m doing the 77,” or “I’m on the 210,” for example.

Word has reached The Dose that MBTA top brass have officially mandated that all employees, regardless of whether they’re speaking to customers or internally, are forbidden from referring to the 69 bus as the 69 bus. The 69 bus must at all times be referred to as the “68+1.”  Redonkulous.

So the 69 bus can’t be called the 69 bus yet it can hold people who are 69 years old, were born in ‘69, live at 69 Main Street, and ordered the 69 (beef & broccoli) for lunch. Celtics forward Brian Scalabrine is 6-9. Trade that offensive bastard!

I have a proposal. Let the 68+1 remain the 68+1 and allow it to run its peaceful route between Harvard Square and Lechmere. And let’s bring back the 69 bus (not to be confused with the 68+1) which will run non-stop between Centerfolds in Boston and The Squire in Revere. Nice. And you can actually call this 69 bus the 69 bus. You can call it the Slut Bus if you want.

I guess Three Dog Night had it right when they said “One is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.” Wait a second, what do they mean exactly by “do”?  Insensitive!

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