December 29, 2003

I put the seven pairs of black Old Navy boxer-briefs on the counter. The cashier rang me up and I watched the receipt scroll out with a pink vertical line across it, signifying the receipt paper would soon run out. A lightbulb went off in my head. I ran back and grabbed a pair of white boxer briefs and paid for them as well. Back at home I neatly piled them in my drawer, the lone white pair underneath the black ones. Eight days later I would hit my first "Code White" and be alerted of the laundry-time situation. Brilliant.

December 8, 2003

Lunch time and I'm waiting in line at the Gyro King counter. Next!! I step up and order a chicken gyro. The man behind the counter politely corrects me. "It's hee-row." I say it again the right way and it makes him smile. "Hee-row, yes, there you go my friend!" he exclaims.

And then for no reason I think, if I was Enrique Iglesias I'd open a chain of gyro stands called "Let Me Be Your Gyro." I whisper those words to myself passionately. The guy in front of me turns around and gives me a weird look. Embarrassed I take out my cell phone and stare into it like there's something critical going on inside it. It hasn't rung in weeks.

December 7, 2003

Have you ever seen street signs that've been turned so that it says the street you're on is the street you're crossing and vice-versa? I've always cursed this as the product of punk kids who climb the poles and turn the signs the wrong way. I was wrong. Turns out this is caused by big trucks who take corners a little too closely and hit the signs and rotate them 90° in the process. Who knew?

I'm now convinced that these same trucks are all filled with pairs of sneakers with their laces tied together, coughing a pair up onto the telephone wires every time they bump the sign poles. That would explain everything.

November 17th, 2003

I've never been so embarrassed to be so excited about something such as this, but I couldn't hide my smile when my vintage fruit crate labels finally arrived. They were in perfect condition and the colors were more vibrant than they looked online. Just the thing to bring some life to my small kitchenette.

I went to my favorite frame store to get them taken care of. It wasn't until I lived on my own (without roommates I mean) that I realized how expensive framing can be. Seven years of minimalism had left me with zero belongings and the daunting task of filling up my new wall space. Two leases later and it's still a bit barren.

We're going over mattes and colors and frames. I'm clueless about this stuff which is why I like going to this store. Here some cute young art student employee just TELLS me what I should do. I nod oafishly in agreement with whatever she says and the process moves along and I'm always very happy with the final product.

She's measuring things and we're chatting about frames and customers and I say something along the lines of "how hard it is to decorate walls because you feel like everything you pick has to say something personal about who you are or something."

I look down at the labels layed out on the counter before us. The pear. The oranges. The apples. The lemon. And I'm hit by the possible connotation of what I've just said. I feel the need to clarify and I break the awkward silence with a single unanswered remark ....

"I'm not saying I'm a fruit or anything."

November 16, 2003

I don't sing in the shower. But put me in a car by myself and watch out. So I'm driving down Beacon Street. "I'm the type of guy that likes to roam around. They call me the wanderer, yeah the wanderer. I roam around around around around around..."

The song ends and a voice that sounds like it's inside a cave announces, "You're listening to Oldies 103.3 -- the Channel of Boston's Most Powerful Demographic!"

For some reason I pump my fist in the air and let out a whooping, "yeaahhHHHH!!"

Less than a milisecond later the fist in buried under my leg and I'm whispering to myself "no no no no. I'm young, I'm young, I'm young, I'm young..."

November 15, 2003

What is it about MTV reality programming that gets me to watch the same episode of the same show more than once. More than twice. For Christ sake I know who they're going to put into the Gauntlet already! Change the channel Andy!! The sad part is I'm not even in their target demographic anymore. There is something very sad about this. I wish Nick Lachey was my friend. Pathetic.

November 4, 2003

Forget giant pumpkins, I'm coming out with a razor that has five blades.

September 23, 2003

Sometimes I get an idea in my head and as hard as I try, I can't shake it. You may remember the Justice of the Peace adventure from last year. Now it's something completely new. I want to grow an enormous pumpkin. More accurately I want to grow an award winningly HUGE pumpkin. Anything under 900 pounds will be considered a failure. I will not rest until a toothless man in New Hampshire or Vermont or Maine hands me a ribbon for my Giant Atlantic Pumpkin. That's what they're called. I've been doing my research.

There's a lot of competition out there, so what will give me my edge? Soil? Manure? Nutrients? Yes, yes, and yes. But I also have an ace up my sleeve. The pumpkin seeds need to be "stressed." You see, if you stress the seeds, the weak seeds will die leaving you only with the strongest seeds and those are the ones you want to plant. So I'm sending my pumpkin seeds into SPACE. All of the radio waves and cosmic isotopes will stress the seeds like no one has ever stressed seeds before! Then, when Lance Bass comes back down to earth with my super bionic seeds, I'll plant them and grow a pumpkin the size of a car.

Don't really wanna make it tough. I just wanna tell you that I had enough. Might sound crazy, but it ain't no lie. Pumpkin Pie Pie Pie.

September 2, 2003

I was in Aunt Sadie's in the South End when I spotted my new man bag. The man bag that was in the front window of Marshall's but nowhere to be found on the floor itself. The man bag I was told I couldn't look at because it was in the window. The man bag that on the following day the manager finally agreed to take out for me. The man bag that I bought that day. I couldn't find a price on the bag at Sadie's though. Of course I wanted to find it outrageously priced so that I could feel good about getting a bargain. I brought the bag to the counter and asked for a price check. Buried deep in the bag the clerk finally found the price tag. I don't remember what the price was, but I think it was high. Because in my metrosexual excitement I took the bag, swivelled to return it, and proceeded to knock a wine glass to the floor, shattering it.

August 31, 2003

It's what I wanted. But I just couldn't get myself to order the "You Look Mahvelous" Omellete phonetically. I pronounced the R with conviction.

I'm in my bathroom trying to jam my new toothbrush into the hole of the holder. It's not happening but that doesn't stop me from trying harder. It's just wrong. I feel like the toothpolice should bust into my apartment and arrest me for attempted rape. I feel ashamed and stop. When did toothbrush handles get so damn big? They used to be slim and they've exploded over the years into bloated grippers.

August 30, 2003

It's 2:00am and I'm scouring internet newsgroups for the answers I need. I am like a nocturnal pitbull. I will not let go. Right now the most important questions in life to me are the name of Frank Burns' wife. Hotlips' rank. And Colonel Potter's alma mater.

It's a sweepstakes. Finish the M*A*S*H crossword puzzle in the shortest amount of time and win the prize. The clues are hard and my first attempt is a disaster. The show is part of my collective pop culture spectrum, but I'm not a hardcore fan by any means. ...but I've hatched my plan to get all the answers in advance and then fingers don't fail me now, I'll drop them all in for an unbeatable time.

I'm pleased with my final time. I fall asleep dreaming of a win... and that I need help.

August 29, 2003

Whenever I'm on the phone with a customer service person I can't help but ask them where they are. I don't bother them with annoying chatter, I just like to know that one fact. It's the same with movies. If I'm not told within the first five minutes what city it takes place in, I start to yell at the screen. On the phone I think I picture the same exact customer service person, at the same desk, but with varying items leaning against the wall of their cube depending on the state they're in. California(surfboard). Midwest(corn stalks). Maine(lobster trap).

August 12, 2003

I walked into a store the other Saturday and right away I spotted a guy wearing the same exact t-shirt as I was. For reasons that remain inexplicable to me even now, I turned around and left the store in a hurry. It's for the best I tell myself, I don't really need any more translucent soaps with cutesy objects frozen in the middle of them anyway.

I am metrosexual, hear me exfoliate.

August 11, 2003

Some guy in my apartment keeps taking the junk mail out of his mail cubby and throwing it on the floor. I come home from a hard day of work and get pissed off that the foyer is a mess. I pick up the mail, look at the address, and stuff it angrily back into the appropriate cubby. The next day the mail is back on the floor. I jam it back into the cubby. This goes on for days. It is a silent war. And I will not lose. This guy has no idea what kind of freak he is dealing with.

August 3, 2003

The pile of laundry had been sitting on top of the dryer for a few days by the time I needed to do a load myself. I wasn't in any particular rush so after putting my things in I decided to fold the clothes even though they weren't mine. It wasn't much -- four bath towels, two pairs of running shorts, two t-shirts, and a pair of panties. Naturally I folded the biggest stuff first, the result being a small pyramid of laundry with the towels as the base and the panties as the crown. I admired my work as well as my samaritan act. But I knew I couldn't stop there. This required a note. "Nice sniffing you," came to mind. So did "Delicious!" But in the end my note, taped to the top of the pile, simply said "Courtesy of the Laundry Fairy."

July 17, 2003

I couldn't sleep last night. You know what that means. That's right, LATE NIGHT EBAY MADNESS. This time it was a 36x36 aerial photograph of my neighborhood. That's three feet by three feet. And now it's on its way to me. Like I need this. Where am I going to hang this and what bank will I rob so I can afford to frame this monster? Jesus Christ. Speaking of...

How could I have never seen this place before? I've only walked by it like a million times. From what I can tell it looks like some sort of latino christian reading room. "Jesus es el señor" the sign said. "Hey-seuss es el señor" I say to myself. Wait a second, could this sign really be saying what I think it's saying? Hey-seuss es el senor. Hey-seuss es el SEÑOR. Jesus is the MAN!! I don't know why I'm so tickled by this, but I am. Move over Super Carnitas, there's a new favorite spanish phrase in town! In fact I can't get the phrase out of my head. My co-worker is used to hearing a "Jesus!" or four coming from my cube throughout the day as I get more and more frustrated. But what he can't hear now is the new silent chorus happening in my head "... es el señor".

A week later I run into a spanish speaking friend of mine. I excitedly tell her about my discovery. She tells that although translated literally I may be right, it really means 'Jesus is Our Lord." I am utterly deflated.

July 16, 2003

The man in the hotel bathroom stood urinating with arms akimbo, fists on his waist, his head thrown back as if he were proudly saving a small village from a terrible fire in the process. This is how I am imagined Yul Brynner would have peed in the King and I had there been such a scene in it. I went to the urinal next him and proceeded to mimic his stance and technique. I don't think he noticed.

June 3, 2003

I'd never been to Chelsea before. I pulled over to check the map. 4th Street. Looks like I had overshot by one exit too many. Through heavy sheets of rain I circled around Chelsea City Hall, up Maple, back down Broadway. Eventually I found it tucked away on a residential street. I got out of the car. From the street I could see the girders of the Tobin Bridge. It was an odd feeling being so close to a bridge, but not actually being on it or heading towards it.

I had never been to a Russian bath house before. But here I was. Here I go! I walked in and approached the desk. "What'll ya have today?" Interesting question. If I were a woman I would have launched into queries of what was available, what was the best, what did he recommend, how does this all work, are there any specials? But I'm a man. So I feign jaded expertise as if I do this every weekend. "Just a steam," I reply. I'm handed a towel, flip-flops, a lock, and a disposable razor.

There's no locker room but instead a block of lockers, right there next to the desk. I change into my towel. "Enter rooms at own risk. Shower BEFORE and AFTER entering rooms" the sign says. I open the door to find three shower heads and doors to either side. I take a quick shower and go into the room on the left. Three levels of wooden benches. Rock walls. HEAT. I climb up to the top bench and I sit. And I sweat. To my left sits an older russian man. He's naked. He has a belly. He descends from his perch and grabs a branch of oak leaves from a bucket of water. He climbs back to his spot on the bench and begins to hit himself with the branch. Holy shit! I've read about this! I'm seeing this! He's not beating himself but is administering a pattern of one-two swats on his back, then his legs, his chest. Some of the small hard leaves fly off the branch. Sweat is pouring from every pore in my body. It feels good. My reign as youngest person in the place by at least 30 years is relinquished as two guys around my age come in and sit down. They're wearing their own personal flip-flops. They're talking about the Red Sox. I hate them. I'm saved by the appearance of three more large naked russian men all wearing the same sort of burlap hat. I don't understand the hats. But I kinda want one. They start turning a faucet that has a sign above it clearingly stating that it should only be touched by employees. These guys know what they're doing. Russian conversation fills the room. Twenty minutes later I'm fantasizing that they're talking about me and about how manly I am to be taking in the heat with men like them from the old country. I want to start a sentence, any sentence, that starts with "In Old Country.....", missing article and all. I want to play them in chess. I'm getting light-headed. I hit the showers again (heaven) and head towards the lounge area.

Cheap lounge chairs arranged in a crooked semi-circle face a table filled with half-eaten food and a bottle of Vox vodka from which a few russian men pour themselves nips. A few feet away in an area recessed by a single step, a large screen TV fills the wall and more chairs line facing it. I play it safe and decide not to eat anything. It might not be community food. Plus my stomach needs to recover from the stress of the possibility of getting lost on the drive over.

I take a seat and watch some TV. I haven't talked to anyone since I got here. Look over here. I am a young eager ear. Tell me your stories. Look at my soft smooth hands. They are honest, but they have not seen hard work. Tell me I am fat and lazy and that when you were my age you held three jobs and slept five to a bed. When I complain about traffic tell me how you once waited in a line for eight hours for a cup of sugar and 3 pieces of bread once. And you were thankful. Ah, I understand you need some time to warm up to me comrade - I understand. I won't push.

I'm the only one with a towel wrapped around my waist. It's noon and I've seen a lot of penie today. It's time to go. I change, pay, and head out. I've had a good schvitz. I will be back. And I will grow on them. Kind of like the fungus I'm convinced will appear on my feet soon from this little adventure.

June 1, 2003

I'm waiting for them to announce that SARS is somehow related to the same disease that causes asian food court employees to actually believe that yelling loudly at people, even with toothpick sample in hand, is an effective way to attract more eager customers.

May 5, 2003

It's a beautiful spring evening. I'm walking down Beacon Street towards the Store24. I have a craving for one of those pre-made refrigerated sandwiches that everyone but me thinks are absolutely digusting. Up ahead I see an old woman standing on her doorstep, leaning on the rail. I get closer to her and she waves me over.

are you going to the Store24?
yes I am.
are you coming back this way afterwards?
i can, if you want me to.

On the short walk to the store I repeat the words over and over again. Two Basic 100's. Two Basic 100's. Two Basic 100's. Two Basic 100's. Two Basic 100's. I say it so many times the words begin to sound foreign and meaningless. I'm starting to get slightly nervous. I've never bought cigarettes before. Is he going to know what "Two Basic 100's" means or will he need more info? Is he going to ask me what flavor? Menthol? I'll answer menthol. Is he going to ask if I want soft packs or hard packs? I'll say soft.

I'm not scared of the interaction with the counter guy. I'm scared of a situation where I don't buy the exact item the old woman wants which'll turn into her sending me back to the store to get it right.

The woman is very appreciative when I come back with her smokes and 3 cents change. I smile politely. I tell her it was my pleasure. And I walk very quickly away.

I never tell her my name. No way. She will not become my American Ms. Hom. She will never have the opportunity to yell Ahhhhhndy!! I'll be sure of it.

May 1, 2003

Frutas del Mar the menu says. "Fruit of the Sea." I'm trying to enjoy the nice atmosphere but all I can do is think to myself, "that's so fucking rude!" As if snagging some chilean sea bass is done with a nonchalant twist of the wrist from the fish tree. If we're going to be like that then let's at least be fair about it. Let's call meat dishes "Slices of the Plains." Chicken dishes - "Parts from the Coop". Vegetables - they can still be called vegetables I guess. The waiter comes over and asks me if I've made any decisions. And it hits me. We might be the "Hors d'oeuvres of the Milky Way!!" Whoah. I ask for a vodka tonic and tell him I need a little more time.

April 4, 2003

So I fix my tire, and off to Target I go. I pull into the lot and I see a disabled kid in an electric wheel chair pushing a shopping cart toward the store. He's so young. High school age probably. My heart goes out to him. How courageous to not let his disability stop him from having a normal life. I turn off the greatest hits of yesterday and today and take a moment to be thankful that my body has two working legs and two working arms. In a flash I'm in and out of the store with something I simply do not need. It's one of those screens you put in your car window when it's hot out so it doesn't fry. I'm reading the packaging, and I can't believe my eyes. This warning is needed? What the? How stupid can people be? Was there a fear that people might actually do this? My forks didn't come with a label telling me not to poke my eyes with them. My razor blades didn't come with a warning telling me not to swallow them. They didn't need to. It's understood.

How stupid can people be?

As I ponder this question I see the disabled kid in his wheel chair cruising around the lot. This time he's pushing 20 shopping carts towards the store! He gets to the store, hops out of his 'wheel chair' and puts the carts back in their proper place. He works here. He's riding one of those collect-the-shopping-carts-cart.

I peel out of the lot, upset that I've just answered my own question.

March 12, 2003

I parked in my spot and started walking towards the apartment. That's when I noticed it. My right front hubcap was suddenly gone. Hmm, when did that happen? Wait, why is my tire making a funny sound? In a flash I remembered 10 minutes ago. Hitting the huge pothole in the Fenway. The kunggg of the car as it got nailed. Yelling fuuuuuck really loudly in my car with the windows rolled up. It made me mad, but I didn't think any immediate damage had really been done. I was wrong. I stood and watched as my tire quickly went from semi-flat to flat.

OK so now what? Don't get me wrong. I drink beer. I work out. I love women. But auto maintenance? C'mon, that's a bit of a stretch. I do not want to change a tire. I want to watch tv on my couch while applying various Burt's Bees products to my hands and feet during the commercials.

I have AAA. I'll just give them a call. Wait. No. I can't call AAA. I can't stand there and watch as another man changes the tire right in front of me. I can think of few things more emasculating. Here is the tire iron. And here are my testicles. I offer them both to you. Plus AAA is for road service. I'm not even on the road. My car is safely in my parking spot. And I'm not a woman. A woman could totally get away with this. Hey that's it, I'll get a girl to call AAA, and she can stand and watch him change the tire while I watch secretly from the window sipping juice.

No. That's pathetic. Change the damn tire. Your job sucks. You need to lose some weight. You wear the same three shirts over and over again. You live in a "garden level" apartment. You need to change this tire. You have to change this tire.

February 11, 2003

She wants me to go to yoga. She wants me to go to yoga. ok ok ok ok ok ok ok O-KAY! I'll go. Jeezus. So we drive, and we drive, and we drive. The map comes out. Obviously a yoga studio in the city isn't good enough. It's obvious at this point that we're not going to make it in time but we're determined to find this damn place regardless. We finally get there and it's this little shack, rather unimpressive. We peak in through the windows condensed with dew. By this time I have to pee so badly. So I relieve myself in their parking lot. And it makes me feel manly. It feels like revenge.

February 10, 2003

"Wanna see me run like a girl?" I say suddenly and excitedly.

Before a response can even be uttered... I'm off, arms flaying at my sides, a high pitched "weeee" coming from my lips.

God I need help.

January 10, 2003

Date: Fri, 10 Jan 2003 16:13:07 -0500
To: letters@improper.com
Subject: Holiday Staff Photo Epiphany

Dear Improper Bostonian,

For years I have been intimidated by your publication. A constant barrage of parties I've always felt too unattractive to attend, only told about them once they're already over. Pics of people in tuxes with blinding white teeth, laughing, at me apparently. Scantily clad blonde women at The Rack, all much taller than me. Newsflashes about Chef So-And-So hopping from Chez Uptight to Chez Snobby in neighborhoods that I never even knew existed in Boston.

A passport to the world of the Pretty People I did not have, so relegated I was to read the "You Wish You Were Here" postcards of the Improper Bostonian and its Last Scene Here page.

This all changed last month when I saw the Improper Bostonian Holiday staff photo. Great Googley Moogley! You're not attractive at all! None of you!

Viewing this photo was an epiphany for me. I went right out and bought myself a navy sport coat (which I now wear constantly) and I am ripping up the town talking to all kinds of shallow people who live in condos that their parents bought them. Just last night I talked to a woman who works in a Newbury Street salon, and another woman that works as a bartender on Landsdowne Street.

I feel like I am alive for the very first time! THANK YOU IMPROPER BOSTONIAN! THANK YOU!

Rudy

January 2, 2003

I made the recent discovery that Captain Ahab's first-mate was named Starbuck. Now it all makes sense to me. I'm sure Starbuck did a lot of yelling on the deck of the Pequod, his urgent commands passed along to the rest of his crew. "All hands on deck! All hands on deck!!, Masts full up starboard side! Masts full up starboard side!! Right rudder left! Right rudder left!!!. Or possibly like legions of other seaworthy characters Starbuck posessed a shoulder-perching parrot; one that would squawk and loudly repeat him.

And so it is today, in the store that bears his very name, that the spirit of First-Mate Starbuck is strong, his urgent commands yelled and repeated in an ancient chorus....   Tall Decaf Americano! Tall Decaf Americano!, Venti Chai Skim Latte! Venti Chai Skim Latte!!, Grande non-fat caramel machiato!! Grande non-fat caramel machiato!!!.

Schools of fat white whales swim up and away from the marble counter.... thar they blow.

December 29, 2002

I don't want 15 minutes of fame.
I want a life.
I don't want to be a flash in the pan.
I want a career.
I don't want to grab all I can.
I want to selectively choose the best.
I don't want to sell a company.
I want to build one.
I don't want to date a model.
OK, so I do want to date a model.
Sue me.
But the rest of my goals are long term.
The result of day to day determination.
I stay steady.
I redefine the word consistency.
Along the way there will surely be moments of brilliance.
I am, after all, Andy.
But the moments will add up to something greater.
A record of excellence.
A plaque in a hall.
My name on a sandwich.
A family that's a team.
I'll never look back with regret.
I will always believe in the ideal.
I hope to be remembered, not recalled.
And I hope to make a difference.