December 9, 2001

"Are you doing ok?" It was Francisco, my mud bath attendant. I really wanted to call him Paco. I just felt as if I should automatically be given that liberty.... considering I was required to get completely naked in front of him just 10 minutes earlier (in order to get into the mud)! Nothing brings you closer to a complete stranger more quickly than having him place two handfuls of mud on your bare crotch. Come to think of it, I think Hallmark should come up with cards for this very situation; the Post Same-Sex MudBath Attendant Line of cards.

"Thanks for not laughing, you are true professional."

"I don't normally shave down there like that. But thank you for very much for the compliments."

"I cleaned off all the mud, and I still feel dirty. But I'm not complaining. Call me?"

October 28, 2001

I think deep down every guy likes to think that his crotch is an incredibly powerful sex magnet. I used to be one of those guys. But now that I'm an uncle four times over its become painfully obvious that my crotch is nothing more than an incredibly powerful fist magnet. That's right -- If a small child makes a fist in my immediate vicinity, it somehow will end up hitting my twig and berries. It's as if my crotch is a big piñata with a sign on it that says "Fun for children ages 2-5!"

October 25, 2001

I received an invitation in the mail yesterday. It's for an event in New Jersey from a relative I barely know, so needless to say I'm not going. But get this, the rsvp card is free-form! I can't just check a "sorry I can't attend" box and send it off. Now I have to actually write something -- some little personal note about my regrets about not being able to make it and how I hope everything is well blah, blah, blah. I find it kind of rude to put me on the spot like that. .... I think I'm going to use the free space to draw in my own 'attend/can't attend' checkboxes.

October 23, 2001

Last week I went and got a large Early Grey tea in the Park Square Building at lunch. The tea is nothing special but they have a nice big honey dispenser there which I squeeze into my tea with childish glee. Then I went to the Rattle Snake. Time to play one of my favorite roles -- the mysterious casually dressed guy eating lunch by himself at the bar on a random wednesday. I got to the bar and sat down.

Andy: Can I see a menu please?
Bartender: You're not allowed to bring drinks in here.
Andy: But it's just tea, for my throat.
Bartender: I'm sorry, we can't serve...
Andy: Oh c'mon. I'm sick, can't you hear how bad my voice is?
Bartender: I'm sorry, we can't serve...
Andy: Listen... 'When it's time to ch-a-a-ange, you've got to re-a-a-rAAAnnge!' Hear how bad that is??
Bartender: Sir, I'll get in trouble if I...
Andy: ok ok OK. later.

During my sickness I've watched a lot of TV. I didn't think it was possible but I've overloaded on the poor man's poor channel. I'm talking of course about the E! Channel. If I see another foreign man with a hairy chest on a beach say, "I love women! I love life, yes?! Here is party all the time!" I just might lose it.

September 23, 2001

I bought a Toaster Oven last week. Actually, I bought a Toast-R-Oven. Why do they spell it like that? You don't see hardware stores selling Hamm-R and Nails. And why do they call it a twin bed if it's only big enough for one person to sleep on? These things bother me.

August 28, 2001

Friday Night with Andy

Why the restaurant had a computer on its counter, facing customers, with a live internet connection... I'll never know. But after 20 minutes of waiting it becomes obvious that the outside table we're hoping for just isn't going to open up. So we leave. But not before I change the computer's homepage to the Dose of course.

So instead of a sit down italian dinner, it's a sit down burrito at El Pelon. No biggie.

Then it's movie time. First to the Fenway 13. Nothing good playing. No problem, let's rent something. So off to MovieSmith. Oooh that "15 Minutes" movie is out! Deniro. Burns. THAT'S what we should see. You agree? YES! Well, damnit, all the copies are already rented. "Excuse me, any copies behind the counter? no? ok thanks." So it's off to Hollywood Video. All copies out. "Anything behind the counter? no? ok thanks." I am a man posessed. I MUST see this movie now, simply for the fact that it seems I am destined not to. So it's off to BlockBuster. All... copies... gone.....

I melt. I actually sit on the store floor and whimper. The adult version of a child giving up in a department store and going completely limp so he can't be dragged around anymore, making himself an immobile lump of dead child, rendering the parent helpless.

"YOU go ask the guy behind the counter this time," I say.

On my way out of the store I see the movie... on a rack.. for SALE. $26.99. Hmmmm. ..... God damnit I'm buying the fucking thing! I feel so powerful as I throw down my credit card. A smile breaks across my face that seems to say "What Andy wants, Andy gets." Although I'm sure it translates to the cashier as, "Hey look at me, I'm a 30 year old tool!" But I'm on a mission and am too focused to worry about the opinion of others.

One last stop at Athan's for ice-cream. Then finally to the apartment. Press play.

121 minutes later I whimper again and throw the DVD box across the room.

The movie totally sucks ass!! And now I own it!

August 20, 2001

My friend says she refuses to see the Bubble Boy movie because it makes fun of people who really have that particular immune-deficiency disease. I told I understood completely.... I refuse to shop at Dairy Queen because I feel it's an insult to my hard-working transvestite farmer Uncle.

August 8, 2001

Fourth of July in New Canaan

I politely extended my hand. Mr. Underhugh proceeded to accept it... and grip it with the strength one normally reserves for a handrail on an icy staircase. "You're not a democrat, are you?" he said loudly, his face just a tad closer to my own than was comfortable. What an odd thing to say to someone the first time you meet them I thought. But it was his house. His rules. His party. Heck, for all I know he could've been on his fifth drink, and deservedly so.

But this isn't about the type of person Mr. Underhugh is or was, or even who he was for that matter. Providing any more information would only skew your perspective on this story and possibly cause you to impose motives on me that were not there.

So there I was, in the backyard of a super-sized home nestled on a wide street in one of the country's wealthiest suburbs. It was the Underhugh's annual fourth of July party. I was there as a guest of my good friend whose family lives down the street and had been friends with the Underhughs for years. "See that girl over there?" my friend's father asked. "The first party I went to here, she was just a baby." My best guess placed the girl at 20 years old.

It was a casual enough affair, but with good catered food, quality beer, and a vast rolling backyard as both our backdrop and playground. I was tempted to ask Mr. Underhugh if he was a science-fiction fan. Because I couldn't imagine anyone designing a backyard with such dimensions other than as an attempt to entice UFOs to choose it as a landing strip.

I ate. I drank. I socialized. I goofed around with my friend, his brothers, and their girlfriends. It was hot out that night, but everyone was having a pleasant time. Somewhere between the oohs and the ahhs of watching the town fireworks and bedtime.... a guestbook was passed around. It was a hefty leather-bound volume, and I was told that the guestbook gets passed around every year to be signed by all the willing guests. My friend went to the beginning of the book and found the entries he had made at 10 years old. We passed it around our small group and everyone signed it. The book came to me and I quickly made my entry. Others read it and giggled.

So it was a nice time. And that was the end of the story pretty much.... or so I thought.

A week later we were in the car driving to Gloucester for a day at the beach when my friend lowered the radio, turned to me and said, "Dude, my mom called me this morning. I need to talk to you about something." My heart sank.

It turns our that a few days later the Underhughs read my guestbook entry and were appalled. No, not just appalled. Shocked. Upset. Disgusted. Offended. Disrespected. The story was relayed to me that they could not even get themselves to tell my friend's parents what I had written. So the guestbook page was sent... from one personal fax machine to another, for them to view. And it was also relayed to me that the guestbook was a family heirloom of theirs. Passed down from generation to generation. Signed by a myriad of politicians and celebrities from the past and present. And I.. I had so irreverently defiled it.

I felt horrible. Never would I have ever written something to offend anyone, especially while as a guest in their home. We decided it would be best for me to write a letter to the Underhughs apologizing. Personally, I felt like I had nothing to apologize for. How could what I have written possibly upset someone to this extent? At most I pictured someone shaking their head and thinking, "idiot." But I had to do it. One, because it was the right thing to do. And two, because I felt so bad that I had caused an uncomfortable situation between two families that had known each other for so long. In my head I heard, "We let you bring your friend and he does THIS?" ... and I ran to my computer to work on the letter.

I wish I still had the letter because I'd show it to you. It was good. REAL good. I remember the first paragraph had a part that said, "Let me state that neither alcohol nor immaturity was the cause of this." I remember a section where I talked about how "my parents raised me to take responsibility for my actions." To put it plainly, it was a masterpiece. I sent it off to the Underhughs and considered my hands clean of the matter, glad to have the whole mess behind me. To my satisfaction I was later informed that Mr. Underhugh commented, "Jesus Christ couldn't have written a better letter than that." And I was also told that Mrs. Underhugh was so touched by it that she almost wrote me back in response.

Whew! So it looks like the written word got me both into a bind and out of one. I'm not sure if I learned anything from the experience though. Maybe I learned that I should consider my audience sometimes. And that some people are really uptight! Two weeks later I went to my parents' summer house. The first thing I did was go to the bookcase where a year before I had recovered an old guestbook from their garage sale and placed it on the shelf. I encouraged my family to make an entry in it whenever they visited the house, but no one ever did. I opened the book to a completely blank first page... and I wrote the same exact thing as I wrote in the New Canaan guestbook. It felt so damn good.

Oh, you want to see what I wrote in the Underhugh's guestbook, do you? Well, ok. Here you go.

June 30, 2001

Last weekend I went to the Western Massachusetts Highland Games. No, I'm not Scottish, I just wanted to do something different for a change. Ok, I really wanted to see big guys in kilts throw telephone poles around and stuff. And I wasn't dissappointed. The crowd favorite was a NYC cop known as the Mutant White Rhino. He lived up to his name.

There were bag piping competitions, dancing competitions, etc. There was one whole section of the fair with row after row of booths set up, each one with a family name emblazened on it. Clan McMurray. Clan McNulty. Clan Thompson. I walked up to one of the booths to see what they were all about only to find a bunch of people just hanging out. Turns out they weren't selling anything at all. They were just there to meet other people of the same clan. They asked my name. With a big smile I introduced myself as Connor. Connor McCloud.... of the Clan McCloud. Dead silence. They were clearly not amused. I quickly retreated ... but not before turning back to them mid-run and yelling over my shoulder, "There can be only one!!"

May 29, 2001

In general I don't remember my childhood. Not much of it anyway. I have no concept of age before I was 16 years old. I can't tell you how old I was when I dislocated my knee or how old I was when our dog died. I have no idea what age translates to being in the third grade. To me I was just "young" for a large span of time.

None of this has anything to do with my story except I remember something from when I was young in New York. I remember my Dad coming home from work. His pre-dinner rituals consisted of emptying his pockets, changing out of his work clothes, and going through the days mail.

I remember getting so annoyed that he never filled out any of the sweepstakes. "You're tied for thirty million dollars and you're going to throw it away!" I was so agast by this disregard for obvious opportunity that my father gladly handed over to me the task of doing all the sweepstakes. I would jump through all the hoops put in front of those who attempted to grab a piece of the grand prize without actually purchasing any magazines. Sure, there was "no purchase necessary". But if you didn't purchase anything they were going to make you spend three hours finding stamps and stickers and making sure they were all affixed in the right spot. One wrong sticker and you'd be disqualified! Needless to say, this was serious stuff to me.

In college my dad would occasionally mail me letters that had come to our house. Often they would already be opened and there'd be a note inside, "I opened this by accident, sorry. It's for you. love dad." I'd put down my beer funnel and fume. How can he not see it's for me? It says ANDY right on it! These weren't personal letters or anything. Why would he open my junk mail?

It all came full circle last week when I got home, changed out of my work clothes, and went through my mail. I threw away a sweepstakes mailing, and I opened up a letter .... only to realize it wasn't mine. It was misdelivered mail but I opened it by accident. It was a letter from Beth Israel Hospital informing a patient to make an appointment as soon as possible for the reason above. In the reason above field was typed, "Hepatitis B" Holy CRAP! What do I do now? This person obviously needs to know this information. I thought about putting a note inside that read, "I opened this by accident, sorry. It's for you. love andy," but thought better of it. I carefully taped the envelope up and put it back in the mail wondering how the person will feel when they see the tape job and know it had been looked at by someone else.

May 9, 2001

Dinner with Andy last night at Niko's Greek American Restaurant.

Andy: ...and I'll have the greek salad with chicken, thanks.
Adriana: how do you say "thank you" in greek?
Waitress: (gives the answer in greek)
Adriana: (repeats the word tentatively)
Waitress: very good, you got it!
Andy: How do you say, "I'm paying for this dinner so you better put out" in greek?
Adriana: (hides face in embarassment)
Waitress: (smiles)

* note: Adrianna has a serious boyfriend, I was just messing with her.

May 2nd, 2001

So there I was polishing my cigarette machine with a pair of tightie whities. Ok, I guess I should back up a bit. I was lucky enough to score a vintage cigaratte vending machine from the basement of my apartment. I am utterly obsessed with the machine. I've already done research on the internet about the manufacturer. I've visited locksmiths to discuss how to open the machine without damaging it. Every night I come home and polish a new section of its metal facade. It's going to make a very cool apartment piece... if I can ever get the damn thing open so I can stock it with anything other than 100 year old cigarettes. Anyway, to polish the machine I need cloth. I have no cloth. Other than this new large object, my minimalism is strong. What to use for cloth... where is there cloth. And before you know it I'm polishing my vending machine with pairs of my tightie whities, ruining them in the process. I think it's probably for the best.

April 16, 2001

I'm not uncultured, I'm just not much of a museum guy. In fact I think I still hold the world's record for going through Paul Revere's House in the shortest amount of time.; something like 23 seconds. Nevertheless, I figured it was finally time to go to the MFA in Boston. I went with an open mind but I still thought it was pretty boring, but I guess it wasn't all a waste. I did have fun reading and giving my own interpretations of the egyptian heiroglyphics...

Andy: You see the bird here, and the picture of the eye, and then this horizontal line below it? This tablet tells the story of a typical egyptian Bird's Eye dinner meal. Pasta with three kinds of cheese I'm guessing. Yes, see these three squiggly lines over here?!
Girl: ugh! (rolling eyes, smiling)

And I also enjoyed the Chinese Furniture section; very minimalist. Although I felt like the spririt of Ms. Hom was somewhere near. I had visions of the security guard approaching me...

Guard: Excuse me, are you Ahhndy?
Andy: uhh, yes.
Guard: Very good. Ms. Hom has been expecting you. This is for you.
Andy: what's this?
Guard: It's a lightbulb. Ms. Hom would like you to change the light bulb over in the bonzia tree case while she's in California.
Andy: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrg!
Guard: You good boy Ahhndy.

April 4, 2001

So I bought the new TV, the DVD player, and the cable guy is coming on Friday. I'm also looking into cell phones and a vacuum cleaner purchase is inevitably looming on the horizon. What the hell is happening to me? Are my minimalistic cornerstones crumbling before my eyes? Am I nesting? Is this a mid-life crisis? Oh this better not be a midlife crisis. Just my luck. Other people have a midlife crisis and they get to buy a porsche and have sex with a totally hot stranger .... I have a mid-life crisis and I go buy a fucking Hoover Upright Bagless. Great, just great.

February 11, 2001

I did it, I bought a DVD player this weekend. And you thought I was joking when I said I was going modern? The funniest part is that when I got home from the mall I had a message waiting for me on my machine. It was Fleet Bank Services calling me about some unusual activity on my account! Ha! I laughed out loud imagining the conversation that must've precluded the phone call.

Guy #1:  Oh my god! Dude, I think he just bought something!
Guy #2:  No way. Are you sure?
Guy #1:  See for yourself, it's right here.
Guy #2:  I don't believe it.
Guy #1:  I know, this guy hasn't bought ANYTHING in like 5 years.
Guy #2:  I really never thought we'd see this day.
Guy #1:  Do you think maybe his card got stolen?
Guy #2:  You know what? I bet that's it! That has to be the explanation.
Guy #1:  Do you want to call him or should I?
Guy #1:  Oh let me please. I'm dying to hear what this tool sounds like.
Guy #2:  OK, ok, put it on speaker phone though!

January 29, 2001

My favorite aisle in CVS is the one with the hair color products. It's just a big wall of little boxes each with a picture of a pretty girl on it. Every possible variation of hair color neatly represented by a cute smiling head shot. Often I like to turn all of of the boxes inward and play a little game I call "Hair Color Concentration" where I try to remember which girl is behind which box. "OK, honey auburn, where are you hiding. C'mon girl, you know I'm gonna find you sooner or later. Come to daddy."      ......I've been asked to never come back to CVS.