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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So I’m in the shower, showering away with my little puff. (shut it) I’m probably singing or whistling an Oldies song. As I’m rinsing off I notice something shocking. My bottle of body wash says “shampoo” on it. What the..?

I dry off and with towel around my waist head straight to my closet, opening it to reveal neatly organized rows of all of my manscaping and mangrooming needs. All three back-up bottles of “body wash” say shampoo on them. What is going on?!? How long have I been showering with shampoo? And why hasn’t anyone commented on how great my arm hair has been looking lately?

A subsequent visit to Trader Joe’s proves quite revealing….

Signed,
      - Shampoodled in Boston

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“Dear Andrew, Congratulations on your approaching anniversary at Dunder Mifflin! In honor of your 10 years of service, please click on the link below to select your personalized gift! Dunder Mifflin thanks you for your hard work and dedication. We wish you continued success!”

*groooooan*

My cube neighbor stands up and peers over the divider, then sits back down slowly, silently.

The news of a free gift isn’t inherently bad, it’s just that things were supposed to be different by now. I had dedicated myself to making drastic change in all areas of my life. I was to be running towards life. (after getting fitted for proper orthotics first) I was to be galloping on horseback, shirtless, down the sandy beaches of change. (after first applying liberal amounts of sun block, of course) Instead I pretend to have doctors appointments to avoid the monthly Dunder-sanctioned mid-afternoon “Snack Attacks.”

I slowly unfurl myself from the fetal position and *click click click* select the Men’s Fossil Watch. Done, and done.

A few months transpire and one day, after imposing my will on a stack of TPS reports it hits me, what ever happened to my gift? It’s not that I want the gift so badly, I don’t even wear watches, it’s more the principle. I smell an injustice. And AndyMan, my injustice battling comic book hero alter-ego, emerges.

I hop on the world wide web and surf to the award site. I don’t have my access code to get in anymore. I call the 800 number and verify my identity with the customer service woman. (“I’m ANDYMAN! This is an emergency!”) I’m in. And after a round-robin of clicks and unintuitive links I finally find myself on a FedEx tracking page. It says my gift was delivered in February. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.

Upon closer inspection it appears that the package was delivered to my old boss, who returned to India six weeks ago. Determined, I make a beeline to his old office and am surprised to find it nearly intact as if he was not in Mumbai after all but maybe at a weekly staff meeting instead. It takes me all of 10 seconds to spot a package on top of his filing cabinet. Could it be? *shake shake* I take the box back to my desk.

I slice the tape with my keys and open the box to find one (1) Men’s Fossil Watch. In addition I find all the accoutrements to present said gift to the deserving employee. I fill out the card and seal it. My left hand shakes my right hand. I reach over and pat myself on the back. I make a fist and give myself a playful yet approving nudge on the chin. Atta boy. I tear open the card. In big block letters it says “L-O-S-E-R!” in my own hand-writing.

I put on my coat, tuck the watch under my arm and head towards the door. On my way out I hit a pod of employees grazing on sponge cake.

“Andy, Snack Attack,” says one between plastic forkfuls.
“Sorry, phrenologist appointment. And I’m late. Gotta go.”

I take the subway downtown to the Boston Jewelry Exchange. I’ve been inside this building before and it is straight-up intimidating. A dizzying number of stores inside, all of which require you to buzz-in via an intercom to gain access. Some of the owners want to quiz you through the intercom before letting you in too. It’s not that they’re concerned that I’m a threat, they can see my Perry Ellis dress slacks and my Bob’s Big Boy hairdo through the video camera. It’s more that they don’t want to waste their time with you if they can determine that fact in advance.

I look at the directory and I see a business called “WTF Collateral.” Perfect. I take the elevator to the 3rd floor and buzz them. They can’t help me. WTF?! He suggests I try the business right next to his. I enter this store and state my business. They can’t help me. They suggest I try so-and-so on the 2nd floor. This continues for over half an hour with me bouncing from floor to floor, business to business.

These are people who do not know the phrase “customer service.” They’ll leave me standing at the counter for eternity without approaching me or they’ll yell at me from across the room and want me to broadcast my business to everyone in the store. This is something I’m not eager to do because to be honest I’m not even sure I’m in the right kind of store for what I’m looking for. It’s like walking into a store that has a sign in front advertising “10¢ shirts” and trying to buy 10 shirts for a dollar (what a deal!) only to be informed that they’re a laundromat and it’s 10¢ to clean a shirt, preferably one you provide them. Yes, I’ve done this.

It gets to the point where I find myself saying to business owners, “Well those are the guys that told me to go to you. Know anyone else to try?” It’s not a deliberate run around but I’m getting nowhere. Finally I’m directed outside the building. “Try Bromfield Street.”

I enter the Colonial Trading Company to find three men hunched over stacks of plastic sheets filled with multi-colored bills.

“Can I help you?”
“Yeah. Any chance you’d be willing to buy this watch?”
I pull out the prize and hand it over to him. He flips it over and reads the engraving on the back out loud.
“A.M.F.”
“My initials.”
“10 Years of Service.”
“Yay me,” I say in a dead monotone.
They laugh.

He’s willing to give me $25 dollars for it, he’d give me more if it wasn’t for the… “SOLD!” I cry out, cutting him off mid-sentence, slamming my palm down on the counter like I’m presiding over an auction.

Back on the street I’m thrilled at myself for having successfully completed my very first pawn shop transaction.* It takes the edge off the reality of my situation.

I think it would be most fitting, and funny, to use the $25 to buy a six pack of PBR tall boys and a bunch of scratch tickets, slowly alternating between the two purchases on the steps of the big church on Tremont Street. But I pass by the 7-Eleven and head back to the office instead. When I get there everyone is talking wildly.

“Andy, did you hear the news?”
“Yeah, I know. Snack Attack.”
“No, they just announced that Dunder is outsourcing the whole department!”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I’m serious. In a few months you’ll either be laid off or you won’t be part of Dunder anymore, you’ll be a part of some new company.”
“Turn and face the strange.”
“What?”
“Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes!”

I don’t say it but I think it. “Win, Win.”

That night, and every night since, I perform a “Severance Dance” right before bed. It’s kind of a combination of an Irish Jig and a Native American thing. No word yet on the job situation but we just received a record amount of rainfall and there’s been massive flooding in some areas. I feel personally responsible. AndyMan to the rescue.

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Misjudging the travel time I find myself twenty minutes early to my destination. I park at the end of the street putting myself in a perfect position to view the others from a distance as they arrive. I squint through the heavy rain as cars park and blurry figures tack around puddles and into the large Victorian on the corner. I feel like a spy; a feeling that would persist throughout the day.

All week I’d been receiving e-mails from Amie about the event and confirming my attendance. All of Amie’s e-mails come through in bright hot pink and at a minimum of 22 point font. I forget this frequently only to find myself scrambling to cover my screen before any of my co-workers can catch a glimpse. “Ha ha ha!” I say in a louder than normal voice, “My niece. Her e-mails are just so darn cute!” Over the course of the week I become an expert at minimizing my screen and reading Amie’s e-mails five words at a time. It’s a total pain in the ass but I see it as an acceptable solution.

I’m not sure what I hope to see from my stakeout site. What could I see that would make me feel more at ease about this? A large pack of Jessica Albas holding hands and bounding into the house in super tight sweatpants? I know that’s not reality, and it’s not why I’m here. Nevertheless it doesn’t comfort me to see what appears to be an elderly woman hobble towards the house, followed shortly by three men, and then another man, and then another. Oh boy. It’s 10:57am. Time to go. I turn off the engine, yank my coat up over my head and run towards the house.

I enter the house and am greeted in the foyer by Amie. Amie (pronounced AH-mee, I’m informed) is bright-eyed and welcoming, giving everyone a big hug when they arrive. Not just shoulder hugs, real warm hugs. To my relief Amie’s vibe is completely caring and the hug doesn’t feel invasive in the least. I imagine Amie’s power animal to be a rainbow colored ponycorn. (that’s a cross between a pony and a unicorn.) She signs me in and takes my payment which is on a sliding scale — $30-$50, you decide what you can afford. I give her $35 even though I have much more in my pocket. I wonder if this is an unspoken clue to Amie that if she were to go to dinner with me I’d order the second cheapest wine on the list. Not that I want to go to dinner with Amie, but damn her, she’d be right. I’m invited to take my shoes off and move into the house.

I find myself in a square room with plain white walls, a hodgepodge of pillows and floor-level chairs lining the perimeter. These are some uncomfortable minutes as people mill around not quite sure what to do with themselves. I choose to alternately stuff my fists into my pockets and stretch them over my head, hoping this act is self-engaging enough that it excuses me from actually interacting with anyone else in the room.

After everyone has arrived Amie closes up the foyer and joins us. On her request we all take a seat, indian-style in the chair closest to us. She introduces herself and we’re asked to go around the room doing the same. In addition we are asked to state why we’re here or what we hope to get out of the day.

Evelyn starts us off. Evelyn is the elderly woman I saw from my car earlier. My best guess is that she’s in her early 70’s. Her white old lady fro has been matted a little bit from the rain but it doesn’t seem to have dampened her spirits. Evelyn is a Reiki practitioner from Milford, MA and she’s come in the hopes of supplementing her Reiki skills. When asked by Paul, sitting next to her, about her Reiki “level” she responds that she has completed Level 1 but has not gone any further as “the spirit told her to stop there.”

Paul, as it turns out, is also a Reiki practitioner, from New Hampshire. If he is not equal in age to Evelyn he is close. Paul could be one of my friend’s fathers. He seems confident and comfortable. He is glad his Journey has brought him here. Evelyn and Paul have a lot in common and I can tell they’re each pleased the other is present.

Steven is probably the youngest person here, other than me. Steven is a member of a local men’s group and has brought his friend Tim with him, also from the men’s group. For the uneducated, a men’s group is a group of men who go out into the woods and bang on drums and…. I don’t know. Hunt? Gather? Cry? Make Mai Tais? I want to ask Steven if one can wear white to a men’s group outing after Labor Day but I know now is not the time. Steven tells us that in college he stumbled upon something called Contact Improv which really opened up some doors for him emotionally. He’s hoping today’s experience might extend on that. He bravely admits that he wishes he had more touch in his life.

Tim doesn’t offer much information about himself other than confirming that Steven and he know each other from the men’s group and that Steven called him up about today and he decided to join in. He seems a little cautious about being here but seems genuinely open-minded and curious.

Samantha tells us a lot and if she’s taking breaths in between her sentences it’s not noticeable to me. Samantha is a young looking mom in her early 40’s from New York with a swath of gray running through her brunette head like Rogue in that X-Men movie. Samantha lets us know that she is part of a Poly Group. Polygamy, right? Wrong. Polyamorous — “responsible, consensual, non-monogamy.” Samantha laughs loudly at her own words and it’s obvious she needs to be the center of attention at all time. Samantha is over-sexed, making juvenile sexual references at every possible turn. I don’t think she should be here, but who am I to say.

James is also very happy, ecstatic actually, that his Journey has brought him here today. Again with the Journey. I keep hearing that word and everyone here seems to be on one but me. James glances out the window — he thinks the heavy rain outside is perfect for the kind of work we’ll be doing since “the earth is so gooey, supple, and giving this morning.” James says that all through his early adulthood he expressed himself or gained approval through physicality or sexuality. Due to this he was “always open for business.” Samantha chimes in and says she was the same way.

Bob is from Connecticut and happened to be on business in western Massachusetts when he heard about today and decided to extend his trip over the weekend. Bob is single, in his mid-40’s, and overweight. He’s been on his Journey for 10 years now. He informs us that his friend Diane should be joining us later. There is something very Fight Club Meat Loaf-ish about Bob.

I’m the last one to go and I merely state that I’ve been looking for opportunities to push myself out of my comfort zone and thought that this would definitely qualify. To my surprise this elicits very accepting nods from the group. Determined not to feel left out I add that Journey is my favorite band of all-time.

These are the people who’ve signed up for the Cuddle Party. To be exact today is a 2-in-1 event: an Art of Touch class followed by a Cuddle Party. This is Amie’s mandate. Apparently people cannot be expected to take part in a successful Cuddle Party without first having some Touch education.

Amie hits the flip chart and begins the Art of Touch class. The upshot is that we’ve all been socialized to interpret all touch as sexual touch or touch that leads to something sexual. Today we will try to raise our “Touch Intelligence” and reprogram ourselves to understand the myriad of non-sexual touch that we can experience in our lives. Safe, caring, non-sexual touch that creates trust, support, and wellness….. all at a participation level of our own choosing. Like yoga and meditation, touch can help us achieve balance and wellness and help us grow into our full potential. “Time to take the Ouch out of Touch!”

We will learn all of this through a series of “dyads” this morning where we pair up with another person. My first dyad is with Meat Loaf. We’re asked to discuss any issues or limits we have in regards to touch. Like Steven did earlier Bob boldly states that he’s looking for more touch in his life. He’s making me feel very Fight Club-ish again. Bob asks me if I have anything to share. All I can come up with is, “The first rule of Cuddle Party is: Don’t Talk About Cuddle Party.” He smiles weakly.

I get teamed up with Amie for dyad number two where we talk about how we feel about our hands. I perk up and go on and on to her about how I love my hands and how they’re very strong but also incredibly soft and how people are often amazed at how soft they are. “Go ahead, feel!” For some reason this is a routine I normally fall into when I’m drunk. When I start to interrupt conversations and solicit friends to touch my hands and behold their silky softness I know my night is close to being over.

Amie leans in and whispers to me that this dyad is actually to uncover those who might have issues with their hands, since hands are so vital to the touching process. In other words she says I have nothing to worry about and that I can shut up about my hands already. Maybe it’s imagined but this is the first sign I get from Amie that she can sense I’m coming from a different place than everyone else here.

Dyad number three is with James. We talk about touch in our families of origin. James tells me that when he was two days old he remembers feeling isolated and alone, like he was cut off from everyone else. I question him on how in the world he remembers anything from two days old. He reveals that this was discovered through some deep hypnotherapy and when he asked his mother if he was ever in a plastic enclosure in the hospital after birth she nearly dropped her mug of Sleepytime tea and shrieked, “How did you know that?!” James thinks that that early experience of isolation has profoundly affected him in his adult life, always having a hard time connecting with people, still feeling like a thin film prevents him from getting the closeness he craves. For a split second I think it would be funny to give James a giant roll of saran wrap for his birthday.

For the final dyad of the morning I’m teamed up with Samantha for SRS. SRS stands for Slow Repetitive Stroking. As composed as I’ve been all morning any mention of Slow Repetitive Stroking makes me want to giggle, or to raise my hand and declare myself a master on this. Level 5 Stroker beats Level 1 Reiki. Take that, Evelyn!

In this context SRS is the simple act of slowly stroking the forearm of the person opposite you over and over again. Amie contends that if done regularly SRS can have similar benefits as traditional therapy. After the stroking we turn inward to the circle to discuss the experience.

Samantha tells the group that for her the sensation kept alternating between sensual and sexual. She even uses the word “tingly” to describe how certain parts of her body felt during the exercise. “I got turned on but it wasn’t like I was like ‘hey, let’s go fuck’ or anything like that.” Hearing this I silently snap my fingers in mock disappointment which gets a few laughs.

When it’s Steven’s time to talk about the experience he says that he noticed certain feelings bubbling to the surface while receiving the stroking. He continues to talk about his feelings and he becomes visibly emotional, his voice a bit shaky, his eyes moist. He says the experience made him realize just how much his life lacks touch and how much he yearns for it. It’s not an easy emotion to verbalize, no less to a group of complete strangers.

And Steven’s words affect me. I’m getting emotional myself, blinking frequently to ward off any potential tears. I can’t tell if I’m feeling empathetic or if it’s just his emotional expressiveness triggering my own. Like yawning after seeing someone else yawn. Or puking after seeing someone else puke. Regardless, Steven’s sincerity induces a twinge of guilt for knowing I’m here with such selfish motives. And I also feel sad. Steven is way too young to feel so lost already. It’s a turning point in how I’ve been regarding everyone here up until now.

Amie informs us that we’re done with the Art of Touch class and that she has lunch brewing for us. Seated around Amie’s kitchen table it doesn’t take long for conversation to pick up and it’s reconfirmed that I am but a lone novice in the presence of serious devotees.

“Didn’t I meet you once at the Body Electric Weekend?” “Did you take Alan Lowen’s seminar series yet?” “Are you Omega Institute certified?” “Yes, they’re associated with Landmark but I prefer the HAI events.” “Oh, Shalom Mountain is amazing!” “I’m planning a trip to Germany this summer for Zegg.”

In between spoonfuls of Trader Joe’s tomato soup I’m trying to take it all in like a good little sponge but eventually I can’t take it anymore and I run back to the foyer and jot down 30 or so terms to Google when I get home before I forget them all.

Diane arrives during lunch too, much to Meat Loaf’s delight.

It sounds like these Cuddlers are more apt to spend entire weekends at retreats and conferences, some of which from their descriptions sound to be full-on adult naked weekends under the guise of self-discovery. If these people are truly on a long spiritual highway, then today is but a quick and easy pit-stop for them. I had to psych myself up to get here. This is nothing to them.

I ask Steven about his men’s group and he says I’m welcome to give him a call and come along to a meeting to check it out. I tell him I just might do that.

With lunch finished we return to the larger room where we find a Cuddle Pool has been set up for us. The pool is simply a very large square of blankets and pillows arranged in the center of the hardwood floor, the concept being that if you’re not “in the pool” then you’re no longer participating in the Cuddle. Amie will be our Cuddle Life Guard.

Before beginning there is one last dyad to do and for this one I’m paired with Diane. Diane is a very nice, Rubenesque woman in her mid 40’s. In this dyad we’re instructed to ask permission to touch the other person, and the potential touchee is instructed to reject the offer. We’re learning to always ask permission before attempting any touching, as well as reinforcing your right to say no. We’re then instructed to try to convince the other person to let you kiss them. “Let me kiss you.” “No.” “C’mon Diane, let me kiss you.” “No.” “I know you want me to.” “No.”
“Diane, my lips are mad soft. I know you’re gonna love it.” “No.” *licking lips* “Crazy lusciousness up in these lips, Diane. Get a thrill outta my grill. C’moooooon.” “No.” “Well you don’t have to be such a bitch about it.” “What?” “Ha ha, just kidding. Sorry.”

We’re running late and Amie asks the group if anyone has to leave right at 4:00pm. I meekly raise my hand. It’s a lie. The only thing waiting for me at 4:00pm is my TV but I just don’t want this experience to extend a single minute past my original expectations, even though we haven’t really even started yet.

Amie tells us to get on all fours in the pool in a circle facing each other. “Pretend you’re cows,” she says. She encourages us to start mooing and swaying like real cows would. This feels ridiculous. “And sometimes, cows fall over. Ok everyone, fall over!” Everyone slumps into the blankets and Amie announces that with this simple act we have officially begun the Cuddle. And just like that, we are in it.

A veritable jigsaw puzzle of people. No one is on top of each other, just spooned and stacked neatly like a Tetris game on pause. No one is moving. The configuration is not evolving. My right side is touching the length of another body. It’s Diane. There’s no one on my left, I’m right on the edge of the pool.

I start to feel a hand on my chest. It’s Samantha. “Oops, I forgot to ask. Can I touch your chest?” “Sure.” She quickly side-saddles me. I ask her if I can touch her leg and she says I can touch whatever I want and that I don’t even have to ask. I’m a little frustrated that she’s not getting the whole NON-sexual idea to this whole thing. She’s a one-woman Grind Party.

Samantha rubs on me for a while longer and then says, “I have to move on, you’re turning me on too much.” Right before she pulls herself off of me she asks, “Can I kiss you?” I am fucking STUNNED. I did not sign up for this! No one is really supposed to do this. “Uhhh, ok?” She plants one on me and then moves out of my view. I’m left laying on my back staring at the ceiling trying to comprehend what the hell just happened.

After a few minutes I roll to my right and I’m up close and personal with Diane. Bob is on top of her with a huge grin on his face like a kid in a candy store. Diane recognizes my presence and starts to massage my shoulder. Holy cow is she good. She reveals that she’s a massage therapist. I think I might start drooling if she doesn’t stop soon. I decide this is my big opportunity to “go for it” and a bury myself in Diane’s armpit in a big snuggle fest, although I have to admit it is done partly because it makes me feel like I’m hidden.

While in my burrow I hear Diane ask Bob, “So, do you have any kids?” What the? Wasn’t it already made clear by Bob that they already knew each other? Although I can’t see her I hear Samantha say, “Are you guys on a blind date? Oh my god that is so awesome!” I pop my head out of Diane’s arm pit, my eyes all abug in amazement. “I use natural deodorant, I hope that’s ok with you,” she says.

It’s true, Bob and Diane are on a first date, but being that they’re both so entrenched in the spiritual lifestyle Bob didn’t feel awkward asking her to something like this on a first date and she didn’t find it odd to be asked. What makes this even sweeter is that I’m now officially doing a cock block in the middle of a Cuddle Party. Brilliant. Diane and Bob are trying to get to know each other better and there’s my big fat smiling Alfred E. Neuman mug inches from their faces. “What, me cuddle?”

And the worst part is that I can’t move. I find it near impossible to extract myself from a conversation at a house party and inject myself into a new one. So how the heck am I going to get up, move to another section of this blanket and squeeze myself in between strangers with a smile and a purr? *meow*

Eventually I slink off Diane back to my original cow patch. Actually at this point I’m not even fully in the pool anymore as half of my body is on the hardwood now. I start to think of our childhood dog Bert who was trained to stay out of our living room but when company was over and Bert was feeling left out he would lie on the living room hardwood floor while keeping a single hind paw back on the foyer carpet, playing by the rules but only on a questionable technicality. “I’m in the foyer, see?” I feel like the Bert of this Cuddle Party. “I’m in the Cuddle, see?”

I sit up straight and get a whole new perspective. I see Evelyn and Steven and Amie and James. There’s a whole ‘nother Cuddle Party going on over there. Everyone has Bed Head’s close cousin Cuddle Coif. I feel like I’m breaking an unwritten rule and I lay back down. After a few more minutes not only am I bored but I mentally get myself to a point where I feel like I’ve “done it.” I have nothing more to prove to myself today. Mission accomplished.

I get up and go into the kitchen, stepping over Samantha writhing on top of Tim. As inappropriate as I found her to be, seeing her on top of Tim gives me a flash of jealousy. That little hussy. I catch myself feeling this and I laugh. I’m ridiculous.

Even though I feel like I’m done I can’t leave early while the Cuddle is still in session. I’ve come this far, I need to see this through to the end. I kill some time eating leftover soup and crackers by myself in the kitchen. If anything this feels more party-familiar to me. After maxing out my lone wolf kitchen time I return and sit on the edge of the pool eating Hershey kisses and watching the action. It actually gives me some time to chat with Amie who is the only person, other than myself, who has voluntarily left the pool. She says she’s proud of me and she seems sincere. I try to explain to her that I don’t really have any touch issues and that in fact I’ve been known as quite the irrepressible Snuggle Bee for the right Snuggle Boo in my day… but that all gets thrown out the window when you’re dealing with strangers. I double dog dare Amie to yell “Cuddle Shark!” but she doesn’t take the bait.

4:00pm hits and the Cuddlers reluctantly stop. We all huddle in the center of the pool, swaying from side to side, and get some final comforting words from Amie about the day’s events and about keeping this feeling with us beyond this house. People express interest in starting a local Cuddle Group and within minutes people are excitedly talking about making a website for it and other details. Amie says that she’ll use the sign-in sheet to contact people about it.

Considering the gender-ratio I’m amazed to have survived the day without any male-on-male cuddling. I had mentally prepared myself to be open to that possibility but relieved to have been ultimately spared.

I make a point to hug every person before I leave; I even try to be the initiator on each hug. But on my way out, when the foyer is empty, I take out my pen and cross out my e-mail address and phone number from the sign-in sheet. Cuddle Diem.

*All names have been changed to protect the Cuddly.

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I hadn’t had any heat for a few days and I assumed I wasn’t the only one. My hope that someone else in the building would call the management company and complain so I wouldn’t have to didn’t seem to be coming true so I made the call. And of course I’m all “if it wouldn’t be too big a deal” and “i have a space heater so it’s not like it’s an emergency or anything.” I hang up the phone upset at myself over my lack of assertiveness; it’s something I’m actively working on.

The service man shows up and begins doing his standard checks. He visits the boiler room. He taps on the thermostat. Then he starts checking my outlets, why, I have no idea. When he gets to the outlets behind my TV I hear him say, “Ahhhh, look at this.”

I look behind the TV and what I see is familiar to me. I remember that warm summer day when I said “What the hell is this big block plugged into my outlet for? It’s probably stealing electricity from me!” and unplugged it. (ker-pluck)

I quickly feign both surprise and knowledge. “What in the? Well, there ya go, that explains it,” meanwhile hoping he’ll elaborate.

“That’s the transformer. If that’s not plugged in you won’t get any heat.”

Wait a second. This thing is the single point of failure for my heat, calls itself a Transformer, and doesn’t even have the decency to turn into a robot or a car or anything?! I’ve just given him a long break from his heating responsibilities and he just sat there when he could’ve been driving me to work, cleaning my bathroom, making me Tanqueray and tonics?!

“Ah, the Transformer. More than meets the eye.”
“A lot of people don’t know it’s even there.”
“Ha! Idiots. But yeah, I guess it can be a little Decepticon.”
“Now that it’s plugged in again the heat should come on pretty quick.”
“Autobot-ic.”
“You probably haven’t had heat for a while. You’re lucky you’re young and strong.”
“I’m in the Optimus Prime of my life, my man!.

He packs up his tools and I walk him to the door. I send him off with a slap on the back.

“Later Megatron.”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing. Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it. Take care.”
“Bye.”

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The day started out innocently enough.

I had taken the day off from work with the sole purpose of getting my car detailed and running a few other errands much easier accomplished in the relative calm of mid-week. My car is neither stylish nor fancy and probably doesn’t even deserve to be detailed. Like giving Kelly Osbourne a facial. Why bother? But it’s old and I’d never had it professionally cleaned before, so today would be that day. Plus it was on my to do list already, in pen no less, making it an imperative.

I read the Scrub-a-Dub website and as instructed called in advance to schedule the detailing. “No, just come in whenever. We’ll do it,” I was told to my surprise. Sweet. The next morning I show up at Scrub-a-Dub and get in the car queue. As we’re inching forward I think, ok when I get to the front of the line I’ll tell them I don’t want a wash but the detailing and they’ll route me off to the side to get taken car of.

*rolling down window*
“Hi, I wanted to get my car detailed?”
“You gotta call ahead and schedule dat.”
“What? I called you guys yesterday and you said I could come in whenever.”
“You gotta schedule dat. Yooze wanna wash?”

Grrrrrr. Now ensues the fun of getting the six cars behind me to all back up far enough so that I can back up as well and not go through the washer. “This asshole suddenly decide he doesn’t want to get his car washed?” “This moron mistake the car wash for a Dairy Queen?”

I drive back home utterly defeated. A free day wasted. Goals not accomplished. Already noon. How to salvage? I decide to walk down to the neighborhood Irish pub for a relaxed lunch at the bar. I yank hard on the front door of the pub and almost dislocate my shoulder. They don’t open until 4pm.

I take a step back and blink repeatedly at the door. I want to drop to my knees and sob in disbelief like Charlton Heston at the end of Planet of the Apes. My eyes wander one storefront over. Holistic Clinic? Hmmm, how have I never noticed this place before? I walk in.

I’m greeted by a friendly receptionist. “Hi. Can I help you?” “I don’t know actually… I guess I just wanted to see what kinds of things you guys offer,” I say as I pick up a brochure from a carousel on her desk entitled The Ancient Path of Cleansing. I read the brochure silently for a few seconds and before I know it I ask, “Do you have any appointments available for one of these today?”

“Actually we do! We had someone cancel their 5pm appointment today so you could take their slot.”
(short pause) “Let’s do it.”
“OK great, so 5pm today with Kate. She’s great. She’ll take great care of you.”
“Should I do anything to prepare?”
“Not really, just don’t eat anything 2 hours prior to the appointment.”
“OK, I can do that. Bye.”
“Bye!”

Back out on the street there are two realities. I’m still hungry. I’m getting a colonic in less than 5 hours.

The afternoon is filled with lunch at the diner followed by a Dog the Bounty Hunter marathon on A&E. Leland’s ponytail is, as always, flawless. My friend wants to get a pug and name it Leland. I want to get a toy poodle and call it Mr. Poopers. I wonder how I’ll feel after the colonic. Should I manscape before I go? I start to think about how funny it would be if Kate turned out to be some sweet young thing. Ha! I’m noticing that Dog doesn’t really do much on this show but talk. I will talk Hawaianglish involuntarily for the next half hour. I look at the clock. Time to go.

“Hows it, bra?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. I have a 5:00 with Kate?”
“Oh, it’s you! You’re back!”

She says it like she didn’t think I’d actually come back. I begin to feel multiple sets of eyes on me and I realize what discussions have probably transpired since my initial visit. It’s not my rugged good looks that have caused a stir. It’s that I am for sure the first and only person in their history to have ever done a colonic walk-in! It’s not like this is a barber shop or a nail salon. There is no “Walk-ins Welcome” sign in their front window. “Yeah, I swear Sandy, he just walked in, right off the street!”

I take a seat on the couch and fill out their new client questionnaire. What do I eat for breakfast, lunch, dinner? Do I take any supplements? How much sleep do I get a night? Do I experience any digestive discomforts? What do I hope to gain from the session? To this last one I write in big block letters: “To Sate My Curiosity.”

I see a girl walking towards me. (please no, please no, please no.)
She extends her hand, “Hi, I’m Kate. I’ll be your practitioner today. All done with the questionnaire? Let’s give it a look”
“Oh no, Kate.”
“What?”
“No, no no.”
What??”
“Kate, you’re supposed to be like 100 lbs heavier and from some eastern bloc country. Seriously.”
“(giggle) I get that a lot.”

Kate is young. Kate is cute. Kate is going to deflower me.

We move into the session room where there is a table, a toilet behind a curtain, and a large box attached to a wall at the end of the table. I’m told that that’s where all the water is. She assures me that she’s been doing this for over six years and that nothing is going to happen in this room today that she hasn’t already seen before. Nothing can happen that could embarrass her, and nothing that should embarrass me. I don’t remember what I contributed to the conversation but it ended with her saying that she could tell I was anxious and maybe the best thing would just be to get started before nerves increase. I nod a silent yes.

Kate leaves the room to give me time to undress, get on the table under the sheet, and I’m told I can also use a towel to cover myself, which I accept. The table is against one wall of the room onto which are taped an array of spiritual sayings and poems alongside pictures of suns rising and sanskrit and little icons of doves. At the end of the table I spot a map of the human foot with all of the reflexology points highlighted. I scan the wall for the Letter to the Corinthians.

Kate re-enters the room and begins her preparations. Against all sincere attempts at restraint I break down and ponder out loud about being concerned that I might actually enjoy the “insertion”. Kate is a consummate professional and explains matter of factly that there are a lot of nerve endings there and so it’s not surprising that there may be some nice sensations.

I’m told to lie on my side facing the wall in a fetal position. This puts my face directly in front of one of the many wall postings. “I accept myself and open myself to new experiences without judging,” I say in a mocking voice, reading straight off the wall. “That’s nice,” responds Kate. Ack! She thinks that came out of my head! I want to explain myself to her but there’s no direct eye contact in this position and before I can get a word out Kate parts my perfect perky globes and does the insertion. A quick and perfect bulls-eye. Wow. This isn’t so bad after all. I mean I wouldn’t want to keep this thing in all day, but it’s not as uncomfortable as I had feared. Within 15 minutes of meeting her Kate and I are now engaged in a human interaction I normally reserve for the 20th 15th 10th, ok, 2nd date. I do some quick math and come to the conclusion that the colonic is cheaper than two dinners, so if anything I’m actually ahead of the game here.

Kate places a comforting hand on my shin and let’s me know the water will begin now. I feel a slow tickle. The whole concept is that water is allowed to flow in, and then after a while the water is allowed to flow out. Rinse. Repeat. Supposedly the water goes as far up as your liver and can actually flush bile out as well as other material allegedly “stuck” in intestinal crevices after decades of non-stop digestion.

Kate informs me that it’s time to roll onto my back. What?! I express concern over fear of the tube coming lose or god knows what else. Kate, my rock, assures me this will never happen. “My hand is like a vice, promise, it’s not going anywhere.” She’s wonderful. I roll onto my back, my knees bent. For someone who spends uncountable hours looking at and touching his own body I’m surprised at suddenly feeling like I don’t know what kind of view Kate is having right now. How close are my boys to her hand gripping that tube? Is she staring at my junk? I nonchalantly cover up a little more with the towel which is just lumped in a big ball over crotch at this point.

That laying on my side stuff was just the intro. Kate informs me that we’ll be doing our first full flush now, of which we’ll do 4-5 of over the next 45 minutes. She tells me to let her know if things get too intense or if I get too uncomfortable. I appreciate her offer but I know there is no way in hell I’m going to back down from anything she might dish out. It was a big enough hurdle getting myself into this place and onto this table, no way in hell I’m not getting the full treatment.

Kate massages my lower belly with one hand, kneading it like dough. Things are getting less comfortable. Crampy. It’s an odd feeling. Every reflex of my body wants to tighten up, yet I’m supposed to relax as much as possible and just let things happen.

“Good release!” Kate will say excitedly several times during the session. My reaction every time is “Release?! I’m releasing?! What’s releasing?!” I feel completely gypped that I am denied any visual satisfaction during this entire process.

If this place has a suggestion box I’m going to suggest that the tube run from my bum, up the wall then around the entire perimeter of the room, before ending in the tank mounted on the wall. Kind of like those toy train tracks you see mounted at quirky diners or antique stores. If for some reason that G.I. Joe army figure I consumed in the 3rd grade should decide to reappear in my life I want to see him in all his glory shuttling through that tube so I can personally give him the salute he deserves.

At one point Kate can sense my discomfort. My eyes are closed, my hands are politely interlaced high on my chest as if I’m being shown at an open casket funeral. “You doing ok?” she asks. All I can manage back is a strained gravelly, “Hangin’ in there.” “Only one more to go after this one.” I don’t respond. I love you Kate.

I’m told to turn back onto my side; the session will end in the same position it began. As at ease as I was with the insertion, I’m duly panicked about the extraction. Kate extracts the apparatus and does something by the sink. I stay unmoved. Less than 30 seconds pass and for the first time in this entire experience I really feel like I’m in a dangerous place. I’ve never squeezed myself tighter in my life. Kate leaves and I spring up from the table and rush to the toilet. If she had dawdled for a single second longer I think we would have been in serious trouble.

I’m told that I’m the last session of the day so I can take my sweet time since no one is waiting for the room. I am so happy to hear this. I stay seated for about 15 minutes to gain a sense of safety that my walk home will not turn into a sprint. I think my parents would like Kate.

I emerge from the room fully dressed. Kate is waiting for me, still cheery.

“Did you use the bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“Was it solid or liquid?” she asks with complete sincerity.

With that one simple question Kate morphs instantly from cute to… my mother. In other words, she kills it. Oh sweet Kate, why did you have to ruin what we had?! “I can’t remember,” I tell her. It’s a lie. Kate suggests I should come back for 2-3 more sessions to get the full benefit of the colonic. I tell her I’ll think about it.

Back at my apartment I feel exhausted. I thought I’d feel spry like a cat whose just finished his business at the kitty litter and sprints around the room with comical overt pride, but I don’t. I muster enough energy to brush my teeth and wash my face before heading over to my desk for the final act of the night.

What I’m most proud of today is not that I voluntarily subjected myself to an experience well outside the bounds of my comfort zone. No. What I’m most proud of is how I didn’t let the Scrub-a-Dub incident derail me from reaching my goal. Like a Marine I improvised, I adapted, I overcame.

With a grin on my face I take pen in hand and check off the last item on the day’s to do list.

The day started out innocently enough.

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What happens when you go to the gym and find that you’ve only packed one gym sock? You don’t go home. No. You take a deep breath, you swallow your pride, and you put on… the embarrassocks.

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“When I say hungry, you say focused. Hungry.” Focused! “Hungry.” Focused! I never imagined my first bona fide rap call & answer experience would be here, at an International Federation of Competitive Eating event. Eric “Badlands” Booker is entertaining the crowd with a sampling of his rap stylings before the start of the Verizon Voicewing Chicken Wing Battle Championship in Boston. His rap CD (”Hungry & Focused”) is coming out soon and he throws a CD sampler into the crowd which lands right into my hands. Everyone looks at me and I can only assume that this catch must have some sort of significance here. Am I destined to marry a fat chick? Will I die of a coronary within the next 7 days? The not knowing kills me.

The main lights dim as the beat of Eminem’s “8 Mile” starts its slow crescendo. IFOCE President Richard Shea takes the stage and bellows the following declaration: “They say that competitive eating is the battleground upon which God and Lucifer waged war for men’s souls, ladies and gentlemen. And they are right!!”

With that the competitors are introduced to the stage one by one as Mr. Shea recites their impressive credentials. Many of them are world record holders in more than one of the 61 IFOCE-sanctioned categories, from Armour Vienna Sausage to Watermelon.

This is the Championship, all of the competitors having qualified previously at regional buffalo wing events to be here. It is a veritable Who’s Who of competitive eating. But who are these people?

Besides being one of the more exuberant IFOCE personalities Badlands Booker lives with his wife and son on Long Island and is a conductor for New York City’s #7 Train. His frequent competitor Ed “Cookie” Jarvis, the 29 year old 409-pounder who ate 21 cannolis in 6 minutes to take that particular title, is a realtor from Nesconset, NY.

There’s “Humble” Bob Shoudt, the quiet Philadelphian who is reportedly a vegetarian when not in competition. And Tim “Eater X” Janus, the 27 year old NYC native who paints a colorful Mexican lucha libre mask on his face for each event.

Joey Chestnut from San Jose is the up and coming young buck on the circuit who drinks large quantities of water to train his stomach to expand quickly at game time. At age 21 he is already ranked #3 by the IFOCE. Jason “Crazy Legs” Conti was a one time spectator and is now a star of competitive eating, recently being featured in his own documentary entitled “Crazy Legs Conti: Zen and the Art of Competitive Eating”.

Richard “The Locust” LeFevre looks like he could be your grandpa. At age 60 this Nevada resident holds multiple titles and is still going strong. And to make things even sweeter his wife Carlene is also a competitive eater. My grandparents went to Boston and all they got me was this crummy 8 pounds of chicken bones!

And Sonya “The Black Widow” Thomas, all 98 pounds of her, seems out of place wedged between these behemoths. But don’t be fooled — despite her deceivingly harmless appearance Sonya is an incredibly fierce and feared competitor, currently ranked second in the world.

“Are you here to root on anyone in particular?” asks the young woman next to me. I tell her I’m trying to lose some weight and thought that seeing this would help suppress my appetite for at least the rest of the weekend. I pose the question back to her which she answers by pulling down on the front of her t-shirt to reveal a silk-screened face of Jason “The Erbivore” Erb, her boyfriend. He won the qualifier in Washington and they flew out for the finals. I look on stage and spot The Erbivor wearing a white head-band with his moniker across it in black marker, just in case you didn’t know who he was.

As can be expected there are many subtleties to the science of eating as many buffalo wings as you can in 10 minutes. I watch as Badlands arranges the wings in his tray for maximum grabbage. Humble Bob brings his own iced-tea which he pre-pours into several cups. Eater X positions his trays just so. Someone asks for a chair.

Just as Mr. Shea is about to begin the count-down-to-chow Cookie Jarvis leans over and whispers something in his ear and we are informed that Cookie would like to take a moment to say grace before the eating commences. It takes every fiber of restraint I have to not blurt out, “On a wing and a prayer, Cookie!” Although Cookie keeps his thoughts to himself I can only assume he is praying for the end of the avian flu. Interestingly enough Cookie will stay kneeling for the entire event.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1, EAT! The crowd cheers as what ensues is an orgy of saliva, sweat and sauce. It’s impossible to determine who is excelling and who is lagging behind and before you know it we’re in the closing minutes. To be honest it’s not even that gross to watch, just a bunch of people eating really fast and not using napkins. That is until the buzzer sounds and several eaters bring fingers to their overstuffed mouths and push inward to make sure nothing falls out and you realize just how much food is in still their mouths yet to go down their gullets. It’s actually this image that puts me in the epiglottic danger zone. Cruel memories of thick orthodontic mold filling my adolescent mouth flash before me. The panic of oral claustrophobia. My breathing gets noticeably heavier.

I swallow intensely. Interestingly I am told that the V word is verboten here. My only guess is that the contagious nature of the act is simply too feared to be spoken aloud. Any unfortunate incident, of which I see none, will be called a variety of euphemisms such as “The Roman Method” or “A Reversal of Fortune”.

In the world of competitive eating buffalo wings are considered a “debris food”, meaning there are parts of the food that are not consumed. In a debris food competition determining the winner is slightly more complicated and involves weighing all of the food before-hand and then re-weighing all of the competitors’ “remains” afterwards to determine who has consumed the most. Someone who has gone through a large number of wings may not win over someone who has eaten fewer wings but picked them bones cleaner.

After the winners are crowned (the title goes to Joey Chestnut who debones and ingests 4.2 lbs pounds of chicken meat in 10 minutes) free wings are offered to the crowd. I politely pass. To my surprise watching all of this eating has made me incredibly tired. I think I need a wet nap.

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January 19, 2006

Rachel Rae
c/o Food Network
1180 6th Avenue
New York, NY 10036

Dear Rachel,

Regards,

Andy

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There are still those times when my back pain will sneak up on me and I’ll suddenly realize how much pain I’m actually in. As luck would have it this time around the realization hits me at Club Lido in Revere amidst a sea of seething mixed martial arts fans eager for the start of T.K. O’Riley’s Fight Night. This isn’t boxing, this is No Holds Barred Ultimate Fighting. Of all the places to feel brittle and vulnerable, this is not a top choice. In my current physical state I could easily be toppled by two girls scouts who felt I did not buy the minimum acceptable amount of thin mints. I polish off my vodka tonic and go to the bar for a second one thinking that it may at least soften the ground when I take my eventual fall.

I knew what an event like this would potentially be like though. Hell that was part of the appeal, right? Midway through the first fight the guy to my right starts crowding me, our shoulders often touching for extended periods of time seasoned with an occasional bump. Expecting something like this might happen I’ve come prepared; intentionally wearing my glasses to the event. You know what they say: “You can’t hit a guy with glasses.” Right? Well, that’s what they say. Something tells me this guy doesn’t care what “they” have to say. He probably had a dinner with no vegetables, went swimming immediately afterwards, picked up a tiny stone from the bottom of the pool and threw it at the glass house next door, and then drove over to the fights without using his blinkers.

As tempting as it is to stand my ground, especially since I was there an hour before he was, I’m smart enough to know my audience and I give him as much room as he wants. The result is me shifting inch by inch until 15 minutes later he has effectively moved me 2-3 feet to the left as he roams his new domain proudly. But my leniency pays off as it causes him to wander away uninterested like a lion who lets the injured gazelle go free simply because he’s not as hungry as he originally thought he was.

The fights are fast, almost all of them ending in the first round. Someone wins by triangle hold. Someone wins by knockout. Someone wins by rear naked choke hold. I don’t think anything with the words rear or naked should be anywhere near this sport but I keep that thought to myself. Trina’s husband wins in impressive fashion and she releases a big sigh of relief that it’s over. We high-five. One fighter comes out to “It’s Raining Men” which I think is just great. I decide that my entrance song would be “Why Can’t We Be Friends.”

After the main event ends the crowd spills out into the club parking lot. It’s literally minutes before ambulances and cops arrive in response to all the post-fight fights. It’s like the Jets and the Sharks and the Cobra Kai are all fighting each other at the same time. Ma-ri-aaaa, I just met a girl named Ma-ri-aaaaa… and Johnny swept her leg.

Meanwhile I’m safe inside in the fighters’ back room where Trina’s husband packs up his stuff and collects his prize money. I meet a few of the other fighters from his school and to my embarrassment each conversation is the same. Where do you live? “I wrestled in high school.” So Andy, you work with Trina? “You know I wrestled in high school.”

I notice they have a small table set up with bottled water and snacks. I start towards it…. I wonder if they have any thin mints.

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I’m at Logan Airport, Terminal D. I’m reading the Boston Globe and savoring a sausage, egg & cheese sandwich on a croissant, my iced-coffee is in striking distance, both courtesy of Dunkin’ Donuts. (4J-4J-4J-4J) I’ve never eaten anything more slowly in my entire life. I put the paper down as I don’t dare multi-task and risk diluting this epicurean experience. I don’t moan but my eyes do close occasionally. I imagine an Animal Planet voice-over: “Unlike other species the American Andy will neither hibernate nor copulate for months after devouring his hunt. Crikey!” (4J-4J-4J-4J)

I check the time on my cell phone and glance up at the arrivals screen. The flight from Denver has landed right on time, baggage claim at carousel #2. I go back to reading, allowing the ebb and flow of travelers to wash around me. Eventually new arrivals touch ground and bump the landed Denver flight off the screen, erasing it from history. With a heavy sigh I rise. I crumple my breakfast wrappers and start to reassemble the paper into a single block.

I’m not here to actually pick anyone up. I’m here just to be here. Well, I’m here just to get here to be more accurate. It’s called exposure therapy. You know, scared of bees? Cover yourself in honey and go play piñata with a beehive. Scared of snakes? Kill one, eat it, and proudly fashion a belt out of its hide. This is my 4th such visit to the airport this month. I started with Terminal A and went down the line, so E will be next. (4J-4J-4J-4J) Ugh. I catch myself clearly doing it this time. It’s a coping mechanism. I’m not supposed to do it but I can’t help it. I take out my black book and make a note about it.

I step up to the parking kiosk and pay in advance. The automated walkway takes me to the elevator. The elevator takes me to Level 4. My feet take me to 4J, where my car sits quietly. Good boy.

I pull out of the airport and head up Route 1A. As I pass Suffolk Downs I see the sign for it, the largest yet most obscure sculpture in the city, The Don Orione Madonna Queen National Shrine. Towering atop the highest point in East Boston sits a 35-foot bronze sculpture of the Virgin Mary facing an open plaza. I drive up winding residential streets that slowly allow my way to the summit. I park, get out, and yup, there it is. Although I can’t see them supposedly there are red lights fastened at her top to alert incoming air traffic from Logan.

Just across the street from the Shrine is the Don Orione Home for the Elderly. From what I’ve heard, the shrine actually extends four floors down into the hill housing a gift shop, a church, function rooms, and more. I’ve also heard that once a week, deep down under the Madonna, bingo is played. I am here by design. I fondle the highlighter in my pocket and head into the bowels of the Madonna.

To be continued……..

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Take that, Bitches!

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