Mestee Blogger

I was looking for material for jokes when I discovered a story about an unclaimed Indiana state lottery ticket worth $2.5 M. The date to claim the ticket ultimately expired and people shared their tales of looking for the winner. I found this quote to be fantastic:
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I couldn't help myself, so I took a peek at the latest version of MTV's Real World, which is in Cancun. At a certain point in time, MTV seemed to select "the roommates" by taking people who had interesting looks, ambitious career goals, and uncontrolled rage. Now it seems like you have to be a supermodel with weird name (uncontrolled rage optional). This particular cast includes includes Ayiiiya, Bronne, Emilee, and Jonna, almost none of which are pronounced as you might imagine.

The mysterious "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here" seemed to be on every night while I was getting ready to go to the gym two weeks ago. This show confused me on a number of levels. First, there were barely any celebrities on the show, which featured a budding friendship between former NBA player John Sally and Rod Blagojevich's wife. Seriously. There is also the curious presence of Lou Diamond Phillips, who seemingly came out of nowhere to do this show. The strangest part to me is that everyone seems to take the game VERY seriously and better yet, seem to be genuinely impressed with themselves for "making it so far" through the game. Keep in mind, the game consists largely of the contestants hanging out in the jungle, while people call into the show and arbitrarily voting to which celebrity to keep and which to eliminate, with the ultimate prize being a donation made to the charity of the winner's choice. Despite this, you hear the psuedo-celebs throwing around phrases like "amazing performace", "so proud of how tough I've been", "incredible determination", "honored to be in the final four", etc. When the prize is going to somebody's charity no matter what, I can't imagine it would be devastating to lose (No! Don't cure cancer! Let's cure AIDS! This is a nightmare!).

I think my favorite new show is Silent Library, which is a game show set in a library, where the contestants have to perform stunts/take punishment without making too much noise. The decibels are measured on the bottom corner of the screen. It is clearly the high school sophomore in me that finds these ridiculous stunts amusing, but I'm afraid that sophomore will never go away.
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Hello again. Long ago, I had attempted to make "California - Part III" my next post, but some things happened. I took the third and final level of a sketch writing class this summer, performed in my first show in September, then became a writer for a sketch troupe at ImprovBoston in the winter. All of this has occupied a lot of my time -- and creative energy -- since July. I also grew a beard, though that hasn't taken up quite as much of my time. In addition to these developments, I may be ghost-writing a true crime novel at some point in the near future. Yes, you read that correctly. More on that later.

So it's getting to be close to a year since Hufton's wedding in California and right now it doesn't seem like I should be writing about that, because I hate Hufton. Okay, not really. Truth be told, I thought I had a chunk of "California - Part III" saved on my computer, but I thought wrong. If anybody on the San Luis Obispo leg of the trip would like to sub in for their account of part three, including the longest U-Turn ever made, I'd be glad to post it on here.

Back to present day (technically last month)....Brendan was in town during the NCAA Finals, which seemed like a good excuse to meet up. He said that we should meet at Hooters on Route 1, since it was "a good place to watch a game". This sounded similar to Hufton's theory that he likes to eat at Hooters because they've got "great hot wings". As it turns out, the Hooters on Route 1 really is a great place to watch a game. They've got a ton of nice TVs and a good sound system. After some wings, I was still a little hungry. Just as I was thinking this, the waitress came over and said "Who wants dessert?" in her most seductive voice, straight out of Hooters Dessert Sales Training 101. That sealed it.

"Key Lime Pie, please," I said. This came as a bit of a surprise to Brendan and me, which is weird, because I'm the one who ordered it. As far as I can remember, I've never had key lime pie before. I remarked to Brendan that I was pretty sure I had managed to seek out every type of food that I liked, but I guess I was wrong, because that pie was delicious.

Brendan one-upped me, though. He said that not only had he never eaten Dim Sum, but a) he really wanted to and c) wasn't even entirely sure what it was. I speculated that it might not even be a food at all, but maybe a type of meal, like "brunch". Brendan loves Asian food so much that he didn't even know what dim sum was before he was sold on it. This explanation was followed by a story of his first venture into cooking pho, for which he estimated a prep time of 3 to 4 hours. And I thought Ralph Surprise was a time commitment.

First round of golf this year: tomorrow morning. Gotta get to bed. Until next time...
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I saw the forecast for Paso Robles roughly 48 hours before the wedding and instantly launched into tirade aimed at anyone who would listen. It was supposed to be 108 degrees on Friday and 107 on Saturday, and I was going be wearing not only a tie, but a jacket. A jacket. I wasn’t sure I could be out in 108 degree heat in a bathing suit, much less formal wear. What shocked me more, though, was the reaction I got from my fellow would-be wedding guests.

“It’s going to be 108 degrees!” I announced to Irf, Julia, and Steve the day before we left.

I waited to hear shrieks of horror, but instead was greeted with this…

“I guess that’s better than 68 degrees,” Julia said, while Steve and Irf shrugged their shoulders with indifference.

Once I wrapped my head around how anybody who was familiar with the concept of “room temperature” could possibly make that claim, I basically didn’t stop voicing my outrage until we left the next morning. This was thrilling for everyone involved, I’m sure.

Irf and I took the bus to the local Enterprise on Friday morning. Due to the temperatures we would be facing later in the day, my primary concern was that the air conditioning worked on the Dodge Avenger I was renting. We picked up the rest of the crew, packed up the cars, and then…stopped.

Irf, Julia, and Steve’s car was at the gas pump, when Irf waved us over. Brendan went to see what was going on and came back to report that rental car #2 was “not taking gas”.

The occupants of car #1, Jack, Brendan, and myself, found this to be puzzling. Because the car was apparently “broken”, it appeared that crew number 2 was going to have to exchange their lemon for a road-worthy vehicle that could get them down the coast. As it turns out, the gas tank was full. In Irfan’s defense, the woman at Enterprise had told him that there was only 1/8^th of a tank left. In actuality, it was 7/8 full. This was the first of many bonehead moves on the trip.

We cruised through the valley with sprawling fields on either side of us for miles. At one point, somebody in crew number one mentioned ominously that “you can see how fires would just spread all over the place”. This was approximately one week before the State of California caught on fire.

We made good time to Paso Robles, so we stopped for a little Mexican food before checking in at the hotel. This was our first experience with the extreme heat, which I found to be unpleasant, but bearable. Immediately after finishing lunch, we thought it would be a good idea to get lost a few times – just for good measure, since we hadn’t gotten lost at all on the way down.

Once we finally got to the hotel, we were delighted to see our spacious rooms, complete with gift bags on the pillows which featured an assortment of chocolates and Frito-Lay products. This was fitting, since eighty percent of the Huftons have worked at Frito-Lay in some capacity. Jeremy loves Funyuns more than anyone I know. In fact, I’m not actually sure that I know anyone else who even likes Funyuns.

Just as we were getting ready to leave for the rehearsal, I thought to myself, “My outfit would look a lot better with some sandals instead of shoes”. Yes, there is a lot of “outfit” discussion when I’m talking to myself. Just then, Hufton knocked on the door and delivered my groomsman gift – a pair of sandals. This was not only great for my outfit, but it cleared up the reason why Hufton had sent out an email a few months earlier which asked my shoe size. When I responded with a “12ish”, I never heard back, which made me feel violated somehow. Now it all made sense.

At the rehearsal dinner, we got to eat some delicious food and meet with people like Alaska Josh, Josh Funtuazzi, and Josh Beckett. Okay, not really Josh Beckett, but three Joshes seemed more noteworthy. We played bocce ball till the sun went down and then headed to the Crooked Kilt, a local watering hole. There, we were treated to Jager bombs – Red Bull and Jagermeister, for you rookies -- by Josh Funtuazzi. Some were perplexed at how much it tasted like Robitussen, but I had felt the wrath of the Jagerbomb before. Somehow, nobody got too drunk and we all made it back to the hotel relatively early. We thought that it would be a good idea to get the guys together and drink beers in the hotel, but most of the group barely made it past their first beer before falling asleep. Maybe it was the jet lag, maybe it was because we were out of training, but either way, we called it a night by 1:00 AM.

The next day – the Big Day – we went to breakfast at a greasy spoon-type restaurant, where Brendan got a coffee cup with lipstick on it. Yikes. We thought that maybe our middle-aged waitress was trying to send him a message, but it turns out the mug was just dirty. We went back to the hotel for some swimming and napping, then got ready to suit up and face the heat.

When we arrived at the vineyard, the folks there were very understanding regarding our overheating issue, being in suits and all. They let us stay in an air-conditioned storage house just a few hundred yards from the wedding site. We even got to go into the walk-in refrigerator, which was literally sixty to seventy degrees cooler than the outside temperature.

A crowd was gathered on the hillside where the ceremony was about to be held. The groomsmen stood in a row as the bridesmaids walked into view and over to their positions, one at a time. I think we were the first group of groomsmen to ever heckle the bridesmaids during the ceremony.

“Oh God, you’re gonna fall. Don’t fall,” I heard in a loud whisper from one of my fellow groomsmen.

“Everyone is looking at you. Don’t do anything weird, they’re all looking at you,” they said to the next bridesmaid.

This was shocking, but not too shocking. After all, this was coming from guys who dressed in drag while attending a Prom Party just to upset the hostess. Expect the unexpected, you know?

More unexpected: Jeremy’s voice started to crack a little as he was reading his vows. I feared that this would set off a chain reaction, causing the right side of the altar to be filled with a bunch of blubbering groomsmen. I’m not sure what I expected my inner monologue to be like during the ceremony, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be anything like “Brian, don’t cry. Don’t you cry! Hold it together…hold it together. Okay, you’re okay.” Everyone did manage to hold it together and Jeremy and Maren eventually exited to the sounds of the Michigan fight song.

After some more fantastic food, the dance music started pumping and the wine started flowing. Irf, Jack, and Brendan took over the dance floor early on, with some of us stragglers joining in later. Jeremy did a version of the Electric Slide that would more accurately be called The Hesitant Slide of the Unwilling, but it was his wedding, so he had to.

During “Bust a Move” Jack and Julia both pulled out some serious dance moves, each getting an individual shout-out from the DJ.

“This guy has been waiting to use that move all night,” the DJ shouted after Jack pulled a little alternating-hand-on-the-ground move that left me legitimately impressed.

Julia took the floor by storm, causing the more casual dancers to step aside to let her do her thing.

“She’s pretty fly for a white girl!” the DJ announced. Julia was apparently so caught up in her dance moves that she didn’t even hear the DJ talking about her. When we told her about his comments later that night, she thought that it “sounded a little racist.” Julia has never heard of The Offspring.

After the reception, we made an encore appearance at The Crooked Kilt and eventually split up in different directions with some going one of three hotels for some post-post-reception drinks. And just when you thought you were done, you'll have to wait to read Part III, which features: ridiculous detours! Gas station hijinks! More messing with sleeping people!

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Right now, I’m sitting across from Irf at a wobbly table inside Starbucks in Davis Square. Two weeks ago, I was sitting across from Irf at a Starbucks 3,000 miles away from here. San Francisco: home to the baseball Giants, the Golden Gate Bridge, and lenient marijuana laws. I think that’s the actual city motto.

I landed at the airport right around 7:00 PM, west coast time, which meant that Game 6 of the NBA Finals was already an hour underway. I ran to grab my luggage from the carousel and then told the SuperShuttle driver that I needed to go to the corner of Fulton and Lyon Street, where Irf was waiting. I didn’t tell him about the Irf part. The guy didn’t seem to trust my relay of information from the paper I was holding, so he asked to see it.

“What hotel?” he asked.
“It’s actually just a house,” I informed him.
“House of Love?” he questioned, as he examined the paper.
“Yes, that’s it.”

I almost felt obligated to tell him that this was not a place of ill repute, but actually a hippy commune near The Haight. I denied my instincts and let him think that I was a guy who just happened to be into early-evening romps with hookers. I know that’s what he was thinking. He loaded up my luggage and I sat in the very back seat as he waited outside the van for more passengers. In the meantime, Irf called me and let me know that he was watching the game at a bar called The Dog in the Fog.

“Is there room for my luggage?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I guess,” he informed me.

When the driver realized that I would be his only passenger, he hopped back into the driver’s seat.

“Change of plans,” I said.
“Where we going?”
“The Dog in the Fog”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a bar.”
“You bring you luggage to a baah???”
“Yes, sir. Celtics…you know?”

As it turns out, he did know, and we listened to the game on the radio as we drove to the bar. I felt dumber bringing my luggage into a bar than I initially thought I would. In fact, the moment I unloaded my luggage from the back of the shuttle in the middle of a decidedly non-residential section of town, I started getting some quizzical looks. The bar wasn’t very crowded when I arrived, but after a few shouts of “Scuse me, pardon me”, I had found my way to the back of the bar, where my fellow Boston fan was waiting.

In my head, I guess I had imagined that California = Lakers Fans. In reality, though, San Francisco = Golden State Warriors Fans, who hate the Lakers as much as we do. Irf and I had watched close to twenty Celtics playoff games at my condo in the previous weeks, attended Game 7 of the Cleveland series at the Garden, and oddly, there we were in California -- far closer to enemy territory -- to watch the guys in Green clinch the final series back in Boston…all while sitting amongst an anti-Laker crowd. It was sort of surreal.

After the game, I settled in at the House of Love, full-time residence of one Diana Bennett, sister of Julia #2. This was a loose enough connection that I tried to avoid explaining it to anybody. The H.O.L featured some aspects that reminded me of my fraternity, like each room having its own theme/décor going on and the upstairs bathroom with a tapestry for a window, exposing its inhabitant to the outside world with every stiff breeze. Other things were not so reminiscent of my old house, like the big bathroom with the seriously kick-ass shower and the back yard communal area surrounded by plants and flowers. Ultimately, the H.O.L turned out to be a great place and a key to what could have been a much more expensive vacation.

Steve arrived late Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, so he was able to join Irf and I when we went to the Giants game. We scored some seats at the top of the upper deck in the left field section of AT&T Park, which proved to be very sunny. This was where I managed to obtain the unfortunate sunburn that I would later sport in most of the wedding photos. While I was busy baking, Irf was taking a nap – a fact that Steve and I could not ignore. We did our duty as dudes and commenced the “messing with the guy who fell asleep” phase. Look for this phase again in Part II. While Irfan was getting some shut-eye behind his sunglasses, Steve and I took off for the last row, which was A) out of the sun, B) out of Irf’s direct sight, and C) a vantage point where we could see the sleeping giant as he awoke, alone, in what would clearly be a confused state. Ten minutes later, after Steve and I giggled like school girls twenty rows behind him, Irf woke up and tried to play it cool. It appeared for a few minutes that he might just pretend nothing was wrong, but we couldn’t take it anymore. During a lull in crowd noise, I let loose a big “Let’s go, Ir-fan!” and a minute later, he had tracked us down.

We were planning on going out near the water later that night, so I brought a sweatshirt with me to the game. I had put it in the seat next to me – a fact that I remembered at almost the exact moment I finished winding down the twenty ramps that lead out of the park. Irf and Steve waited for me on the street while I went up to grab my sweatshirt. Unfortunately, the game had just ended, so I was going “upstream” against the crowd on the way back to the upper deck. To my surprise, there was a huge team of people already hosing down the seats, just minutes after the final pitch. When I went up to see if my sweatshirt had survived the dousing, I realized that it was gone. I told the guys that I had left it there, so they directed me to the head trash-collector guy (his official title, I’m sure). The head trash collector told me that he thought he saw the sweatshirt, so he took me over to a giant portable trash bin and – voila! – there was my sweatshirt, sprinkled with beer and cheesy fries. As I pondered just how gross that was, another trash collector was going full-speed ahead for the bin that held my sweatshirt. He positioned himself to dump a huge trash barrel right on top of my defenseless hoodie. Luckily, head trash collector guy was able to call off the (hot) dogs before my beloved sweatshirt was violated any further. Good news: I got my sweatshirt. Bad news: I had to carry around a dirty sweatshirt all night.

We ended up going to a restaurant called Weird Fish, which featured catfish buffalo wings and the Suspicious Fish Dish, where they don’t actually let you know anything about the dish, other than the fact that you’re getting a full meal. None of us were brave enough to get it. Brian G. met up with us in time for dessert. He used to work at the lab with Steve and was also a frequent teammate of ours when we played some pick-up basketball in Medford. Even though he couldn’t make it for the meal, he still had plenty of time to tell us about how he was recently taken by medivac from a bike accident and briefly discussed his experience with melons. So I…uh, never mind.

Jack and Brendan showed up on Thursday night, just after the rest of us were treated to some fantastic treats from the resident pastry chef. They accidentally went to the very end of the subway line that they were supposed to take, which delayed their arrival by about…four hours or so. Yeah. Anyway, once they finally arrived, Jack and Brendan had to shack up in the same bed, and before Brendan could even get under the covers, Jack had already created something he dubbed the Double Dutch Oven. I would have laughed much harder had I not been delirious from lack of sleep.

The next morning, Irf and I walked over to the local Enterprise, where we had our cars reserved. We loaded up and headed down the highway towards the wedding locale in Paso Robles. Stay tuned for Part II.
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I swear, I'll get to the wedding week recap soon, but until then, there's this:

I've been watching Weeds, now that the third season is out on DVD. Coincidentally, while going to rent Disc Two of Weeds at the local Blockbuster, I spotted Super High Me, a documentary that I heard was pretty funny.

As I approached the check-out area, I realized that I must look like the world's biggest stoner right now, minus the patchouli-scented dreadlocks. At that moment, I fully understood that I could be the only person who will watch Super High Me while not under the influence. I almost felt like I should explain this to the gray-haired gentleman cashier, but then realized that video clerks over age forty are probably not so quick to judge. Yeah, that's right -- don't judge me, cashier.

While I was in San Francisco, I had a chance to head down to the famous Haight-Ashbury area with Steve and Irf. I was wondering if the area could have avoided becoming gentrified and/or overly touristy, a frequent fate of counter-culture destinations. We ate at a pub named "Magnolia's", which featured microbrews and home-made soda. As the Grateful Dead music filled the air, I couldn't help but wonder if Jerry Garcia would be pleased or upset by such an overt homage to his band smack dab in the middle of Haight Street. Things can't really be counter-culture once they're fully organized, you know? Anyway, my belief in the continuance of Haight-Ashbury tradition was fulfilled when Steve and I were offered drugs on a street corner in broad daylight following lunch. That has never happened to me before, and what better or more appropriate place could there be than on the corner of Haight-Ashbury? Maybe there's still hope for CBGB's. Oh, right, that's actually closed now. But still, maybe there is a chance for semi counter-culture to live on somewhere in this great nation. Seriously, I'm not a stoner.
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Hello, you. I just got back from the Hufton/Bennett wedding a few days ago, but I'll get to that in a day or two. Until then, I have some untimely and off-topic comments to share.

1. During the NBA playoffs, I began nominating players to join my "One-Dirty-Jacket-Away-from-looking-like-a-homeless-guy-despite-being-seven-foot-tall-millionaires" team. Catchy, I know.

In no particular order, my starting five is: Pau Gasol, Rasheed Wallace and...come to think of it, I only have two, but they're really solid picks for the "Dirty Jacket..." team.

2. Irf and I went to Game 7 of the Celtics/Cavs series and as we approached the turnstiles, the excitement in the air was palpable. I turned to Irf and said "I bet I could get a strong 'Let's Go Celtics' chant going here". Less than five seconds later, from the bottom of the escalator came a booming cry of "Let's Go Celtics" and the entire crowd joined instantly. I'm just sayin'.

3. I watched America's Got Talent and decided that crappy videos on the internet and delusional American Idol contestants have ruined our concept of what is talented. I watched four dudes do a semi-original dance to "Bye Bye Bye", met with thunderous applause. Then, two other guys did some breakdancing that, impressive as it was, I've seen on several different street corners in several different cities. The judges called it spectacular and completely original. Then, a guy played piano and did a serviceable job singing "Walking in Memphis", which prompted a mid-song standing ovation (??!!!??!) and caused Sharon Osborne to wonder aloud "Why hasn't anyone signed you?". Why? Because 20 guys like this play in every city in every night. I know, I shouldn't be such a hater, but aren't there more talented people that could be on TV?


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