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It’s all about the lid

April 3rd, 2006

Sean Patrick O’Malley, archbishop of the Boston Archdiocese, was recently promoted to cardinal by Pope Benedict XVI.  I think it’s XVI.  Don’t quote me on that.  Boston.com, the web site I love to hate, came through like it always does with a slide show.  That web site would be nothing without its slide shows.  While flipping through, I noticed one glaring issue above all else – Cardinal O’Malley might be making more money (since he’s a friar, I think he gives it away anyway) and he undoubtedly has more clout now, and he is now eligible to become pope (an American pope will always be a long, long, long-shot) but he took a major step back in the hat department.

As a bishop, you get a nice big chess piece hat just like what the pope wears.  It just looks cool.  That hat might be the reason so many men join the priesthood.  But the hat that cardinals wear (all these hats have proper names, but I can’t remember them) is much shorter, bright red, and has four pointy corners surrounding a half dome which covers your head.  I don’t know if this is enough reason to politely decline a promotion to cardinal, but it certainly sheds more light on why all the world’s cardinals clamor to become pope. 

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Posted in Boston, Haberdashery

My blood ran cold

March 28th, 2006

Setting:  Boston, Massachusetts – Back Bay to be exact – January 1996.

It was a frigid winter Saturday afternoon when Captain Larby, his girlfriend Greenhair (because the dorm shower water turned her blonde hair green), Dr. Little (our best friend next door), and I decided to venture out into the city for some lunch and shopping.  Our favorite little haunt was a cafe that I cannot bring myself to name (I’ll call it simply Cafe), wedged halfway between BU and Northeastern at the end of Newbury and Boylston.  It was a hip cafe full of health food, vegetarians, vegans, hippies, bohemians, and we felt cooler just walking through the door.

Either Dr. Little or Captain Larby got credit for finding that place and Larby was eager to share it with Greenhair.  Fast-forwarding a bit, at the end of our meal, the decision was made to put Greenhair in charge of handling the money and calculating a tip.  I don’t recall what her major was, but it was apparent that she was better equipped to handle math than two Political Science majors and a Psychology major.  Nevertheless, we were all actively involved in making sure we left the waitress a good tip.  Afterall, we dug that place and wanted to return many times.  So, Greenhair left somewhere in the vicinity of 18% to 22%, we bundled up for the freezing temps outside, and were about to cross Mass Ave for Newbury Street when the unspeakable happened.

Our waitress, who had not even put on a coat, came running outside, yelling, “Hey!  Hey!  Hey you!”  We all turned around and my first thought was that one of us left something inside.  Dr. Little, bringing up the rear, had the misfortune of being closest to her, so she grabbed his hand, put some coins and a couple of $1 bills in it, and hissed, “Here, you take it!  It’s not even 10%!  You obviously need it more than me!”  After taking great pleasure in reciting her lines with great vengeance and furious anger, she ran back into the Cafe. 

Dr. Little stood there, arm outstretched, frozen.  It was as if the waitress had placed tarantulas in his hand and he was afraid to move a muscle.  We all stood there.  It was 18 degrees outside, but we were burning up with embarrassment.  I don’t know how much time passed before someone spoke up, but it felt like a long, long time.

Greenhair was positive that she had left an above-average tip and we were all sure that we had given her ample tip money.  The only explanation was that the waitress mixed us up with another table.  That is the only logical scenario.  When we returned to our dorm that night, Dr. Little deposited the two $1 bills and assorted coins on a shelf in Captain Larby’s and my room.  It was January.  That money remained there until May or June when we decided to give it to our favorite bum, Jazz Man.  It was blood money and we felt that even if we used it to buy a bottle of water, that we would choke on it and die. 

None of us ever went to the Cafe after that.  Until, that is, I revisited the Cafe two years later.  That was a pseudo-date with the immortal Jamm Murph, who I never saw again after that day. (I need a moment…)

What makes me bring all this up and relive this painful memory?  Swedish Girl and I rented Waiting (starring Ryan Reynolds, Justin Long, David Koechner, Anna Farris) over the weekend.  In that underrated, and actually entertaining, film, is a scene where a redneck patron leaves a pathetically small tip.  The waiter runs after him, placing the money in his hand, and recites almost the exact same words that the Cafe waitress screeched at us.  Is there a script that waiters and waitresses are given that covers them in the case of all sorts of restaurant incidents?  I had to pause the movie, catch my breath, and tell Swedish Girl the story of the Cafe.

In Waiting, the patron complains to the manager that he was insulted and degraded by the waiter.  But it didn’t even dawn on four naive college freshman that we could have complained to the Cafe manager.  Instead, we tucked our tails between our legs, slinked away, and whenever we happened to have to cross the Cafe, we looked away and hurried our stride as if we were passing the Boo Radley house. 

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Posted in Bizarre, Boston, Food, Life

Think Sun

February 1st, 2006

Yes, Cool Jesus is still here.  Unlike my estranged colleagues Matty Ballgame, Miss Possible, and Captain Larby, I am still gainfully employed by The Diatribe.  My absence has been the result of one substantial reason (I have not had any decent material about which to write) and one excuse (I vowed to not return until LTJ found a new avatar, because his current one creeps me out).  I actually thought of a good topic or two last night as I was settling down to watch the State of the Union address.  Unfortunately, I forgot them.  But, since it is the first day of February, I wanted to check in because the month always seems to start out on the right foot when I check in on day one.

I think we’re just about halfway through winter, which is good, but that also means I’m in the grips of my annual mid-winter blahs.  It strikes me every year.  The worst year for my MWBs was right around 1999, I believe.  I was about nine months shy of graduation, had been in Boston for four years, and my life consisted pretty much of school and work.  I desperately needed a change.  I thought for sure I would move away after school and even went so far as to send cover letters and resumes out to other states in the hopes of getting interviews outside of Boston.  That never happened and by the time 2000 rolled around, I didn’t feel quite so down about Boston.  I liked the buildings again.  I liked the ultra-fast pace again.  I didn’t mind the weather so much.

While I’d still like a change to shake up my life, I know I’d miss being so close to Boston.  My current MWBs are not as severe as before.  Just a normal case of being sick and tired of the gray, gloomy, overcast, chilly weather, of not being able to really partake in outdoor activities, of another season of the Celtics stinking up the Garden.

Last year at this time was worse.  I was in the midst of dating and that was not going so well.  This year, I have Swedish Girl to help me kick the MWBs and we even cooked burritos grande last weekend.  Yahoo!  And not to let the cat out of the bag, but there’s talk of mixing up a pitcher of margaritas this weekend.  What better way to lose the mid-winter blahs and look ahead to the mid-summer yeahs.

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Posted in Boston, Life

So Long, Mr. Spoilsport

December 21st, 2005

While I do agree with Captain Larby’s Diatribe about the Red Sox being run as a business, they are also a team in a very competitive market. While Baseball is a very complex game with a number of rules, the business-side of the game has very few. I know that the Red Sox are high up on the list in terms of player salary, but the Yankees are sitting atop the list as the team spending the most for their players.

Johnny Damon and his agent Scott Boras are in the business as well — trying to vie for the most lucrative deal they could find, and play with whichever team is willing to pay the most. This would inevitably be the Yankees, assuming that they have their eye on a particular player.

It’s a damn shame that the Red Sox would not pony up the dough to sign Johnny, although a seven year contract deal would never fly. Johnny proved to be an extremely clutch player for the Sox last year (the Sox were much more likely to win a game if Johnny Damon had a base hit).

If Johnny left the sox to sign with any other team, it would’ve been a sad day for the Nation. But to sign with the Evil Empire? C’mon. I abhor every single player on the Yankees. Just the smug look on their face makes me want to smack them silly. The fact that such a loved Red Sox player is going over to a team which I have so much hate for, makes it very difficult to swallow. Pedro? No problem. Nomar? Yeah, it would’ve been tough, but we would’ve gotten over it. Manny? Please. But JD? Who’s next? Jason Varitek?

See you in the Bronx, Mr. Damon. I hope you enjoyed your last standing ovation at Fenway Park, as you will never hear the Boston Crowd cheer your name again.

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Posted in Boston, Red Sox, Yankees

Baseball, it’s a business.

December 21st, 2005

This sport will kill you. As a fan, you pledge allegiance to a team and it’s players. Over 162+ games, you ride the tide up a down. Some players you loathe, others you adore. Others come and go and you hardly knew they were there. In 2002, the Boston Red Sox acquired a wily center fielder from the Oakland A’s, a man that, admittedly, I was not familiar with beforehand. But in 4 gritty seasons, he became larger than life. And now, as a result of the mergers-and-acquisitions-style of sports today, Johnny Damon is gone. And not only is he gone, he’s gone to the enemy.

Blame the players? Sure, if that would make you feel better. But not me. Let’s face it, the day and age of the true “franchise player” is long gone. Are they overpaid, money-grubbing babies? Sure. But we still eat it up and idolize them. Blame the agents? Some are referred to as the Antichrist, and they should be faulted for driving contract prices through the roof. But you know what? I can’t do that either. For better or for worse, the old cliché is true: Baseball is run like a business. Dollars and cents. Contract negotiations. Sales pitches. Presentations. Conferences. Wining and dining. You get it, the whole nine yards. Not too long ago I changed careers, effectively joining the rat race of Corporate America. I live it and I get it. Business is cold, a place reserved only for the thick-skinned. So whom do I blame? My finger is pointed at the top of the heap, the Brass. Who holds the President/CEO title? Ludicrous Larry Lucchino.

The Red Sox team is like a company, and when companies fail to live up to expectations you have to look at the leader. This winter, Lucchino has failed time and time again. I only wish Donald Trump could sit across from him at the Yawkey Way boardroom, stab the air with that hand motion he does, and utter those now infamous words, “You’re fired”. Sorry Larry, but you suck. Your company is in turmoil. Make no mistake about it: It is your fault. You have to answer for you failures, and the time is now. I’m reminded of Michael Corleone, confronting Carlo in Part I, “You have to answer for Sonny, Carlo…Don’t tell me you’re innocent”. You’re not innocent Larry. You had a nice run, but these failures are inexcusable. Theo and Johnny, Bill Mueller, gaping holes in the infield and outfield, a clubhouse in confusion, and now a bolstered NY lineup.

Merry Christmas Laughable Larry. Rot in hell.

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Posted in Boston, Business, Red Sox, Yankees