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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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You’ve hit the jackpot!

Below are links to the very best of the diary archives from 1998 to 2004. Enjoy!

Best of ‘00 (includes ‘98 & ‘99)
Best of ‘01
Best of ‘02
Best of ‘03
Best of ‘04
[let's just say 2005 was a "rebuilding year"]

Plus, The Ms. Hom Chronicles (originally posted in the diaries but later made into its own collection)

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