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.

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

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?

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.

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!

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