Ever since the foodies took over the world we’ve been besieged with the concept of “food pairings”. Not content with insisting that food is only good when there’s some jizzy foam or liquid nitrogen in it, the foodies are now telling us what we need to drink with different foods.

The whole food pairing movement started with wine. Traditional rules like “red with meat, white with fish, Manischewitz with matzoh” were replaced with more sophisticated combinations like pinot noir with turkey or chateauneuf du pape with cheez doodles.

Next, foodie nation moved onto beer pairings, which is patently ridiculous because any beer pairs well with anything. I’ve railed at length about the unnecessary fancification of beer, so I won’t go into it further, but enough with the monocles and the doilies already. It’s beer.

But all of this talk about drink pairings is largely useless because most people only drink alcohol with approximately 38% of their meals. What about the other 62%?  Will someone please think about the children?

Therefore I have taken it upon myself to create drink pairings that will help all of us every day. I’m talking about which diet soda to pair with your lunch. (Please note that these pairings are based on the sodas that are available in my office fridge and my usual rotation of lunch choices.)

Sprite Zero is a very mild soda with notes of lemon and lime – limon, if you will. I like to pair a mild soda with a bold lunch choice, for example BBQ ribs from the Redbones food truck. (Please keep this between us because my wife will be totes mad if she catches me eating BBQ at work this early into resolution season.)

Diet Orange Crush also features strong citrus characteristics, but is a much more forceful flavor that can dominate the palate. Therefore I recommend a food that can both stand up to the soda and yield to the soda at the same time. Something like a caesar salad with blackened chicken works well, as your mouth will delight in the interplay between spice, sweet and crouton.

Diet Mountain Dew is almost the beer of sodas. It’s so delicious and universally appealing that it can work well with anything. Therefore I like to do the Dew when eating sad soup for one at my desk (soup flavor is optional). The key here is that sad soup for one is, by definition, sad and Diet Mountain Dew is, by definition, extreme. A palliative for the soul, Diet Dew can turn sad soup for one into slightly-less-sad soup for one.

Diet Coke is a girl’s soda now, so I guess it goes best with skipping lunch and shopping, because ladies be shopping, amirite? No? Okay, I’ll see myself out now.

Coke Zero is a manly soda for macho men with bad attitudes who are just itching for trouble. And when I’m ready to rumble I like to fight through the long-ass line at the Paradise Bakery and get a nice roast beef sandwich. Best of all, free cookie!!!! (Okay, scratch that last part, which in retrospect doesn’t sound all that manly. But seriously, free cookie!!!!)

Diet Ginger Ale pairs best with saltines when you have a bad tummy. Let’s be honest – Ginger Ale is more medicine than soda. Ginger Ale is one of those things like Mary Jane candies or “My Three Sons” that seemed okay in the ‘70s, but are clearly terrible in an era when we have more and better choices.

Speaking of bad tummies, remember that it’s NFL championship weekend which means that you’re going to want to avoid the Men’s room on Monday at all costs. Trust me, it’s a goddamn war zone in there this time of year. Remember, just because you don’t work on that floor doesn’t mean you can’t use their bathroom!

Diet Mug Root Beer is another strong flavor that is sweet, with a hint of smoke, peat and malt. Some fruit also comes through. Oh wait, I just copied that from some scotch tasting notes. Mmmm dirt! How delicious. But seriously, root beer is kind of crappy, so I don’t care what you eat with it. Subway is always good.

I hope that you found this exercise valuable and rewarding. Remember, choosing a beverage has nothing to do with drinking what you like. It’s all about listening to some stranger on the internet tell you what to do.

###

***

It started, like these things always do, innocently enough. It was a full flight. I didn’t ask for the center seat.  I didn’t want the center seat. I got the center seat anyway. It was one of those big planes with 3 seats on either side of the aisle. I’m not sure if it was a 737 or a 787 and, quite frankly, I think people who know those details are weird.

“A plane ain’t nothin’ but a big ol’ bus in the sky,” a man once told me, but that man was a bus driver and I always suspected that he drank himself out of flight school.

On my right was a youngish black woman clutching a stuffed panda: a foreboding omen to say the least. On my left was an oldish white man. He was dressed snappily in a jeans, button-down shirt, and sweater combination. Neither seemed like they would be a problem. Or at least they wouldn’t be a problem that I couldn’t handle.

Behind me was a family with two lap babies. I was under the impression that the TSA now limited us to one lap baby per flight, but feeling generous I didn’t call security to have the uglier baby evicted. Both babies were crying before takeoff. Luckily I’ve had 2 children of my own so I’m well schooled in the art of ignoring babies while judging their incompetent parents.

***

When I’m flying I usually do a combination of three things: 1) watch an old movie; 2) try not to think about going to the bathroom (I have a tragically small bladder); or 3) listen to music and enter a half-sleep/half-trance state. As the flight wasn’t long enough for a movie and I had just been to the bathroom in the terminal I opted for the trance state.

And then those damn babies started up again. Jerks! Even James Carr couldn’t drown out their stupid cries. I resign myself to writing and got out my teeny-tiny laptop.

***

An hour goes by. I’m pleased with my efforts. Captain Jack makes the announcement that we’re starting our descent so I start to shut down all of my stuff. And then it happens.

“What do you say you give me a chance at that armrest for the rest of the flight?” angrily barks the old man.

A thousand snappy comebacks immediately flash into my mind. But I’m in a good mood so I calmly reply, “I’m sorry. Was I hogging the armrest? Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

It starts to dawn on me that old man isn’t just peeved, he’s furious. I’m talking throbbing vein in the forehead furious.

“Grrrflurgh! Why do you think I was hanging out in the aisle the whole time?”

Was that true? Let me think about what I noticed about old man: full head of hair and nice clothes (good), reading the Financial Times (douchey), drank 2 Heinekens (questionable)… occasionally stood in the aisle! So it WAS true!

“I’m sorry, I think you’re overestimated how much I was paying attention to you. I was listening to music and writing. I figured your back was hurting or something. Here, enjoy the armrest.”

Old man grunted and that was the end of the story. Or so I naively thought.

***

Now I was too distracted to enjoy iPod backgammon. Did I hog the armrest? Was I in the wrong here?

First, let’s establish that I’m definitely big for the middle seat. I’m not seat-belt extender big, but it’s still not a comfortable fit. Obviously the old man and I both wished I was smaller, but that wasn’t going to happen over the course of a one-hour flight. It did, however, call into question my long-standing “you can’t gain weight on a business trip no matter what you eat or drink” theory.

Then again, I was writing the whole time – on a teeny-tiny laptop. Which meant that I was leaning forward and crunched in towards the teeny-tiny keyboard. I don’t think I was using the armrests at all. Maybe old man was just angry/crazy/drunk on pre-skunked beer?

Furthermore, who really owns the armrest? Old man has his left armrest all to himself. Black lady has the right armrest all for herself. What does middle seat man get? Nothing? Both? What’s the official etiquette for this situation?

The more I thought about the situation, the more that I realized I was probably in the right. I was prepared to roast the old man at his very next misstep. His ass was mine.

And then I noticed that he was sitting there and stewing, clenching and unclenching his fist like a very angry, very crazy, slightly drunk old man. Perhaps I shouldn’t mess with him after all.

***

As we disembark I grab a used piece of gum from my seat pouch, because I am a great guy that picks up after himself. Entering the terminal I look for a trashcan and spot one off to the left. I make a bee line for it and throw my rubbish away.

And then I spot him. Hovering over me and glowering. THE OLD MAN WAS STALKING ME! HE WAS CLEARLY GOING TO KILL ME!

Naturally, I have a macho reaction upon noticing him and let out a surprised yelp, which I cover up by saying, “sorry again about the armrest!!!!” And then I casually ran away.

His eyes! They burned!

***

On my way to the taxi line I ducked into a men’s room to relieve myself. (And to ditch to the murderous old man, obviously.)

I made it! I’m outside! I’m free! Old man is nowhere in sight and the taxi line is a mere 50 yards away.

“SWOOSH!”

A door on my left opens up.

And there he is, mad as hell and staring right through me.

I underestimated my foe. He deserves to win. I accept my fate.

***

The last thing I saw was the glint off the metal and then everything went dark…+

I gave the cabby directions and sped off to safety.

But I can still see the old man’s face.

And I can still feel his eyes on me.

And I know he’s still out there. Searching. Stewing. Clenching and unclenching. Patiently waiting for his revenge.

***

Learn from my mistakes people. Don’t use that armrest if you know what’s good for you.

###

Now some people might say that Ryan squandered his term, which ultimately resulted in his big summer movie The Green Latern flopping. I take the opposite position and say that The Green Latern flopped precisely because the combination of Ryan Reynold and Blake Lively was far too sexy for comic book nerds to embrace.

You see, what you norms might not realize is that comic book nerds are smart. They know that they’ll never win the affection of a Blake Lively so they aim a little lower and lust after someone like Alyson Hannigan from Buffy (i.e. someone who is still quite attractive but not super-hot). Of course comic book nerds have no chance with Alyson Hannigan, either, but don’t tell them that. I said they were smart, I didn’t say that they weren’t delusional.

Anyway, back to Mr. Sexy, Bradley Cooper, who is certainly sexy enough to wear the crown. I like me some Bradley Cooper and I certainly don’t begrudge him this prestigious honor.

What I do begrudge is the apparently rising standards of womenfolk in judging male sexiness.

Dig this. When I’m travelling alone I like to watch old movies. I do this because nobody else wants to watch old movies with me and because movies (just like music) were much better in the 1970s. Hell, everything was great in the ‘70s when I was too young to enjoy it. Then stuff sucked in the ‘80s when I was almost old enough to enjoy it. Then things were great again in the ‘90s when I was still young enough to enjoy it. The things got shitty again in the ’00s, but I was too tired from the stupid kids to care.

What was so great about movies in the ‘70s? Well aside from the excellent writing, direction and acting, the music was super-funky, the clothes were hideously awesome and people said hip things like “dig this”. But truly, the greatest thing about movies in the ‘70s (and earlier) is that fat middle-aged men were legitimate sex symbols.

You see, I can compete with a 50 year old William Holden. I’ll go toe-to-toe with Robert Mitchum wearing a dirty trenchcoat. Humphrey Bogart? He’s mine, all five and a half feet of him. I’m sure even Ernest Borgnine had his admirers. It was easy being sexy back then.

But I can’t compete with Bradley Cooper and his stupid hair and washboard abs and dazzling smile.

So there you have it.

Ladies, if you want to bring sexy back could you please lower your standards to 1970s level? Think of it like the Bush tax cuts. I’m not asking you to give up everything – just go back to a reasonable level when we were all happy.

###

The big news is that for the first time ever, I’ll be live blogging my candy reviews. Please note that the evening usually features three distinct phases: first, I’ll eat the candy that we bought to give out, next I’ll eat the candy that my 4 year old secures during the early shift and finally, I’ll eat the candy that my 8 year old scores on the late shift. My intention is to eat one piece of every kind of candy that enters the house, with the exception of generic candy and size variants.

Candy will be rated on my patented 4 point scale ™, with 1 being a “shit sandwich” and 4 being a “Butterfinger”.

###

Twix: Featuring caramel, chocolate and cookie, Twix is a Gen X favorite, and for good reason. The cookie provides a lovely texture, the chocolate is tasty and the caramel is used judiciously, as it should be. A great way to start the evening. 4

Reese’s Crispy Crunchy Bar: Is this new? I’m a big fan of Reese’s, so I’m always up for another line extension from them. It’s like a cross between a Kit Kat and a Nestle Crunch. It’s okay but I’m not sure if I need the wafer AND the crunch. 2

3 Muskateers: Oh sweet nougat, I do love thee so. So light and fluffy, the 3 Muskateers bar is sophisticated, like a little bite of chocolate mousse. Give those 3 muskateers 4 stars! 4

Take 5: Perhaps the greatest candy bar invention in decades, Take 5 is pure genius: chocolate, pretzels, caramel, peanuts and peanut butter. The saltiness and hardness of the pretzel is a brilliant addition to the candy canon. Somewhere Milton S. Hershey is smiling. 4

Milky Way: It’s like a 3 Muskateers, but with caramel and the nougat is different (yes, it is. I once called the corporate 800# to find out in order to settle a pre-wikipedia bet. It is different nougat and I won the bet). But, I’m not a huge fan of caramel being the star of the show, so I’m not that big a fan of the Milky Way. 2

Milky Way Midnight: It’s the dark chocolate version of the Milky Way. The chocolate taste like the mounds chocolate. Interesting but not that great. 2

Snickers: Meh. Ever since I overdosed on peanuts on the South Beach diet (irony alert!) I’m not that big on whole peanuts. And the caramel again. I don’t feel that satisfied, either. 2

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup: The sweetest plum. Chocolate. Peanut Butter. And I love how the top layer of chocolate is a little too thick. Fantastic candy. 4

Twizzlers Rainbow Twists: While I generally prefer the chocolate, it’s nice to mix it up sometimes with something different. But these are just weird. They taste like Kool-Aid packets. Blech. 1

Mounds: You know, I’m really not that big on either dark chocolate or coconut, but the whole is definitely greater than the sum of the parts. That’s some good stuff. 3

Butterfinger: My childhood favorite candy. It’s one of a kind – peanut-y and chocolate-y with a unique texture inside. I absolutely adore Butterfingers. 4

(Must admit…11 bars into the taste test and starting to fade. Must press on and keep eating candy. America needs me. Perhaps a beer will help…)

Kit Kat: The original wafer candy, it’s light and crunchy and delicious. Plus, you get TWO of them! Woo hoo! 4

100 Grand: Chocolate, caramel and crispy, the 100 Grand is a little tough on the teeth. Like the US dollar, this one has been seriously over-valued. 2

Sour Skittles: Yeech, that’s just gross. They should probably leave the ‘sour’ to the ‘patch kids’. 1

3 Muskateers Mint with Dark Chocolate: Wow! I feel like I just brushed my teeth! It’s like a creamy After 8 mint. Actually, I never liked those too much. 2

Whoppers: Now I feel like I’m in a black and white movie. What is malted milk, anyway? Kind of good, kind of gross. It’s appropriate that there’s only 3 in pack – I’m not sure I could handle more than 3 in one sitting. 2

###

I can’t believe it. A mere 16 candy bars and I’m toast. I have brought shame and dishonor onto my entire family. To be perfectly honest with you I would commit seppuku right now if my tummy wasn’t so full of mostly-delicious candy.

###

(Originally written on 10/31/08. If you liked this you’ll find my Rating the Snack Cakes equally delicious.)

]]> http://mitchblum.com/2011/10/25/the-evolution-of-the-masshole/feed/ 0 http://mitchblum.com/2011/10/11/9-great-ideas/ http://mitchblum.com/2011/10/11/9-great-ideas/#comments Tue, 11 Oct 2011 16:55:58 +0000 admin http://mitchblum.com/?p=1700 Once upon a time, before the magic box fixed/ruined everything, people shopped in large stores full of all different kinds of merchandise. The goods were helpfully organized into departments, hence the name “department stores”.

Historically, department store were good for exactly three things: 1) for women to get their makeup done for free before a fancy party; 2) for taking a poo in foreign neighborhoods where there wasn’t a hotel (fancy hotels obviously have the best public toilets); and 3) for paying $150 for a Mr. Coffee machine that cost $30 at Target.

One of the greatest of the classic department stores was Filene’s. The flagship store was located on the corner of Summer & Washington Streets in the Downtown Crossing section of Boston. Tourists from all over would come to shop at Filene’s Basement. (The real Filene’s Basement, not the crappy place at the loser mall that sells dated football jerseys, stale candy and executive desk toys.)

Ultimately Macy’s bought Filene’s and shut down the store. Some jerk from New York bought the building, tore it down and ran out of money before putting up a new building. And now we’re left with a giant, ugly hole in the middle of a giant, ugly part of Boston. Thanks a lot, jerk.

But I am not here to point fingers. My mission in life is to offer solutions. Poorly thought-out, ridiculous solutions. So let’s go!

9 Great Ideas for Filling the Filene’s Hole in Boston

1) DINOLAND BOSTON: Two things I’m certain of is that kids like dinosaurs and kids are stupid. Let’s turn the hole into the largest urban archaeological dig site in the world. Take down the fence, bury some fake dinosaur bones and charge kids and their parents $60 to excavate.

2) SEXHOLE BOSTON: Downtown Crossing used to be famous for two things: shopping and porn. The old combat zone was zoned out of existence years ago and half of the (non-porn) stores are now closed. Let’s get back to our roots and put all of the strip clubs, porn shops and whatnot in the hole with a retractable latex roof. Think of how many more free agents we’ll be able to sign if there was more porn in town! No more tipsy drives to Providence!!

3) HALF-PIPE BOSTON: I’m never quite sure whether to be intimidated by skateboarder kids or not. On the one hand, they wear all that scary clothing and make-up. On the other hand, they’re all skinny and weak from the drugs and the ennui. Either way, let’s clear those kids out of Copley by giving them a huge half-pipe to play on.

4) SPOOKYWORLD/ENCHANTED VILLAGE: Admittedly this is only a good idea for like 3 months a year, but it seems like Spookyworld and the Enchanted Christmas Village are always moving from venue to venue. Why not give them a permanent home?

5) FOODTRUCK DEMOLITION DERBY: I love this idea. We combine the super-hot trend of food trucks with the eternal appeal of demolition derbys. First, we eat. Then, we smash.

6) KEEP DIGGING: Okay, this is a radical idea. How about instead of putting up a new building we just keep digging and see what happens. Will we find the morlocks? Maybe Al Capone’s vault? Monsters at the center of the earth? China?!? Now I kind of want to know for real.

7) GIVE IT TO HARVARD: easy answer: we give the hole to Harvard. Then they can move Allston in to the hole, accomplishing their evil master plan decades ahead of schedule.

8) PAINT CAN “STORAGE”: If you’re like me, you have a lot of empty paint cans in the garage that you can’t get rid of. The trash men won’t take them, the recycling guys won’t take them, and the trash pickers don’t want them. But seriously, does anyone care if I just throwing my old paint cans in the fucking hole? I really want to get rid of them.

9) “PHANTOM” GOURMET: Okay, here’s the plan. First, we tell all of the Andelman brothers that there’s free food and potential advertisers in the hole. Then we murder* them when they’re not looking.

(*Please note that I am merely joking when I suggest that we murder the Andelman brothers. I greatly prefer Phantom Gourmet over TV Diner and I like that they take seriously reviewing regular food. I always liked Eddie on the radio and think he’s a real mensch. In fact, if you are an Andelman brother, I would very much like to be best friends and/or do some voice-over work for you.)

Well, there you have it. 9 great ideas for filling the hole. And to be perfectly honest with you, I didn’t really spend a lot of time or effort thinking them up. Imagine what I could come up with if I actually tried!

###

The fact that there is such a thing as “beer snobs” is both oxymoronic and deeply disturbing.

In the never-ending battle between snobs and slobs, us slobs were fortunate to claim some of the most awesome things that our society has to offer. Things like beer and Doritos and pants that are neither jeans nor pajamas.

You, detestable snobs, got snooty country clubs and crappy wine and stupid truffles (the gross mushrooms, not the delicious chocolates).

It was a fair deal.

But now the snobs want to muscle into our territory with their fancy, expensive, micro-brewed, overpriced craft beer.

Thanks anyway.

I am here today to sing the praises of mass-produced American-style lager. And I’m not talking about the ironic hipster love for PBR. I’m talking about genuine appreciation for regular beer.

In my nineteen years of above-the-legal-drinking-age, responsible, moderate-consumption-with-a-designated-driver drinking of beer I’ve tried just about every style and brand of beer. I’ve got nothing against stouts, pale ales, India pale ales or wheat beers.

(I do have something against those horribly overrated beers from Belgium. Whoever said that monks could brew good beer anyway? And what exactly are you trapping? Are there gerbils in my Chimay?)

But given the opportunity, I’d rather just drink a High Life or a Bud or a Coors Banquet (Molson and Labatt’s are fine too, my dear Canucks).

“But they’re brewed with adjunct grains like rice and corn,” you say smugly.

Guess what? I’m not a farmer. I’m not Michael Pollan. I don’t give a shit which grain they use to make my beer. And let’s be honest – both corn and rice are much better grains than barley anyway. Barley is gross. It’s on the bottom-tier with quinoa and the other loser hippy grains.

“But they’re made by giant, evil corporations,” you say conspiratorially.

Listen up, Ralph Nader. When you’re living off the grid and writing your manifesto you can rail about evil corporations. But a wise man once said that corporations are people. And while that wise man is kind of a douche, the truth is that corporations, like most things in life, are both good and bad. They make stuff. They employ people. They help build cities (e.g. St. Louis) and they help the government to overthrow peaceful island nations (e.g. United Fruit & Hawaii). Just because a corporation is big doesn’t mean that it’s evil or that it makes a bad product.

“But they’re lower in alcohol content,” you say drunkenly.

Exactly. What’s wrong with that? I’m not saying that I want to drink that weak-ass Mormon beer, but 5% alcohol is fine by me. I mean, it IS morning and I AM at work – just how drunk do you want me to get?

“But it tastes like piss,” you say superciliously.

First off: how would you know what piss tastes like, pee drinker? Har har!

But seriously, American lager is a distinct style that is rooted in European pilsners. And while it certainly has a lighter, milder flavor than ale, it’s crisp and clean and drinkable.

I don’t know about you, but I like drinks that are drinkable. It’s kind of in the job description.

I like to conduct a little experiment whenever we throw a party. I offer both expensive craft beers and cheap American beers. I put out fancy truffle-infused hors d’oeuvers and pigs in a blanket. And then I observe what people do (with the help of the videos cameras secreted throughout our house). Inevitably, the Miller Lite and the pigs in a blanket are big sellers. And as the night wears on more and more people extol the virtues of living the high life, because deep down inside all people love cheap American beer and tiny hot dogs.

Be proud. Be confident. Admit the truth: you, just like me, love shitty American beer.

###

Like how to pose for a picture.

Coquettish half turn, eyes on the lens, no tension, warm smile – these are the techniques that you learn early and have to master before the Bar Mitzvah portrait goes on the wall.

And master them I did.

But the one thing my parents never taught me was how to approach the mug shot. Perhaps they thought that by not addressing the mug shot they would prevent me from ending up in the joint.

That’s obviously just bad parenting.

And now, all these years later, I’m kind of lost. I have no idea how to handle the mug shot and I don’t want to make a bad creative choice under duress – especially if I’m all cracked-out and internally bleeding. Jail sentences may only last a few years, but mug shots are forever.

So work with me here, people. Let’s think about the best approach for posing for a great mug shot.

Contrite: the classic mug shot pose is one of contrition. It says to the world “I’m sorry for what I’ve done” or at the very least “I’m sorry for getting caught for what I’ve done.” It’s a good play if you’re planning on getting out quickly and need to hit the family up for some cash. The only downside to the big ol’ puppy eyes is that other convicts tend to think you’re soft (or “fresh fish” in prison vernacular.)

Crazy Eyes: The opposite of contrite is crazy eyes. Nothing says “don’t fuck with me” quite like a crazy eyes mug shot. When you add crazy hair to crazy eyes we call it a “Nolte”. When you add a v-neck undershirt to a “Nolte” we call it a “Saddam”. Any of the three will be very effective in getting you into the most prestigious gang in prison, but the downside is that you’ll never be able to convince people that you’re not crazy ever again. (We call that a “Gibson”.)

Headshot: One of the hardest shots to pull off, the headshot is when you literally pretend the mug shot is your Bar (or Bat) Mitzvah portrait and you work that camera hard. You make love to that camera, which isn’t easy because you’re not exactly working with Dave LaChappelle in the booking office. When people say that Lindsay Lohan isn’t the greatest actress of our generation I remind them of her 2010 mug shot work. She looks radiant in that shot, even with the outdated orange jumper.

Smirk: I’m not a fan of smirking mug shots because they are fundamentally disrespectful. Look, you may think this is all a big joke, mister, but taking portraits is not a game. I always knew that Samantha Ronson was the weak half of the Lohan-Ronson coupling, but my suspicions were confirmed when she put on that Billy Idol-sneer for her mug shot. Bad choice, Sam.

Beatific: This one is my favorite. The trick is to project an entirely blank expression that allows the viewer to see what they want to see in you. Family members will view it as sad; fellow inmates will read it as resolute; and weird women that have conjugal visits with random prisoners will see it as sexy.

I think we have a winner!

Thanks for helping me out with this one.

See you on the inside.

###

Recently I had my first opportunity to test out the new Hubway bicycle rental system and answer the question that’s been on everybody’s mind: are these bikes an urban transportation miracle or the devil’s playthings?

For those of you that don’t know what I’m talking about, bicycles are wheeled transportation devices that are manually powered by pedaling and some kind of kooky system involving chains and gears. Hubway is the name of the fancy bicycle rental stations that mysteriously appeared throughout Boston some time after the pay toilet kiosks and some time before the food trucks.

(By comparison, the good news is that they’re not used as hobo heroin dispensaries like the pay toilets. The bad news is that they don’t serve delicious Redbones ribs like the food trucks.)

Actually, I tried to rent a bicycle a few weeks ago but couldn’t get the kiosk to accept my credit card. You might scoff, but my platinum Discovery card saves me 3% on all Sears portraits and I’m going to keep using it wherever and whenever I can.

After so many days of rain I thought that it would be nice to bypass the orange line and bike from North Station to Back Bay, where I knew there was a drop-off station near my office.

The rental process was fairly simple: swipe your credit card, enter your phone number and zip code, pick either 24 hour or 3 day rental, quickly read and approve the 176 page agreement, and print out a rental code. The bike easily unlocked and I was on my way.

My first revelation was that the ride from Causeway Street to Huntington Avenue is almost entirely uphill. My second realization was that chubby, out-of-shape guys biking up Beacon Hill are excellent candidates for having a heart attack, or at a minimum, breaking the sweat shield before work.

Although the ride was quite trafficky, I almost died only once. Now in fairness to the guy that nearly hit me I might have been running a slightly red light. Then again, he was also running the same light and I went for it first. Then again, he was in a car. Then again, if I yield in that situation I’d never get my right-of-way powers back again.

Riding the bike was not the big time saver I’d hoped for. It turns out that there are a ton of lights between North Station and Back Bay and you can only run so many of them. The ride took about the same time as walking and more time than the orange line, plus I couldn’t play iPhone backgammon (which is okay because the computer is a total cheater, constantly rolling doubles).

On the way home I picked up another bike near the Christian Science Center and found out (after unsuccessfully entering my code 17 times) that you need to get a new code even if you’re within the 24 hour window. Sure, it said that on the kiosk, but my plan was to rent a bicycle, not read a lot of stupid words.

The little basket on the bike is generously sized but not large enough to hold the 180 gram vinyl copy of Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” that I bought at Newbury Comics during lunch. Obviously my record purchase has nothing to do with the bicycles, but I wanted to make sure that you knew that I won the hipster douchebag badge for the day by both renting an urban bike AND buying a classic LP.

The ride back was more of the same: traffic, lights, sweat and the realization that I would miss my train. When I arrived at North Station all of the drop-off racks were full and I was stuck with a bike that I couldn’t get rid of. Luckily, 2 other guys were in the same predicament and we made a great team: they were up for reading about what to do in such a situation (answer: find another kiosk with empty racks, duh) and I knew where Staniford Street was located.

Bike returned, crisis averted, second train made, and the metal taste in mouth and tingly arm sensation eventually dissipated.

The bikes are quite nice, with fat tires and 3 gears. They’re girl frame bikes which obviously made me feel slightly sexier. It cost me about $6.70 ($5 for the bike, $1.70 for the water at North Station) and I didn’t save any time.

Bottom line: the bikes are pretty cool but you’ll get sweaty on the way to work and you might miss your train on the way home due to the empty rack issue.

One thumb up for Hubway bike rentals.

Two thumbs up for Redbones ribs.

###

My friend Ryan, upon learning that we would be vacationing in Montreal, suggested that I compare and contrast the American amusement park experience with the French-Canadian amusement park experience. This is obviously a brilliant idea, reflecting what famous French guy Baudelaire wrote in his treatise “L’existence N’a Pas de Condition de Hauteur”: “A nation’s soul is revealed in its amusements.”

Introduction

Entering this challenge I naively assumed that La Ronde would be just like Canobie Lake because the amusement park experience is such a specific and consistent experience that it wouldn’t seem to matter where you are physically located. I’ve been to lots of amusement parks in my day and it’s always the same: long lines, trashy patrons, crap food and mild sunstroke. And in most ways La Ronde delivered. But the differences were obvious – and in some cases – deeply unsettling.

Cuisine

The first noticeable difference was the food. There were multiple signs promoting fresh fruit AS A SNACK, as if fruit was something that normal people willingly ate as a snack. Worse still, the Dole people were selling grilled bananas. Not deep-fried banana candy, not plantain chips, but regular bananas grilled in the peel. Now I know that the Dole Corporation has quarterly earnings expectations to meet and there aren’t any more Hawaiis to invade, but BBQ bananas? Someone better be taking the fall for that one at HQ.

There was no delicious Kayem hot dog kiosk, but they did have a Slush Puppy stand – which was comforting. Sadly, the Puppys tasted terrible. And guess what the worst flavor was? That’s right – banana.

Advantage: Canobie Lake

Clientele

Heretofore, I always thought that Canobie Lake was the whitest place on Earth.

That was, of course, until I went to Montreal. There are 2 types of people in Montreal: white people that speak French and white people that speak English. I thought I saw a black person at one point, but it turned out just to be a shadow.

And what’s with all of the French? Waiting in line is infinitely worse when everyone is yammering away in a weird language that isn’t as pretty sounding as people claim it to be. To me, a true romance language involves a mouthy girl from Revere loudly plotting to kick some bitch’s ass for talking to her boyfriend.

Advantage: Canobie Lake

Couture

The patrons of the park definitely looked different in other ways, too: jorts were extremely popular for both genders. Someone might want to tell Canada that America has decided that girls are allowed to wear Daisy Dukes but boys aren’t allowed to wear jean shorts anymore. They’re really not up to speed on jean short etiquette up North.

Tattoos, such a common sight at Canobie Lake, were in short supply in Montreal. There were a few inked up people at the park, but by and large most people were tattoo-free. Surprisingly, I missed all of the tattoos. I mean, sure, I usually remember to look at your cleavage spilling out of your too-tight wife-beater, but that giant boob butterfly is always a welcome reminder.

On a related note, ALL of the men were wearing their shirts at La Ronde. I’d estimate male shirtlessness at Canobie at approximately 40% so it was weird to see so many men dressed up all fancy-like. I suspect that the lack of tattoos is related to the lack of shirtless men, but more research will be required. (Ed. note: submit thesis topic: “Tattoos and their Relationships to Male Shirtlessness” to phD advisory board.)

Even with all of the shirt wearing, I did not see any Ed Hardy shirts, which is obviously terrible news for Ed Hardy and Christian Audigier if they can’t crack the Canadian amusement park demographic. On the other hand, Sarah Palin will be happy to know that rectangular glasses are still very popular in Montreal.

Also in short supply were band tee shirts. I was expecting to see a few Blink-182 shirts (they were in town) but saw none. I got one Beatles shirt, one Wu Tang shirt, one baby in an AC/DC shirt (ironically cute) and an Alice Cooper shirt. Not represented were Canadian legends Celine Dion, Justin Bieber, Neil Young, or Bryan Adams.

I saw two Red Sox tee shirts, but no Blue Jays or throwback Expos shirts.

Facial piercing were pretty popular, with random lip stud and painful eyebrow thing seeming to be the most popular. I noticed a few grommet ears but no gold teeth or grills.

And only one rat tail.

Advantage: La Ronde

Behavior

Another big difference is that Canadian children seem to be worse behaved than American children, but Canadian teenagers seem to be better behaved than American teenagers. I’m not sure what this actually means, but it gives Canada more of a “Lord of the Flies” vibe while America has more of an “Outsiders” vibe.

I also learned a lot by conducting a simple experiment: wearing a Bruins hats. Now, if some Frenchy got off a plane at Logan wearing a Habs chapeau they would be pleasantly harassed early and often. At La Ronde my hat went unnoticed. No one yelled anything. No one pointed or mumbled insults in French. No one dumped a beer on me. One guy actually said “nice Cup” and talked about being a Montreal-native Bruins fan.

This obviously confirms our long-held suspicion that Canadians are pussies. (Just kidding – it confirms that Canadians are super-nice people absent of any massholic tendencies – and they just get nicer as they get older.)

Advantage: La Ronde

Rides and Other Stuff

The good point for La Ronde is that they have many more roller coasters than Canobie and far fewer barfy spinny rides. That suits me well now that I’m an old man who hates spinny rides but still loves coasters.

Instead of the traditional 48” height requirement kids needed to be 52” tall to ride the good coasters, which sounds like bullshit until your 48” tall son almost falls out of the Yankee Cannonball (don’t ask), so I guess they take their safety seriously at La Ronde.

Also for your safety they restrict smoking to designated smoking zones. These zones are conveniently located every 10 feet (smoking is very popular in Montreal) so everybody is happy.

Unfortunately, the lines at La Ronde were outrageously long. Even second tier rides had waits of over 45 minutes. That’s a lot of line time with a bunch of unruly kids (and surprisingly well behaved teens.)

La Ronde also cost $190 for a family of four, which is a lot more than Canobie Lake (not even counting the coupons available at your local McDonald’s, Market Basket, or Tedeschi.)

Canobie Lake is a quick and pleasant 45 minute drive from Boston, but La Ronde is actually located in Montreal, so good for them for having an amusement park in the city.

Advantage: Tie

Conclusion

Isn’t the true measure of an amusement park the happiness it brings to children? The joy it creates and the love it spreads in the community? Isn’t it enough to appreciate the magic and the merriment? Doesn’t it cheapen the experience by judging one park against another?

Nah, Canobie Lake is better.

But La Ronde is certainly worth the visit if you’re in Montreal.

###

Once you’ve seen one shark angrily (yet unsuccessfully) attack a diver in a cage you’ve seen all sharks angrily (yet unsuccessfully) attack a diver in a cage. It’s entertaining for about 20 seconds. Unfortunately, shark week lasts a lot longer than 20 seconds. In fact, it lasts a whole week longer than 20 seconds.

What do we learn (or re-learn) each Shark Week?

1) Sharks love blood. Do you know who else loves blood? Vampires. Sexy vampires and their sexy human frenemies on pay cable TV shows. What would you rather watch: boring sharks being taunted or Anna Paquin inexplicably falling in love with a murderous vampire within 3 days – even after her dead grandmother told her not to – just because he’s sexy and has amnesia? Exactly.

2) Sharks have a lot of pointy teeth. You know who else has pointy teeth? Those crazy people who get the snake tattoos all over their bodies and split their tongues and file their teeth into points. Those people are awesome. I will watch them on basic cable anytime. My only question is: why are the fake snake people always British? And my other only question is: why the fuck are you trying to turn yourself into a snake? It looks stupid, it’s expensive, it’s painful and you still don’t actually look like a snake. You just look like a person with scale tattoos, a broken tongue and pointy teeth. Talk about bad life decisions. That said, Human Snake Guy Week still sounds way more appealing than Shark Week.

3) People that taunt sharks on TV are jerks and deserve to get eaten. Didn’t we learn anything from the sad Steve Irwin (man taunts animals for a living, one day man get poisonous stinger in heart and dies) incident?

Seriously, what did sharks ever do to anyone to deserve such treatment? Kill lots of people, you say? Well let’s debate this all legal-like. You be the prosecutor and I’ll be the shark defense lawyer:

Prosecution: Sharks are murderous creatures and deserve whatever they get. They’re killing machines by nature and cannot be rehabilitated or integrated into polite society.

Defense: Sharks rule the kingdom of the sea. Humans enter the sea at their own peril.

Prosecution: But you attack people at the beach all the time!

Defense: Humans can have the beach, but once you enter the water, you’re fair game.

Prosecution: But that’s not fair! Humans like swimming at the beach.

Defense: No, what’s not fair is fat 50 year old men in Hawaiian shirts making shark fins on their heads at Jimmy Buffett concerts. Those men deserve to die.

Prosecution: Agreed. Case closed.

###

I know that you’re not going to like this, but I need to get it off my chest: I hate Scooby Doo. I honestly believe that Scooby Doo (both the dog and the show) is the worst popular cartoon in existence. The mysteries are stupid. The characters are boring. It’s not even slightly funny, hence the need for a laugh track. I can’t fathom why people like the show. I really can’t fathom why I married someone who likes the show.

I have a worse confession to make.

I know that you’re really not going to like this, but I’m tired of living a lie: I love Scrappy Doo. He is, by far, the best and most interesting character in the Scooby Doo universe. I don’t understand why people dislike him.

Actually, I do know why people hate Scrappy Doo. They think that he’s the “Cousin Oliver” of Scooby Doo and his carefully calculated addition to the cast ruined the show. Counter-point: Unlike pre-Oliver Brady Bunch, Scooby Doo was already a terrible show and the addition of Scrappy made the show marginally better. Rather than thinking of him as a Cousin Oliver type, I prefer to think of him as a (less-gay) Steve Perry type, who saved a floundering Journey and drove them to their greatest artistic achievements.

Things I like about Scrappy Doo:

1) He’s not an addict. Unlike the two cowards Scooby and Shaggy, Scrappy doesn’t need the promise of a quick hit to solve a mystery or enter a foreboding locale. Scrappy is tough without the junk.

2) He’s a bad ass. Scrappy brings the ruckus. He’s neither afraid of supernatural creatures nor handymen that dress up as supernatural creatures. Scrappy will kick your ass without thinking twice. One of his catchphrases is: “Lemme at ‘em! I’ll splat ‘em!” No equivocation there: Scrappy is always ready to rumble and he’s confident that he’s going to win.

3) He’s an empowering role model for children. Even as the smallest member of the Mystery, Inc. gang he’s still the strongest, the bravest and the second smartest (behind Velma). Most important of all, he teaches our children the valuable life lesson that all of your problems can be solved through violence.

4) He’s got great catchphrases. In addition to the aforementioned “Lemme at ‘em! I’ll splat ‘em!” Scrappy is perhaps best known for his rousing battle cry “Ta dadada ta daaa! Puppy power!” Compare that to Scooby’s pathetic “Rut-Roh!” or Velma’s “Jinkies!” Actually, don’t compare them because Scrappy’s catchphrases are awesome and the rest are terrible.

5) I went to college with a guy named Scrappy. He was a good guy and we had some fun times together, although apparently not enough fun times for me to remember his real name. And he might have been an addict. But I’m not here to judge.

So there you have it. Scrappy Doo = Real. American. Hero.

###

The bottom line is that I don’t need to know you to really know you. When you’ve been in the human-watching game as long as I have, you pick up a few tricks along the way.

For example, I could probably write a book about you (or at least a modestly priced e-book) just by studying what time train you take to work in the morning.

“Whaaaaat?” you inquire nervously, “you follow strangers around just to see what time train they take? That’s creepy.”

“Of course not,” I reply defensively, “I only stalk strangers on the Newbury/Rockport line in Boston. I have associates that handle other territories.”

What Your Train Says About You

You Take a Train in the 5 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear an old suit. You carry your belongings in a bindle. Your favorite food is mulligan stew. You will burglar if necessary, but you avoid violence whenever possible. You are respectful to women and children but definitely not to Johnny Lawman. Your favorite drink is tokay wine. Your drug of choice is opium. You are, obviously, a hobo, because no regular person takes a train before 6 in the morning.

You Take a Train in the 6 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear a custom-tailored suit. You read the Wall Street Journal or the Financial Times. You have a large diamond in your pinky ring. You are still peeved that the nanny’s quarters are too close to the kitchen in the house you rented in Newport. You are nervous that your wife will find out that you got the nanny pregnant, but then you tell yourself that captains of industry just weren’t meant to be monogamous.

You Take a Train in the 7 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear business casual clothes to work. You have already consumed 6 cups of coffee. You are feverishly typing e-mails while yelling at people on the phone. You are late for a meeting, actually 2 meetings, because you are always double booked. You are peeved because someone had the nerve to plop down in the middle seat next to you. You can actually feel your arteries clogging from all of the stress and kind of hope for a heart attack just so you can get a few days off. (Helpful tip: slackers should avoid the 7 o’clock train at all costs.)

You Take a Train in the 8 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You wear jeans or shorts to work. You are sweating from running late for your train, even though you’re not getting to work until 9:30-ish anyway. You are still a little hung-over from last night. You are playing one of your kid’s games on your ipod. You forgot your wallet again and have to give a sob story to the conductor. You’re living the American dream! (Helpful tip: slackers are always welcome on the 8 o’clock train.)

You Take a Train in the 9 o’clock (a.m.) hour:

You are wearing pyjamas and pretending that they are sweatpants. You are drinking peppermint schnapps out of your travel mug and pretending that it’s coffee. You are reading ads looking for medical experiment volunteers and pretending that you have lupus. You are considering eating the half of bagel that you found on the floor. Oh, who are you kidding? You know that you’re going to eat the bagel. Trains aren’t that dirty.

Weird, huh? It’s like looking in a mirror! Next week: something else.

###

Oh yeah, I also wrote this thing you might like: Riding the Rails, Boston-style.

###

I am, however, a big television person. Unlike you with your one sad little TV, I own FOUR televisions, including one 42″ flat screen beauty and not including the old Tandy model in the attic. So, yeah, I’m kind of a TV expert (although I must confess that I have no idea how they work – something to do with tubes and accelerometers).

I enjoy many programs on television, but none more so than prestige cable dramas like Breaking Bad.  Now Breaking Bad is probably the greatest show in the history of television for many reasons (e.g. writing, acting, cinematography, sound design), none of which include my love for delicious, tasty meth. I get all a-twitchy just thinking about all of that blue sky meth*!

(* Legal note: I have no idea what meth is, but I do like Sudafed.)

Recently, while obsessively watching Breaking Bad, I realized something important. I’d go so far as to say that I’ve figured out all of Vince Gilligan’s secrets and I now know everything there is to know about the show. So what’s the big discovery?

THE CARS THAT PEOPLE DRIVE ON BREAKING BAD REVEAL THEIR TRUE NATURE

Let’s get to it with the major characters:

WALTER WHITE famously drives a Pontiac Aztek with an oft-smashed windshield. The Aztek is a car entirely about exterior image – a shitty car in an inauthentic wrapper that was meant to re-position Pontiac as a hip brand for Gen Xers. Walt’s life was all about maintaining an image of a mild-mannered school teacher while repressing his inner rage (the Heisenberg persona). The cracked windshield represents Walt’s inability to keep his true self hidden under his exterior image.

JESSE PINKMAN goes from driving a Monte Carlo to driving a Toyota. Again, this is no accident. When we first meet Jesse he is playing at being a ‘bad guy’, so he drives a Monte Carlo, the official car of 20-something bad boys in AC/DC shirts that creep around high school parking lots looking for underage girls. Ultimately Jesse accepts that he’s not really a bad guy (regardless of what he says) and he gets a dependable, boring family sedan – a Toyota – because all that Jesse really wants is to love and be loved. He craves a normal, dependable, suburban family life.

HANK SCHRADER drives a late-model Jeep. Jeeps are macho sporty cars for adventurous people who don’t like doors or roofs (but love Dave Matthews). Hank is the moral center of the Breaking Bad universe – a solid guy with a solid car. But Hank’s Jeep does have doors and a roof, because we all know that Hank is not really as macho as he seems, suffering from PTSD and anxiety.

SKYLER WHITE also drives a Jeep, but it’s an old junky model. It’s no accident that Skyler and Hank drive variations of the same car. That’s because we initially see Skyler as a paragon of virtue (like Hank) but we ultimately come to realize that she’s bad. Bad, I tell you! (She was even mean to Sherriff Seth Bullock, and he’s just dreamy.)

GUS FRING obviously drives a Volvo because he is a cautious man, and Volvos represent safety. Plus, they have large cup holders for Los Pollos Hermanos take-out.

MIKE THE CLEANER drives a classic old man American car – probably a Lincoln – because he represents old American power and dependability, just like when Lincolns, Caddys and Buicks ruled the automotive world.

I could keep going with the minor characters (MARIE SCHRADER drives a new VW Beetle because she’s a flake; TED BENEKE drives a BMW because he’s a cheating, embezzling asshole, etc.) but I think you get the idea: the cars on Breaking Bad matter.

UPDATE: Now that WALTER JUNIOR has turned 16 he’s finally gotten his car. Well, two cars actually. The first car was a Dodge Challenger, courtesy of Walter Senior. Senior, in one of his now-patented “bad decisions spurred by a bruised ego” impulsively bought a modern muscle car to prove that he can control his own destiny. This is a manifestation of Walter Senior’s desire for power and recognition in a season where he’s seriously lost his mojo. After Skyler made Walter return the car (with a little help from Mr. Fire), Skyler buys Walter Junior a Chrysler PT Cruiser. The PT Cruiser does a nice job of illustrating Skyler’s two overriding character traits: cautiousness and obliviousness. Skyler is an extremely intelligent woman that refuses to accept some obvious facts: 1) the drug trade is violent by definition; 2) Senior can’t get out even if he wanted to; and 3) PT Cruisers – even with CD players – aren’t cool.

Please note that we don’t really learn anything about Walter Junior through these cars, aside from the confirmation that he likes pancakes.

###

WBMYNQAY2KMU

Ironically, I never eat chili at Chili’s for the simple reason that chili is terrible. The only reason that anyone eats chili is because it has a cool name (for a hot dish!) If I said “hey, want some bean stew?” you would probably punch me in the face and I would painfully concede that you were right to do so. I do like their beer, unless I am still coming down from watching Rock Candy play Lady Gaga covers at the Cubby Bear following the previous night’s Cubs game. Now, no offense to Rock Candy who ably played Born This Way, but I am highly disappointed in the people of Chicago for enjoying it so thoroughly. I was under the impression that Chicago was a city that treasured good music and tried to keep the old traditions alive, but apparently they like the same crap that everyone else does.

Passing on the beer I helped myself to Chili’s fine selection of soft drinks and naturally chose Coke Zero, which is apparently the boy version of Diet Coke. Why boys get to drink delicious sucralose while girls are stuck with stinky old aspartame is beyond me, but it is obviously some kind of corporate sexism/mind control experiment.

The only bad thing about eating at the O’Hare Chili’s is that the tiny tables are so close together that you feel like you’re dining family-style, except that every third relative has been replaced by a black wheely bag.  I was immediately apprehensive about my seat because I was next to a lady that had a baby. Obviously babies are too stupid to enjoy the many fine foods at Chili’s and they shouldn’t even be sitting there because they don’t have any business successes to celebrate. But imagine my surprise when the baby turned out to be a perfectly lovely lunch mate and the real trouble was on my left, in the form of a horrible business couple.

There’s nothing worse than a horrible business couple because all they talk about is their stupid jobs and complain about co-workers who aren’t lucky enough to be at Chili’s. The only time business couples are good company is if they’re: 1) having an affair with each other; or 2) running a drug cartel, because then I can pretend that I’m watching an uglified version of Mad Men or Breaking Bad.

Over the years I have noticed that horrible business couples at Chili’s will always do the following things, and Tammy and the silver-haired guy with the unironic moustache hit all of the marks:

1) Someone will take a phone call at the table, which is rude because now I have to listen to half of a boring business conversation. (Tammy)

2) Someone will choke on their Chili’s food and try to act cool about it by saying “I wasn’t choking, it was just my gag reflex”, which, by the way, is way more disgusting than just choking. (Tammy)

3) Someone will reveal themselves to be a stupid Republican* by yammering on about Obammer and extolling the virtues of Ron Paul and Donald Trump while trying to pass themselves off as being reasonable by saying that they wouldn’t vote for Sarah Palin. (Tammy)

(*Please note that I’m not saying that all Republicans are stupid. Obviously rich people need a political party to help them hoard their money. I’m just saying that non-wealthy Republicans are stupid.)

4) Someone will explain the Iowa caucus system in such explicit detail that I’d desperately wish that they started trashing Pam in HR again. (silver-haired guy with the unironic moustache, damn you, I had such hope for you, too.)

5) Someone will throw a pack of saltines at another table, miss the table and not think twice about it landing on the floor while the waiter and I exchange “did that just really happen?” looks with each other. (Tammy, obviously.)

6) Someone will start bragging about going to the fancy schmancy Admiral’s Club (which, incidentally password protects their wifi so I can’t steal their bandwidth, thanks for nothing) after paying the check at Chili’s. (fuck you Tammy, you elitist scum.)

Needless to say, none of this should dissuade you from enjoying a delicious celebratory meal at the O’Hare Chili’s, but if given the choice opt for the seat near the baby instead of one next to Tammy and the silver-haired guy with the unironic moustache.

###

The state of professional sports in America is strong….ly concerning.

Our greatest sport, American football, is under the dual threat of head injuries and a potential lock-out.  Even worse, legendary Patriots quarterback Tom Brady seems incapable of winning in the post-season anymore. I fear that he is suffering from the Curse the Babe-ino. What self-respecting Bostonian would dump a beautiful Irish lass like Bridget Moynahan for a dime-a-dozen supermodel? Tom, please come to your senses, divorce Gisele, get back together with Bridget – who just happens to be the star of America’s #1 new drama, Blue Bloods – and win another Super Bowl.

The NBA is currently enjoying one of its greatest regular seasons in recent memory. But once again, greed and avarice threaten to shut down our favorite winter sport after this season. Even worse, NBA fandom has sunk to such a low that alleged dream teams in Miami have to teach their fans how to show up on time and root for their team. It’s an embarrassment.

The other great winter sport, hockey, still suffers from over-expansion. I propose that this year we finally merge the NHL with NASCAR, and split them along geographical lines.  I call it the Pancake-Waffle line, with stock car racing exclusively in cities with a Waffle House and ice hockey in cities with a Bickfords.

Sadly, the nerds continue to ruin baseball, with their spreadsheets and their VORP and their stupid math. Let’s be honest here, America only has the attention span to follow one event that runs for 4 hours a day 6 days a week – and that event is Dancing with the Stars.

In closing, the only thing we really learned this past year, after watching the World Cup, is that soccer is truly the boringest sport known to man. If I wanted to watch some Greasy Europeans running in circles and kicking each other in the shins I’d just buy tickets to Riverdance.

And yes, I wish I had a more timely reference for that joke than Riverdance, but I don’t.

Thank you.

(Speech originally delivered on episode #34 of the Steve Gorman Sports podcast)

###

Dear Jesus Is Lord Guy,

Please know that today and forevermore I love you.

I love how you stand outside of every sporting event and music concert in Boston handing out your pamphlets offering me the choice between heaven and hell. I love how you don’t presume to tell me to pick heaven, but you kindly offer me an option. I really appreciate that. I’ve never quite figured out whether you frequent big events due to the crowds or because drunk people are more receptive to your message or because drunk people need to be saved most. Does it even matter?

I love you because you’ve been doing this every day for as long as I can remember. As a matter of fact I can’t recall the last time I went to the Orpheum or the Garden and you weren’t there. Honestly, it wouldn’t be a show without you.

I love you because you be-dazzled the bag that you carry your pamphlets in with the same ‘Jesus Is Lord’ message that’s on your vest. Most people don’t appreciate the importance of consistency and simplicity when delivering a message. But when I see you, I know where you stand on the whole Jesus issue. Well done.

I love you because you use every square inch of your body to deliver that message. You’ve got the hat, you’ve got the pinny, you’ve got the front placard, you’ve got the rear placard and you’ve got the bag. A NASCAR driver could take lessons from you on using all of the available real estate.

I love you because you’re in great shape. While my weight has yo-yo’d up and down over the years, you’ve always maintained that trim figure. Hey, maybe that’s shallow, but I really respect a man that takes care of himself.

Obviously I have a few questions for you, like: ‘what motivates you to do this every day?’, ‘how many people have you saved over the years?’, ‘how do you pay your rent?’ and ‘have you killed any prostitutes?’, but those can wait for another time.

Jesus Is Lord Guy, I sincerely consider you a Boston icon, seeing you makes me happy and makes me feel grounded to this city that I love so very much.

Either way, I just wanted to say that I love you. And good luck with the whole salvation thing.

Love Always,

Mitch

###

Sensei Harry Rosenfeld of Freehold, New Jersey obviously trained me well. Some would say that he trained me too well. I like to think of myself as one of the most accomplished green-belt-with-two-stripes karate experts in the Northeast. Look, 4th place 12-and-under sparring ribbons don’t come easy.

Many years ago, I learned a valuable lesson from a wise, kind, bearded, young spiritual master with long hair. He encouraged me to turn the other cheek. Sometimes, taught my Sensei, the best way to win a fight is to not fight at all.

And while I may possess only a small fraction of Sensei’s impressive knowledge (I was tragically forced to quit karate after an unfortunate incident at Hebrew school) I felt that it was important for me to pass along whatever meager wisdom I have before my untimely demise. Today’s lesson will focus on knowing when to turn the other cheek, or as I like to call it:

A List of People I Don’t Mess With

1) Naturally, all lists of people not to mess with begin with the standard warning to stay away from crazy hat people;

2) It’s smart policy not to pick fights with people that use a little igloo cooler as their lunchbox.

3) Similarly, don’t pick fights with people that eat lunch at 10:15. (Usually from a small igloo cooler.)

4) Tattoos are always helpful guides. I never mess with a neck tattoo wearer or anyone with a tattoo of a bloody dagger that says “a deal is a deal” in that scary gothic font.

5) You might be surprised to learn that I DO mess with people with droopy pants. Now, I’ll confess that I was initially terrified to learn that the droopy pant look is an homage to prison (no belts in prison), but I also learned that people with droopy pants have trouble running after you.

6) Never, ever mess with a woman in a hockey sweater (jersey), especially if she’s got a mullet.

7) I used to be scared of people that liked ‘80s heavy metal (e.g. Judas Priest) until I grew up and realized just how gay heavy metal was (e.g. Judas Priest).

8) Generally, I try to avoid most of the fighty countries south and east of Spain. Let’s just say that if I was running the U.S.’s foreign policy apparatus the phrase: “we didn’t really want that land anyway” would be heard a lot more frequently.

9) I used to mess with the Scientologists, but when you learn about the bridge to total freedom and start operating at a higher thetan level, well, then, there’s a lot less to make fun of, isn’t there?  Or maybe you’re just a suppressive person?

10) Babies. Their creepy little eyes look so human. It’s unnerving!

I hope you found this guide helpful. May I suggest that you clip-and-save it for future reference?

###

A: The Fat Boy Shuffle (FBS) is a dynamic physical movement that deceptively gives the appearance of hurrying-up when walking but doesn’t involve any actual hurrying-up.

Q: When does one employ the FBS?

A: The FBS can be employed at any time when one is walking in the street but it is best used when someone in a car lets you cross in front of them.

Q: How does one perform the FBS?

A: The FBS is easy and fun to do! First, wave and smile at the driver as an acknowledgement of their generosity. Secondly, lift your knees up high when walking so that your legs appear to be moving faster. Finally, swing your arms vigorously to give the appearance of increased effort. Note: you should swing your right arm back when you lift your left knee up and vice-versa.

Q: Why should one do the FBS?

A: The FBS is a majestic sign of civility that has been tempered by laziness. To whit: you are at an intersection. A car comes and decides to let you cross. As a token of appreciation you want to acknowledge the driver’s generosity by hurrying-up across the street. But you really don’t want to break into a trot (which could jeopardize the sweat shield) so you bust out a FBS.

Q: What is the ‘sweat shield’?

A: That’s easy. The fresh feeling garnered from your morning shower is officially declared over when the first bead of sweat is produced. That feeling of freshness is actually created by a microscopic layer of soap between your skin and clothing. This layer of clean soap is the ‘sweat shield’. Sweating destroys the sweat shield and eliminates the fresh feeling until you shower again. Your daily goal should be to preserve the sweat shield for as long as possible.

Q: Do you recommend bar soap or body wash?

A: Body wash, always. With a loofah, if possible.

Q: Who can do the FBS?

A: Anyone! You need not be fat or a boy to employ the shuffle. All you need to be is mildly polite and lazy.

Q: So why is it called the FBS?

A: Because it was named after a well-mannered fat boy who lazily shuffles across the street when cars let him cross in front of them.

Q: Can I meet this well-mannered fat boy?

A: You already have!

###

Every four years, like clockwork, the non-U.S. portion of the world re-commences their long-standing crusade to teach Americans about football, allegedly the world’s most popular sport. So desperate are our Euro-African-Asians friends to convince us of football’s greatness that they created an international tournament called the World Cup with the sole objective of trying to get Americans to watch their stupid game.

Of course, Americans are already familiar with the sport of football. It’s obviously the greatest sport ever played and it was invented right here in America. You know it as the entertaining game with the touchdowns and the field goals and the Tom Bradys.

(Side note to Europeans: when trying to convince Americans how great your sport is, don’t name it after a better sport that Americans already like.)

In order to distinguish real (pigskin) football from fake (boring) football, we’ve taken to calling the game ‘soccer’ in the U.S. The proper way to use the term ‘soccer’ in a sentence is:

“Sorry man, I can’t drink Bloody Mary’s at brunch with you today. I have to go to my kid’s stupid soccer game at noon.”

Soccer is a difficult game to explain. This is because to all outside appearances the entire game appears to involve watching the one good kid hog the ball while the rest of the kids wander in circles and their parents desperately stare at their watches.

But that’s an unfair characterization of the noble and historic sport of soccer.

Soccer is like hockey, with just a few minor differences: there’s even less scoring, it’s not on ice and there’s no checking or fighting. In other words, soccer is like all of the boring parts of hockey.

The History of Football (Soccer)

Without going into a long history lesson, soccer was invented in England in the 1600s by Lord Borington of Little East Strikerham. The first ball was actually a sheep’s bladder stuffed with pig’s intestines. This ball worked well until the game was exported to Scotland and the Scotsmen started eating the ball mid-game. The familiar black and white checkered ball pattern was soon unveiled to ward off the Scotsmen, as they were frightened by monochrome patterns.

For the next 300+ years the British Empire conquered lands across the globe, setting up low-quality developmental football leagues in their far-flung colonies. Even after declaring independence from the British throne, these colonies kept playing football, which psychologists recognize as the first recorded example of Stockholm Syndrome. The only exception to this rule was in the new land of America. Historians attribute this anomaly to the fact that the pilgrims hooked up with the cool-ass Native Americans and spent their time smoking weed and eating popcorn, forgetting all about the boring kick-ball game.

Our little trip down memory lane proves one thing: soccer only became the most popular sport in the world because the mean British people threatened to shoot you if you didn’t play. However, given better alternatives (i.e. smoking weed, eating popcorn) people would gladly not play soccer.

So, here we are in America 400 years later and soccer is still the 7th most popular sport in the country, even after 18 world cups and 5 failed professional leagues. That’s right – in America soccer is currently less popular than football, baseball, basketball, hockey, auto racing and even lacrosse (which is kind of sad, because lacrosse isn’t even a real sport – it’s just what rich white kids tell their parents they’re doing when they’re really out drinking and scoring roofies.)

But I don’t want to play the part of the ugly American. It would be rude for the whole world to throw a whole big soccer party and for us to not even show up. So here goes nothing…

2010 World Cup Handicapping for the Non-Football Fan

If you’re a soccer fan you probably already know which teams are good and which teams are bad, so you don’t need my help. However, if you’re a degenerate gambler looking for an edge you’ve come to the right place. I’ve analyzed every player on each roster to determine my game by game selections.

Group A:

South Africa (#83): I guess South Africa is an okay place now, but growing up it was all apartheid this and FW DeClerk that and I’m still actively boycotting Sunoco (can I stop yet?) Plus, all of those movies about South Africa are so boring.

Mexico (#17) is a totally awesome country with the best food in the world. Sure, their cervezas are crappy and Mexico is just the sunnier, shootier version of America, but, Sabado Gigante!

France (#9): I’m generally a fan of France, even though their food is totally overrated. They have lots of hot chicks, although I’d personally like to see a little more showering and shaving. Oh, and their star player (Thierry Henry) is even more handsy then Ben Roethlisberger.

Uruguay (#61): I think Uruguay might be the country where the Jonestown Massacre occurred, and even if it wasn’t, there are way too many “U”s in their name. Plus, it’s easily confused with Paraguay.

It’s a close call between Mexico and France in Group A, but I’m going Mexico in the upset.

Group B:

Argentina (#7): You’ve got to respect a South America country that’s famous for steak and has a bunch of Jews in it. Then again, Jews suck at soccer (we rock the hardwood.)

Nigeria (#21): Without going into too many details, my life was forever changed when a young Nigerian Prince enlisted me to help him unlock his fortune. Sure, I had to front him a few bucks, but once he gets his birthright we’re both going to be set for life. Big time.

Good (South) Korea (#47): Poor South Korea. Look, we’ve all lived across the hall from a creepy middle-aged neighbor that locked up his under-aged girlfriend in an apartment building that might have been a crack house. It’s very unnerving. Sure, they could break their lease, but then they’d never get their security deposit back. Damn North Korea and that (now probably deceased) Kim Jong Il.

Greece (#13): Talk about a country resting on its laurels. In the last 2000 years we’ve gotten exactly one bad rom-com movie and lots of gross food from the Aegean contingency. And I hate their NY diners.

It’s a walk in Group B – Argentina takes it.

Group C:

England (#8): Football is their game, they’re good at it and they seem to like it. Haven’t they suffered enough with Sarah Ferguson? Can’t we just let them have this one?

United States (#14): Fourteen is a pretty good seed for a country that isn’t even really trying. I’m sure that soccer will be huge in the next 70-137 years, but it’s not our time yet.

Algeria (#30): Algeria still has to answer for Albert Camus – he of the “novel that sounds really cool but isn’t.” Actually, wasn’t Camus French but he died in Algeria? Damn, I wish there was some free online resource to check out things like that.

Slovenia (#25): Is Solvenia a real country? I swear that this is the first I’m hearing of them. That can’t auger well for their chances.

England takes Group C. (Good for them. I’m secretly still loyal to the Crown.)

Group D:

Germany (#6): There’s a lot to like about Germany, but if they win it’s going to be all lederhosen and oompa-loompa music until death’s sweet embrace finally releases us. We can’t let them win.

Australia (#20): What’s not to love about Australia? Beautiful women and rugged men drinking beer and making fun of New Zealanders. Sure, they’re criminals, but that’s the best part! It’s like a whole country full of dangerous women spies and sexy bad boys.

Serbia (#15): I was a big fan of Slobodan Milosevic – not as a murderous dictator, mind you, but as a court-room entertainer. Could you imagine that dude on Celebrity Apprentice?

Ghana (#32): I once had an intern from Ghana. I was impressed by his too-tight designer clothes and his BMW keychain (I never saw the actual car.) That left me with a very favorable impression of Ghana.

Group D is going to Australia. You just can’t beat giant sexy super spy chicks.

Group E:

Netherlands (#4): Are they the ones with the meatballs and the cheap furniture or the wooden shoes and the windmills? I can never remember.

Denmark (#36): Wait, was I thinking of the Danes? Are they the ones with the chocolate and the cheese?

Japan (#45): Japan is beyond awesome. Think about it – they’re the only Asian culture that features non-disgusting food items. Plus, video games!

Cameroon (#19): I don’t know anything about Cameroon, but I know that macaroons are good maybe once a year, at the Passover Seder, if you’re kind of drunk on Manischewitz.

Big Upset in Group E, with Japan winning. Sorry random Northern Europeans.

Group F:

Italy (#5): Another great, great country full of sexy women and delicious food. Plus, it’s my ancestral homeland – hooray for Jewtalians!

Paraguay (#31): Didn’t we already cover this one, with the massacres and all of the “u”s?

New Zealand (#78): Didn’t we already talk about hillbilly kiwis?

Slovakia (#34): Didn’t we already talk about made-up countries like Slovakia and Slovenia?

No contest here – Group F goes to Italy.

Group G:

Brazil (#1): Brazil has really cultivated a solid reputation over the last few decades. It’s almost like a focus group of drunk frat boys designed the country…”all you can eat steak buffets…endless parties…lots of talk about girls’ pubic hair.”

Bad (North) Korea (#105): How did a 105th seed get into this exclusive tournament of 32 teams? Did Emperor Weekend at Bernie’s II threaten to nuke us if they couldn’t compete?

Cote d’lvoire (#27): Look Ivory Coast, it’s one thing to have a weird name for your country. But it’s quite another thing for you to insist that we pronounce it the Frenchy way. I call you the Cote d’Pretentious.

Portugal (#3): I like your attitude, Portugal. In my mind you’re a part of Spain, yet you still insist on having your own culture and language and all. You’ve got moxie.

Tough call between Brazil and Portugal, but…”all you can eat steak buffets…endless parties…lots of talk about girls’ pubic hair”…can’t be beat. Brazil wins.

Group H:

Spain (#2): I’m going to call bullshit on this whole tapas thing right here. Eating overpriced appetizers at midnight isn’t dinner. Stop charging me entrée prices for mini-mozzarella sticks.

Switzerland (#24): Oh, yes, that’s right – Switzerland is the cheese/chocolate/secret bank country. I have no strong opinions on them either way.

Honduras (#38): I want to like Honduras, I really do. But when everything goes all kablooey in 2012 they’re taking the biggest piece of blame pie. Never kill Mayans, capiche?

Chile (#18): Chile, I find your emphasis on being tall and skinny hurtful. It is not my fault that I’m chubby. I have a hereditary glandular issue and an admitted addiction to snack cakes.

As much as I hate to admit it, Spain is going to roll over Group H.

The 2010 World Cup Winner

It would be too boring to run through all of the possibilities of winners and runners-ups, the round of 16, yadda yadda yadda, so let’s just cut to the quick:

To recap, here are the top 8 teams: Mexico, Argentina, England, Australia, Japan, Italy, Brazil and Spain.

And while just being nominated is an honor in and of itself, I’m going to have to throw my support behind the land of my forefathers, Italy.

(Yes, it is true. One branch of my family comes from Italy. We discovered this when we found an old family tree book while cleaning out my grandmother’s house a few years ago. Apparently back in the 1500s my great-great-whatever was one of the leading Rebbe’s in Italy. Obviously being a great Rabbi doesn’t make you smart because he decided to emigrate to Eastern Europe or Poland or some other lame loser country. Needless to say, I could have been a bad-ass Italian Jewboy (instead of your generic soft-ass American Jewboy) if only Rebbe made better decisions in life. So be it.)

Enjoy the 2010 World Cup, my little soccer friends!

###

Why do you sit there
You’re not dropping off
You’re not picking up
But you’re always there

Why do you wait
On the little side street
Like a creepy stalker
Who are you stalking

Is it your ex-wife
Or a former friend
Are you trainspotting
Or planning a hit

One thing I know
Is that you’re quite old
‘cause you have a navy cap
On the back window sill

I would love to ask you
Why you’re always here
But I’m afraid of you
Old man in the Mustang

(Even if it’s a new Mustang
Made out of cheap plastic
Instead of a bad-ass Mustang
From Nineteen Sixty Eight)

###

When grown-ups spotted a man with long hair they would inevitably think of him as a derelict or remark that he looked like a girl. Not me. I saw a rebel. I saw a free thinker. I saw the man that I wanted to become.

By the turn of the decade (the decade being the 1980s) rock and roll was under assault. Punk, disco and new wave conspired to make rock and roll seem dated and irrelevant. But for us, the last generation raised on The Beatles and the Stones, on Zeppelin and the Who, we still held on to the dream. We wanted to live the rock and roll lifestyle of sex, drugs and rock and roll. Sure, sex wasn’t happening and allergy shots were the drugs of choice, but we could still rock.

And nothing said rock and roll more than long hair.

Once I was old enough to throw off the shackles of my mother’s stylistic tendencies – she who seemed to favor the Prince Valiant haircut and polyester jumpsuits for her boys – I knew that I would immediately commence OPERATION: LONG HAIR. I figured that I’d hit shoulder-length by 15 and Crystal Gayle by graduation.

And then a funny, horrible thing happened. My hair, finally given the chance to grow DOWN decided to grow OUT. It was clear that I had the curse of our people – the dreaded Jewfro.

I should have known better. One of our favorite family stories involved a young Woodstock-era uncle, a bottle of hair relaxer and some panty hose. What a fool I was to think that I could break the curse and achieve the long hair. Nope, the closest that I would come to being rock and roll was Art Garfunkle.

In other words, not very rock and roll at all.

As my Jewfro grew I grew to resent it more and more. Every mousse, gel and random cream that I found in my father’s vanity failed to tame the beast. All of my academic, athletic and romantic failures could be traced back to that accursed Jewfro. That goddamn chia pet on top of my skull was the bane of my existence.

Luckily, over time I began to accept my lot in life. Sure, I’d have moments of delusion where I’d try to grow my hair out and convince myself that it looked good, or I’d get angry at it and cut it too short. But time has a way of softening the hurts of life and I began to embrace the ironic use of facial hair to compensate for my inability to do anything even remotely cool with my hair.

Of course, time also has a way of teaching you painful lessons, and as my forehead continues to grow and my hair line continues to shrink, I’ve begun to miss that old Jewfro. We sure had some good times together. And while long hair is clearly better than a Jewfro, a sweet Jewfro is assuredly better than being bald.

So, some advice to our young male readers: don’t hate your Jewfro. Celebrate it. Love it. Revel in it. Because, as the saying goes, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

And besides, Bob Dylan has always sported an amazing Jewfro, and you can’t get any more rock and roll than that.

###

The most dangerous word in the English language is….Truffles!

That’s right – truffles. Please allow me to explain.

On the one hand, truffles are the most wondrous creation in the known universe. Who can resist those delicious little balls of chocolate that are filled with a variety of smooth fillings? I’ve tried just about every type of Lindor truffle and they’re all good. Just thinking about the peanut butter truffle makes me want to drive to the mall, scam a free truffle, leave the store, go to the costume shop, buy a costume and go back incognito for more free truffles.

I even invented a novel way of eating truffles. I call it “doing a rainbow.” You should totally try it RIGHT NOW. Go to the store, buy a large variety bag of truffles, go home (or sit in your car in the parking lot) and eat one of each flavor. Get it…you’re eating a “rainbow” of flavors! And it’s totally not just a terrible excuse for eating 6 truffles in one sitting.

So, you see, a truffle is a wonderful thing and the word ‘truffle’ should evoke feeling of overwhelming joy.

But it doesn’t. Why? Because ‘truffle’ is also the name for a disgusting mushroom. And I like most mushrooms. In fact, I usually order mushroom omelets. But truffles are just revolting. They’re like the worst-tasting mushroom combined with the worst-tasting dirt.

One time I was a Smith & Wollensky’s for a business lunch. At the time I was a vegetarian and my choices were limited, to say the least. But they had a mac and cheese dish on the menu. Score! Sure, it was infused with truffles, but I figured that cheese is more powerful that mushrooms, so I ordered it. Big mistake! It was beyond revolting. The first bite made me gag. The second bite made my cry.

Do you know how embarrassing it is to cry at a business lunch because you don’t like your mac and cheese?

Now, I’m not really surprised that truffles taste like garbage. Do you know why? Because farmers use trained pigs to find truffles. Guess what, Francois, PIGS EAT GARBAGE. Of course they love truffles. They love garbage.

I’m totally pro-France but they’re crazy with their food. Think about it – the most prestigious foods in France are truffles, caviar and foie gras. That’s gross mushrooms, gross fish eggs and gross liver to me and you, kids. They’re just lucky that they invented French fries to redeem themselves.

So there you have it. Truffles – one of the greatest and one of the worst foods in the world dangerously sharing the same name. I propose that one of them (i.e. the gross mushroom) gracefully back down and adopt a new, less deceptive name.

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