Mindy's new-age lover

Note: this post is a special Happy Thanksgiving! shout-out to our beloved Mindy June, who is stranded in Milton Keynes, UK, with no Thanksgiving to celebrate.

When Mindy June recently made a reference to past-life lovers, I just knew I had to blog this story for you.

Mindy and I have been friends for twenty-two years, which has given us plenty of time to develop an arsenal of amusing tales. The two of us have a penchant for getting ourselves into weird-ass situations. It's like some sort of Age-of-Aquarius thing that happens whenever we're together - Jupiter aligns with Mars and all that crap. I don't know what it is exactly - we're either cursed or blessed, depending on your point of view.

We spent a lot of time together when we both lived on the West coast, she in Seattle and I in Los Angeles. One time we had a particularly bizarre evening when she was down visiting me.

My friend Cindy had invited me to a party at her friend's place out on Venice Beach, so Mindy and I jumped in the car and headed over. For those of you not familiar with Venice Beach, it can be, oh shall we say, trippy. A lot of bizarre characters. My friend Cindy is herself a bizarre character, bless her heart, but so are we - so it all worked out very nicely.

The party was held in a charming little bungalow on the beach, inhabited by Cindy's friend, Bodhi. (For some reason I doubt "Bodhi" was his given name, but I never asked.) We were greeted at the door by a lovely woman whose name I forget, and she invited us into the party, which was fairly rocking by the time we arrived. Standing a ways into the foyer was a tall, striking gentleman dressed in full African regalia. Upon seeing us enter he ended his conversation and sauntered gracefully up to Mindy and me.

"Dears, dears, it is SO wonderful to see you both!" he said, embracing us at the same time, after which he pulled back and shook my hand. After he let go, he took Mindy's right hand in both of his, brought it up to his lips and said "Darling, I'm glad you could make it. I've been waiting for you."

"Excuse me?" Mindy said, looking slightly perplexed.

"Yes, darling. I've been waiting. Don't you remember me?"

"Um, I don't think so.... I don't live here. I'm just visiting my friend Tom - I'm afraid you may have confused me with somebody else."

"No darling, it's you I've been waiting for. It seems that maybe you do not remember. Never fear, it will all come back to you. You just have to let go and let it happen."

"Ok..." Mindy stammered, looking at me for assistance. Not knowing what to do, I shrugged my shoulders and went to pour myself a drink. It looked like I was going to need one.

When I returned and handed Mindy a beer, Bodhi was busy explaining that he and Mindy had been lovers in a former life, and that they had made plans to meet there that night to be reunited.

Mindy and I exchanged looks, and then decided to let him go on to see where this would proceed. I don't remember every detail clearly, but I think there may have been mention of a shaman or some cult-sounding figure who would have been able to help Mindy obtain "clearness" on this point.

After a bit Bodhi took us both by the arm, saying "come, come, darlings, I must show you my sanctuary." He led us into a small room, about the size of a walk-in closet.

"In this room," he said, "is everything I lost as a child. It is here where I am able to reclaim my youth." The entire room was adorned with toys, some of them on shelves, some hanging on the walls. I distinctly remember a fully-boxed Spiderman action figure affixed directly to the wall next to the door. I wondered if he ever took Spidey out of the box to play with him, or if he just left it there as decoration.

Meanwhile, Bodhi was beginning to take more liberties with his hands, running them freely about Mindy's torso. She was giggling, but nervously. I decided I needed another beer, and went to see my friend Cindy.

I checked in on them every now and again just to make sure Mindy wasn't getting herself into trouble, and each time I approached I heard Bodhi cooing softly to her, Mindy responding with statements along the line of "yes, but I don't know you and I don't even live here. I really think this isn't the best time for this." He seemed so sweet though, and not at all dangerous (aside from being a complete whack-job) so I didn't really want to interrupt their little tête-à-tête.

Finally, about an hour later, Mindy freed herself, came up to me and said "OK, we're going now." We said our farewells to Cindy and our other hosts, and both enjoyed a long, slow embrace with Bodhi at the front door. "Goodbye, darlings, and just remember, Melinda, I am here and always will be. No matter where 'here' is."

Mindy was silent on the way to the car, but as soon as we were inside with the windows rolled up and the doors locked, she let out a scream like I've never heard from her before.

"Get me the FUCK away from here! What a fucking freak!!!" she screamed, or something to that effect. She wasn't exactly angry, or afraid - just a little weirded out. The whole thing had been very, very strange. When she started sharing the details of some of the stuff he had been saying to her, I could see why.

Whack-job. But a nice whack-job.

Then we went to an all-night diner for a bite to eat and to decompress, and this drugged out guy almost attacked me. But we talked him down before it went too far

Just another typical L.A. weekend with Tom & Mindy. Stay tuned for further installments.

Childhood Crush Tag - Vol. 1

Wonderturtle began a frightening game of tag about childhood crushes, and I was specifically named as someone who is required to answer. At first I was freaked out by the thought of this, but upon further reflection decided it could be an interesting walk down memory lane. And I suppose for me this will be a bit of a gender-bending exercise as well.

The first time I remember being really, really into someone was when I was four years old. I had a lot of little friends in our neighborhood, but for some reason I really dug this other little boy who lived out of town and visited our next-door neighbors sometimes. I don't remember his name, but whenever he was over visiting, he and I were completely inseparable. If either one of us had to go somewhere in the car we would insist that the other got to go along, and then we would sit together in the back seat. We may even have held hands, but I'm not sure.

The next person I was really, really close to was a girl named Julie from the neighborhood - we were also about four years old. She and I played together all the time, and she LOVED a special game we played called "Pull Down Pants." She always wanted me to chase her, tackle her to the ground and then pull down her pants. My brothers made a lot of fun of me for playing this game with her. It sounds kinky, I know, but it was completely innocent.

(Ok, I didn't have a crush on Julie, but I thought you'd like to hear that story anyway.)

I didn't have any more crushes until I was in second grade, when I was really drawn to this girl, Cindy, who was in my class. Cindy and I TOTALLY dug each other, and everyone else in the class knew it and made fun of us. In class we used to do these exercises where you would go write the answer to some question on the chalkboard, and then if you got the question right you were allowed to call on the next person. Any time Cindy or I were up at the board the entire class would say "Oh, Cindy's going to choose Tom" or vice-versa. And we always did, despite the teasing. Cuz we were in luuuuuv.

I don't remember dropping Cindy for the new girl, Diane, but I did at some point. Diane was totally groovy. She had shoulder length blonde hair and this sultry low-pitched voice. She was also sweet as pie. I was absolutely smitten with Diane. One time I bought her heart-shaped earrings at a garage sale and gave them to her right in class. She loved them.

Looking back on this, I am surprised at how little shame or peer pressure I felt then. Boy, how things changed in later years.

In third grade I had a head-over-heels crush on this girl named Holly. She had the same kind of soft voice and manner as Diane, which I guess is why I liked her. This was another situation where the entire class knew we liked each other, but we didn't seem to care. One time Holly was standing looking at a bulletin board in the back of the classroom. I went up behind her, put my hands on her waist and just stood there holding her for about five minutes. She didn't wince or try to move away, so I guess she liked it. I heard someone say "God, what are Tom and Holly doing over there?" but I didn't care. I was really excited about touching her like that.

Putting my four-year-old boy crush aside, the first time I noticed that I was drawn to a boy was in seventh grade. This seemed to hit me out of nowhere. There was another boy named Tom who wasn't in my class and whom I didn't even know, but I saw him in the hallway and was just bowled over by him. I did some detective work to figure out who he was, and then would casually ask questions of people, trying to get more information. I even wrote about him in a journal I had at the time - it seemed really important that I figure out a way to get to know him and to become friends with him. Never happened.

This was also around the age that kids started getting really mean about anything remotely gay, so when the hormones really started to kick in I denied myself any further attractions to boys for a long time - although it must have been always bubbling under the surface.

The next really serious crush I had was on Lorrie Hansen in ninth grade. Lorrie was a year ahead of me, and was quite popular. She was a cheerleader, but was also really nice and not at all snobby like most of the girls in that set. I got to know her when she and I were paired as dancing partners in "Hello Dolly," and it was with her that I first learned to polka.

I developed a terrible crush on Lorrie, but by that age had been so beaten down by my peers that I didn't think anyone would like me in "that" way. But I was pretty open with others about how much I liked her, and I know at least one person told her about it. She said "well why doesn't he ask me out, then?" DUH! She probably would have gone on a date if I would have dared mention it.

I did send her a flower on Valentine's Day, and simply wrote "Hi, Lorrie" on the card. She gave me a hug to thank me, and that's about as far as it went because I was too much of a wuss to take it a step further. Lorrie was such a sweet, sweet girl. Sometimes I wonder what became of her. She ended up going to one of the all-female seven sisters colleges and I think may have experimented with lesbianism, though I don't know that for sure.

Oddly enough, around that same time I became friends and had a crush on an older kid, Dave, who was alternately flirty and really mean to me. I had always noticed him and thought "wow!" But I would never dare try to talk to someone who was so cool and two years older than me to boot. He and I both sang in the chorus of "Hello Dolly," and one day as a group of us were leaving the rehearsal room, he just started talking to me and joking around. Made me nervous and weak-kneed.

Dave and Lorrie also liked each other, and one night he took her out on a date. I begged him to tell me all about it, and I remember not being clear whom I envied more. But after his confessions about the date, I decided he was an asshole. As he recalled to me, when they were done with the movie or whatever it was they had done on their date, they were making out in his car. According to Dave, Lorrie became pretty excited and started exuding a quite strong female aroma, which grossed him out and prompted him to make her leave his car. He never talked to her again after that. What a dick.

Nonetheless, I still pretty much adored Dave like a stupid puppy dog. One time, toward the end of his senior year, he did something really weird. We had just completed the last curtain call on "Oklahoma," at which point people in the cast all gave each other hugs before exiting the stage doors to greet the adoring public. As I was walking out the doors to go find my friends and family, Dave pulled me back in and said "Tom, wait a minute. Come here."

I followed him through a door back onto the backstage, which at that point was empty and almost completely dark. He just stood there. I said "well, what do you want?" He took my right hand in both of his, and raised it to his lips. For a second I was just stunned, and then I quickly grabbed it away from him, saying "what is your problem? God, you're such an asshole!" before storming out of the theater. I figured he was trying to set me up and had people hiding in the wings to see if I would take the bait.

Or maybe he really wanted to kiss me. Guess I'll never know, but I'd love to hear your opinions.

I think that's enough for tonight. One day I will write a sequel which will bring us to the college years, and I will let Lulu relive the horror of our many late-night phone conversations. (Confidential to Lulu: "It's going to be ok.... It's gong to be ok....")

CP

ps: I in turn choose to inflict this exercise upon three of my favorite B's: Bella, Beth and Bubs.

Can I brag for a minute?

Old Lady and I recently began a comment-based Celebrity Throwdown where we keep trying to one-up the other on the number of celebrity contacts we have each had. Since the worlds of renown and notoriety seem to be drawn to both of us inextricably, I imagine our little game may last quite some time.

While my brushes with fame have never gone much further than the occasional Hollywood party, our beloved Poor George has actually worked and interacted with the rich and famous in professional settings.

For those of you not intimately acquainted with our Poor George, he is a professional clarinetist by trade, in addition to being a leisurely gourmet. (As talented as he is at maintaining my BMI at just a few numbers above optimum level, he has never chosen to make money off his food skills.)

Poor George has had the pleasure of playing gigs with the likes of:

Dizzy Gillespie



John Faddis




Quincy Jones



And as of last night, we get to add Phillip Glass to the mix.



George recently began playing with the Greenwich Village Orchestra, so I went to one of their concerts last night. Among other things, the orchestra performed Glass's Concerto Fantasy for Two Timpanists and Orchestra, a strange sounding piece, as is true with much of Glass's work - but I love twentieth century music, so it was right up my alley.

Before they began, the conductor casually mentioned that Mr. Glass was in the audience and asked him to come up on stage to say a few words. Apparently he lives just a few blocks away from the auditorium, so it was easy for him to drop by and listen to George and his friends perform his work.

How cool is that?

I hope that Poor George will still remember to talk to us, the little people.

God damned Blogger

Dear Gentle Readers,

Over the past few days, I typed up two of the unbelievably profound and/or hilarious essays that you have come to expect, if not outright demand, from CPW. Each time, when I was almost ready to publish, God damned Blogger wouldn't let me save, and I lost my work.

Don't tell me to type it up in Word first. Every time I do that, God damned Blogger inserts some weird ass code into the text and everything is fucked up.

I haven't had the heart to attempt to recreate my unbelievably profound and/or hilarious work yet. So stay tuned.

Love,
CP

ps: From now on, let's all call it "God damned Blogger," please. So what if it's free? It can still be a piece of shit.

Fun with Gross Tag

Although I have already graced the Internets with my list of 100 things, I've been tagged by our friend Megan with a request to post five more things you don't know about me. I think for fun I will make this a game of Gross Tag, where I have to post the five grossest memories I can come up with.

1. When I was a kid, my dog Amos used to take enormous dumps. My friend Jenny and I would walk him together and watch him take his dumps because at the end, this little drop of white substance would come out of his butt. We were fascinated by what we called "the little white thing." One time we were eating vanilla ice cream out of bowls and Jenny said "what if this was a bowlful of those little white things?"

2. One time my college roommate and I decided to egg our other roommate while he was taking a shower. He got mad, but it was funny. Unfortunately, the eggs we used were rotten, which caused the smell to be extra nasty. After my roommate got out of the shower, I felt guilty and decided to clean up the mess for him. So I got down on my hands & knees to wipe up the rotten eggs, which by that time were mixed with all sorts of soap scum and body hair. It was so gross that it made me throw up in the shower. Then I had to clean that up, too.

3. My mom got a blood clot just under the surface of the skin of her leg. We didn't know what it was, since it just looked like a big red blotch. But she was in tremendous pain, so we took her to the emergency room. While we were in the waiting room, she said "I think it's starting to weep." "Weep?" I thought. "What the hell does that mean?" When we finally got her into an examining room, the doctor removed her pants and saw that the red blotch had burst open to ooze all sorts of blood and puss. Every single medical professional who entered the room winced when they first saw it. You know it's bad when the doctors are wincing.

4. When my cat Betty was just a kitten, I discovered she loved the taste of ear wax - I had been itching my ear with my finger, and when I was done she started licking my finger voraciously. You had to be careful not to leave your ears exposed around her or she'd go after you like a bear to honey. Several times I woke up to find her tongue halfway down my ear canal.

5. One time on the way to work my eye started itching really badly. It felt like something was trapped in it, but no amount of blinking or rubbing seemed to help. Finally, when I got to work, I went into the bathroom to examine myself in the mirror. I pulled open my lower eyelid and discovered a live bug, about the size of a flea, crawling around inside my eyelid. Lovely.

That's about it for tonight. I now tag all of you to post your grossest memories.

Thanks for playing!

I stand corrected

Due to the brilliance of my friend Sparky, we have discovered that I was correct the first time. The New Standards, Chan Poling's new band, are indeed playing Joe's Pub in New York on Saturday, January 19, 2007.

So, let me know who's in.

This is also the birthday of our Poor Suffering George, so we will make it a party for him at the same time.

Former Suburbs and Trip Shakespeare fans, get ready to party.

CP

Jin + Mama Gin, Sittin' in a Tree....

During my online drunk love fest, I decided I could not stand to look at one more of Jin's pictures without tasting some of her work. So much of what she displays online is so beautiful that I had a hard time believing it could taste as good as it looks. So I decided to do what some of her other blog fans have done and order a sweet box.

Jin of course replied with a hearty LOL and packed up a carton of delicacies of her own choosing for Poor George and me, and had them delivered to me in about a week's time. (I hate making decisions like what to order, so I told her to go to town for us.)

Imagine my delight when I got home late Wednesday evening and found her sweet box intact and unhidden by George, who is notorious for squirreling away sugared treats and then forgetting about them until they are stale and inedible.



Here is what we received:

3 Chocolate Chunk Cookies
4 Frosted Molasses Cookies
5 Mint Brownies
12 of her infamous Petit Fours
4 Awesome Muffins of zucchini, quinoa, dates, applesauce, pecan, carrot and spices
5 Raspberry Lemon Dream Bars - shortbread topped with lemon custard and raspberries
3 Pretty Babies - red velvet cake squares filled with cream cheese frosting and coated in chocolate glaze

Night one: It was late, so I made us a cuppa Mango Indica Whittard of Chelsea tea (courtesy of the lovely & talented Mindy June) and set us up a plate of three Petit Fours each.

Wow!

George, the resident food critic, examined every layer and proclaimed "this is by FAR the best petit four I've ever had." When he starts picking apart flavors, layers and hypothesizing about techniques used to create something, you know he's impressed.

Day two: We each enjoyed an Awesome Muffin for breakfast along with some fruit. The muffins were moist, and very, very tasty. George's comment: "This is delicious. This is a superb muffin. My only criticism is that it's TOO SMALL."

Night two: for dessert George and I each enjoyed one Raspberry Lemon Dream Bar and one Pretty Baby. Now we REALLY got drooling. I am absolutely gaga over the Dream Bars. They are deliciously moist, and so delicate in both the raspberry and lemon flavors. These are my favorite so far, but unfortunately I haven't even tried everything yet. Regarding the Dream Bar, George said "I wish I has as deep an understanding of crumb as she does."

George is also particularly gaga over the Pretty Babies. Red velvet cake is one of his favorite treats, and again he said this is the best he's ever had. And he doesn't make statements like that lightly.

(Shhh, don't tell George but I snuck one more Dream Bar before bed. I'll let him have the last Pretty Baby as penance if he figures it out.)

Day three: one more muffin each for breakfast. Again, George whined about the size. I should have let him have mine and dove for more dream bars.

Night three: George and I gorged ourselves during dinner at Todai in Koreatown, so we decided not to have any Jin treats that night.

Day four (which is today): This is the best part yet. Mama Gin got up early and trudged down our stairs to satisfy her OCD and make sure all our doors were locked. I decided it was time Mama Gin enjoy a little Jin love, on accounta their names are so similar and all.

I placed a petit four on a lovely little Chinese plate and went out into the hallway where Mama Gin was testing the door handle for the thirtieth time that hour.

"Mama Gin, here, you eat." I held out the plate to her with two hands, as is the proper Asian technique for offering something to a person.

Mama Gin looked startled, but when she saw how pretty the petit four was her face lit up and she actually reached out to take it.

"For me???" she asked, holding the plate up close to her face.

"Yes, you eat," I replied. Mama Gin giggled like a school girl. I swear, the lady giggled and held it up to her face again.

"Oh, cookie!" she exclaimed. She was downright giddy.

Jin, I think it's official. Your food has magical powers. You have melted the heart of Mama Gin. Now if you can just produce a baby for Poor George, Mama Gin will probably give you everything she owns.

Anyway blog fans, I strongly encourage you to order from Jin if you ever get an inkling. It will be well worth your time and money, damage to your waistlines notwithstanding.

Bon appetit!

ps: can't post actual pictures of the treats as our digi camera is on the fritz.

Tonight on the Subway

It had been a long day, and my eyes were bothering me so much due to the glaring light inside the subway car that I had to stop reading and just sit with my eyes closed. I was relieved when the D train pulled into 36th Street so that I could transfer to a local to get to my final stop.

The wait at 36th Street for a local, at least before 8:00 pm, is usually two minutes or less. Tonight I waited over ten minutes. I could feel my mood darkening.

Into the station pulled an N train, which is another express to take me ALMOST all the way home. I boarded. This particular train was overheated and smelly, so imagine my relief when it finally pulled into the 59th Street station, where I would wait for my R train to take me one more stop to my final destination - HOME.

As I approached the car door to exit, I was suddenly blocked by an onslaught of people ENTERING the train, shoving their way in before anyone could disembark. It did not help that an ill mannered girl of about fifteen just stood in the doorway, effectively blocking anyone from passing her. Another girl that she knew had been standing on the platform, and was one of the rude people to shove herself into the car before we could exit.

"LET US OFF THE TRAIN, PLEASE," I said rather loudly. I was actually nervous that the doors were going to slam shut, leaving us stuck in the train.

"FUCK YOU, Mister! Say 'excuse me' NICELY, why don't you?" the girl replied, smirking, her friend laughing along with her.

I heard only a muffled gasp as my hand clenched round her throat, and the other passengers moved away as I shoved her body into a remote corner of the train.

"Now you listen to me, Missy. Don't you dare talk to me, or any other adult, like that again. It's about time someone taught you some manners." My left hand remained firmly clenched around her neck as my right rained blows across her smug face, alternating palm with the back of my hand.

After my fury was spent, I let go and watched her slide to the floor and huddle, terrified, in the corner of the train, her body convulsing in sobs. I exited the car to the thundering applause of my fellow passengers.


*****************************************

"FUCK YOU, Mister! Say 'excuse me' NICELY, why don't you?" the girl replied, smirking.

As I exited the train, I turned and said "someone needs to teach you some manners, Miss."

"Yeah? Well FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" she cackled. I turned and stared into her face until the doors slammed closed and the train whisked her away. I heard her voice, faintly, until the train was well out of the station.




You pick.

Happy 31st, Jake. We miss you.

Jacob Palmatier 11/7/75 - 2/24/05

Thanks, Lu!

Just days after I told Lu that Chan Poling (formerly of The Suburbs) was no longer playing, she discovered, grace of our friend Trendy Wendy, that he is indeed in a new band.

I am officially shamed as a cyberstalker for not knowing this. I was fairly sure I had recently cyberstalked Mr. Poling and came up empty handed, although now that I think of it I may have just been checking to see if he had ever released anything on iTunes. Whatevs.

1980s Minneapolitans everywhere will be thrilled to see that elements of The Suburbs and Trip Shakespeare have now combined to form a new band, The New Standards. And they are playing NYC in January. Let me know who's in.

CP

Hello, Dalai well hello, Dalai.....

Thanks to a tip from Bubs, I just mapped out my Political Compass. I ended up near the extreme of Left Libertarianism. It was all the sex questions that saved me.

Just me, Gandhi and the Dalai Lama. Rock on.

CPW Confessional: CP-hating Catholics

I've decided that whenever someone doesn't like me, it's because they are a Catholic. Not all Catholics hate me, but almost everyone who hates me is a Catholic. It's like a special subsect within Catholicism: you got your normal Saturday night Catholics; you got your Marians; and then you got your CP-haters.

The thing I've been wondering about is, what is it about their Papism that makes the CP-hating Catholics hate me?

It may be because I have some sort of subconscious disdain toward Catholicism. Although I'm not aware of ever having said anything particularly mean about Catholics, at least one person has accused me of this. I have an ex-boyfriend, who shall remain nameless for the moment, who secretly converted to Catholicism while we were dating and kept it hidden from me for fear I wouldn't like him any more. It was one of the funniest things ever to happen to me. I remember how I found out about this when I asked him if he wanted to do something with me on Easter Sunday.

"Uh. . . I'm busy that day," he replied.

"Oh. Well, what are you doing?"

"Just something. You wouldn't be interested."

Hmm. A statement like that would pique anyone's interest.

"What is it?"

"It's something at church."

"What church?"

"M's church." M was his closest friend.

"Isn't he Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Well, what are you doing at his church on Easter? Are you playing?" Sometimes he made extra money as a church musician.

"No, I'm not playing. If you must know, I'm getting confirmed."

"You're getting confirmed."

"Yes."

"As a Catholic."

"Yes."

"How long have you been planning this?"

"About three months."

Three months. My boyfriend, whom I saw at least four times a week, often for overnight, had been preparing to convert to Catholicism for three months and I had no idea.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me this?"

"Because you don't like Catholics, and if you knew I was becoming one I thought you wouldn't like me any more."

I questioned him extensively on this last bit, because I was thoroughly confused. Apparently, I had once uttered the words "I have no use for Catholics" to him and he took me literally. I didn't even remember saying it.

I was raised Lutheran after all, the religion that launched the Reformation. It's in our culture to denounce the Pope; it's central to our purpose as a religion. So I suppose it's only natural that the occasional trace of anti-Catholic vitriol should escape our lips. It's like a reflex. Completely involuntary.

But I certainly never wanted to offend or scare away any of the Catholics that I know.

From that day forward, I took a solemn vow to be nicer to my Papist friends and never again make fun of them for purchasing indulgences or any of that other crap they do.

Maybe I didn't try hard enough.

Damn.

Three drinks???

I don't know what I'm more embarassed about - last night's drunk love fest, or the fact that three drinks will do that to me. What a friggin lightweight.

At least I'm a cheap date.

And now we return to the regularly scheduled Crabby Tom show.

CP

Real-time drinking with the CP

Hi all you awesomely lovely online pals,

I, CP, have a theory that your true spirit comes out when you are drinking. My brother gets mean when he drinks, meaning he is a bastard. My mom turns into a total uncontrollable mess. 'Nuff said. I, on the other hand, turn into a gelatinous ball of love when I'm on the bottle. Real life friends of the CP can surely attest to this.

One time when I was on the phone with Mindy during a night of partying, I heard her utter the words "Hey KC! Pick up the extension! Tom's on the phone, drunk and gushing sentiment!"

You see, Gentle Readers, when you get right down to it I'm just a loveable guy.

Ok, so to set the scene, I was running around the greater NY metro area all day today, and when I got home I was required to make myself dinner because George bought fresh fish yesterday - meaning I had to cook lest the fish go bad. (George is at a music rehearsal right now, leaving me to fend for myself.)

One of my best friends, Sarah, was a good friend of Julia Child, because Sarah's mom, Sue, was in the "industry" with her. (Sue helped found the Food Network.) Anyway, both Julia and Sue have strict rules about cooking: the cook is entitled, if not required, to have a glass of wine or a cocktail at hand at all times. Who am I to buck the system?

So tonight the kitchen of the CP features pecan crusted filet of turbot, braised cabbage with prosciutto and a Mediterranean salad of cooked escaraole. Oh, and three appletinis.

I KICK ASS!!!!!!!

Then, since I had no one to eat with, I set my computer to play, on shuffle, the "40 at40" collections of both me and Mindy June. (Sharon & Lulu, I would've included yours too but they are not on this particular computer.)

So I'm completely engulfed in the entangled music of Mindy June & me right now, tipsy (ok, drunk) on appletinis, eating George's reicipes (he taught me everything I know) and reading all your blogs.

I am SO in love with all of you right now. Enjoy it before I come down.

Love & stuff,
CP

I'm a Brooklynite!

Gentle Readers,

For once it looks like I'm exactly where I ought to be. Who would've guessed?

You Belong in Brooklyn

Down to earth and hard working, you're a true New Yorker. And although you may be turning into a yuppie, you never forget your roots.

Where Should Your Inner New Yorker Live?

I've been tagged but only kinda

Dale threatened to sic the Baby Jesus on me if I didn't follow his lead and post 5 (or so) Things You Don't Know About Me. So here goes:

1. I have no puzzle-related stories to tell with respect to skipping grades or being held back a year. But I did almost cry in second grade when I played with a puzzle of the fifty states ten minutes before the end of recess and was told by the teacher, harshly, that I had better have the whole thing put back together before the bell. Three friends had to help me, but we got it done.

2. I often prayed for my parents to give me away for about 8 months. Unfortunately, it never happened.

3. My body is free of tattoos. And piercings too, for that matter.

4. CPW members, you aren't even wondering about number 2, are you? I know. My regular readers have already surmised my upbringing was like Ordinary People meets The Addams Family.

5. Sometimes, I end up having sex in the middle of laughing. This is especially inconvenient when someone tells a joke during a meeting at work.

6. Bonus thing because #4 doesn't really count: I wish I knew what glib meant. I think it means something akin to smug, but I've never really been sure.

Language of the Richards

Legacy CPW members may recall earlier discussions of my brother Rich and some of the stress he causes my family. Today I would like to share more information about my esteemed brother Rich, and his hero, our Uncle Richard.

We didn't get to see my mom's brother Richard all that often - maybe once every other year at most. Oddly enough, my brother Rich took after our uncle in all ways possible. They shared the same name. They looked alike. They talked alike. They had the same mannerisms. They were both raging alcoholics. They even had similar handwriting. It was downright strange.

(The description above is written in the past tense because Uncle Richard passed away a few years ago, on account of his alcoholism.)

Uncle Richard was a career Navy man, so my brother Rich couldn't wait to join up the second my parents allowed it, which was at age 17 since it was the only way they were going to get him to finish high school. Unlike our uncle though, Rich only stayed in the service for five years. My mom, in her never-ending quest to make excuses for my poorly behaved brother, insists that his penchants for meanness, foul language and alcoholism stemmed from his years in the service.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I didn't intend to get into a full fledged compare/contrast exercise regarding my brother and uncle, other than to point out that they were two peas in a pod. There were some important differences, such as my uncle's willingness to remain employed, support his family and not rely on his relatives for handouts. But we're not going there right now.

Today I just wanted to share with you a few memorable quotes uttered by either my uncle or my brother. This exercise will take place in the form of a quiz, but the answers don't really matter because most of them are interchangeable.

Enjoy!


BROTHER RICH OR UNCLE RICHARD?

1. "I never iron anything. I just take it down to the Chinaman on the corner."

2. "Faggot shoes." (in reference to the Sperry Topsider trend of the early 1980s)

3. "What's an albino, you ask? It's like a nigger who's white."

4. "I don't like faggots."

5. "That bitch Hillary Clinton should be gang raped."

6. "Can't anyone take a fucking joke around here?"

7. "He's black, but he thinks he's white."

8. "I don't know why that Dago faggot doesn't just boink that bitch." (in reference to Tony Danza and Judith Light in Who's the Boss?)

9. "Alcohol is just another drug. Might as well be smoking crack."

10. "They're insulting my wife. I take offense to that."


Answers revealed whenever I feel like it. Probably by Monday.

RIP, 2006 Mets

Real-life friends of the CP will be laughing in a just a minute, after I admit to you all that I, Coaster Punchman, actually shed a tear at the end of last night's game. In fact, I may have shed more than one.

Early yesterday afternoon one of my clients called to tell me she ended up with an extra ticket to the Mets game, and invited me to go with her. She is a MAJOR Mets fan, almost to the point of freakishness. But since I am a diehard fan of the Mets' Single A minor league team, the Brooklyn Cyclones, we are a great match. I treat her to at least one Cyclones game every summer out at Coney Island, at a great little stadium right on the ocean. I love minor league stadiums. Cozy. Intimate. Cheap. Unfortunately, I have not been as lucky with the players as Susan Sarandon, but that's fodder for another entry.

Anyway, not to rehash the heartbreak of the unfortunate end of the Mets' season, but.... damn! I would have hated to be Carlos Beltran, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded. Who the fuck could handle that kind of pressure? It SO could have been a Kirby-Puckett-game-six moment.

But alas, it was not to be.

The strangest part of the evening was when, moments after Beltran's tragic strike-out, the crowd sat in stunned silence while the Cardinals ran out onto the field to do their triumphant war dance. Since there was no cheering or any other noise to accompany them, it was almost like watching it happen in slow motion with the sound on the TV muted. I said out loud "look at that! They're dancing around in complete silence!" This guy in front of me turned around and said "I know! Fuckin' weird!"

As annoyed as I get by extreme fanaticism over professional sports, I have to admit I was quite moved by the dedication of these fans. People everywhere were teary eyed because the end of the game had been so intense before the big let down.

As I stood and waited while my client used the restroom, I watched people exit the stadium. At one point a man about my age walked toward me, his arm around the shoulders of a red faced, sobbing boy of about ten. Although the Mets' loss was not a tragedy by any means, the image of this brokenhearted boy remained with me the rest of the night and throughout most of today.

Is this really happening? Could I actually be turning into a baseball nut?

(to be continued)

Are you a good spellar?

For those of you in the mood to waste valuable time, this spelling test is a fun diversion. According to the editor who compiled this list, these are the fifty most misspelled words.

I'm generally a fairly good speller, but I had to wrack my brain over a few of the -ible vs. -able words.

Good luck, and let me know how you do. No cheating, lying or crying.

I also liked her short essay on spelling tips and the virtues of good spelling.

CP

I blog, therefore I am

This is not my doctor. This is John Mayer. And he's kissing Adam Levine. Nice.

I saw our unbearably adorable John Mayer-looking doctor today. I asked him if I should get tested for ADD since I can't seem to get shit done at work for lack of concentration. He paused for a minute, and then asked what enjoyable creative outlets I have.

"Well, I've been enjoying my writing lately," I told him.

"What kind of writing?"

"I have a blog."

"Oh. So how often do you update your blog?"

"Two or three times a week, give or take."

"Well then, you probably don't have ADD. You didn't have it as a child, and you've shown through your blogging that you are able to concentrate on something as long as you find it somewhat interesting."

All I really wanted was some Ritalin and an excuse to keep seeing him once a month. Instead, he's making me go to therapy, and I don't get to see him again until January.

I'd fire him if he weren't so damn attractive. And now that he knows about my blog, I'm going to have to remove any possibly identifying information.


Damn.

Amy's Diary

Dear everyone,

Please don't forget about Amy's Diary. It's my favorite thing on the Internets.

Sighend,

CP

Dumped

I have always been surrounded by restaurants I want to try but never make it to. Then, when the restaurants close before I've had a chance to try them, I feel guilty. I always think to myself "if only I had gone in there! Maybe I would have loved it, and it would have become my favorite spot. I would have eaten there every week and kept the place afloat!"

Then I mix myself a cocktail, drowning myself in gin and regret.

As traumatic as that kind of scenario is, what really gets me is when one of my favorite restaurants closes. I feel particularly responsible when that happens.

I was recently telling a friend of mine that for me, a restaurant closing is like being dumped romantically - especially when it happens unexpectedly. I'll be walking down a familiar street, about to pass by one of my regular haunts, when suddenly I am confronted with the sickening clues: dark windows, grey metal shutters and iron gates down, all in broad daylight. It's like my lover just packed up and left me in the middle of the night.

Sometimes my lover leaves a note, in the form of a large posterboard sign. "Closed. Thank you for your loyal patronage." Other times, I am just dumped, heartlessly and with no explanation whatsoever.

Sometimes my lover packs all his belongings before leaving me, but other times he just disappears without a trace, abandoning all the furniture and appliances, causing me to wonder if foul play was involved.

No matter how it happens, it's just terrible. The feelings of hopelessness and despair are overwhelming, and I often want to drop to my knees and beg "for God's sake, don't do this! I'll do anything if you'll just give me one more chance! I'll visit you five nights a week if I have to!"

I've had six restaurant-lovers dump me over this past year. That's SIX. Six times in one year. I'm about at the end of my rope.

How can I go on like this? What am I supposed to tell my out of town guests when they arrive, expecting to be wined and dined in fabulous New York style?

I hate taking people to places I haven't tried multiple times, places that have not yet survived the rigors of my scrutiny. Places where the server doesn't yet know the fury that will be unleashed if the food arrives before the beverage. I always keep in my restaurant repertoire about ten standbys that I can either take people to myself, or direct them to when they request dining suggestions.

It takes months or even years to develop a reliable list of restaurants. And in one year, I lost half my repertoire. The mere thought of it exhausts me.

I don't even remember the order in which the following tragedies occurred, so I will just recount these various horrors for you, in no particular order.



Lento's

This place made the best pizza in New York. A delicious crust that was at once robust and delicate. Wafer thin, and perfect for the carb-conscious pizzatarian. A real joint, too. Legend has it that during Prohibition the place functioned as a speakeasy, and each wooden booth featured a buzzer that could be used to warn the manager in case the authorities showed up. This place was right up the street from our house - perfect for last minute getaways and overnight guests.

Grange Hall / Blue Mill Tavern



During my New York years, this venue has functioned as two separate establishments. The point to this place was never the food (classic American-Continental) so much as the ambiance. It's done in an authentic art deco style, and features a lot of WWII era posters and that sort of thing. It's also located on just about the cutest, coziest street in the West Village. Mindy June chose this as the place to have dinner on her birthday, which is how I found out it had closed, again. While I don't necessarily mourn the Blue Mill Tavern as a particular establishment, I'm terrified that whoever takes it over will gut the space and ruin it.

Second Avenue Deli



Part of my soul died when I found out about the sudden closing of this New York standby.

Second Avenue Deli, located in the heart of the East Village, was New York's very best kosher deli, plain and simple. I never had one morsel of food here that didn't melt in my mouth. I'm incredibly particular about my corned beef hash, and this was the only place I know of in New York that did it right. (If anyone dares mention Carnegie Deli or (God forbid) Katz's to me, I swear to God I will go crazy on your ass. Don't you dare try to put them in the same league.)

The waitstaff here was fabulous. I was once telling a waiter about how my Norwegian grandpa would never order hash in a restaurant because he was sure they just scraped up all the leftover meat off the customers' plates to make it. The waiter replied, in all seriousness, "oh, we would never do that here. Only the Chinese do stuff like that." (George appreciated that remark.)

As a bonus, you were always presented with a plate of fresh homemade pickles the moment you sat down.

Banana Leaf

Seared scallops

Banana Leaf's crab cake with ginger salad and mango coulis

Featured in the first installment of my Diary of Not a Rice Person series, Banana Leaf was another local Tom & George standby. We spent many a lazy Sunday night dinner here, and George regularly chatted up the owner-chef, whose menu was pan-Asian with a heavy Malaysian bent. The chef was such a nice guy that we had decided to invite him over for dinner some time.

The food at Banana Leaf was nothing short of spectacular. And cheap, cheap, cheap. Manhattan quality and style at Brooklyn prices. Hard to beat.

We usually started with a succulent roti canai, a fried Indian pancake served with a savory chicken and potato curry dipping sauce. We would follow that up with a green papaya salad in a tangy vinaigrette, and were never disappointed by any of the entrees such as black pepper steaks, seared scallops, or curried prawns, served over coconut jasmine rice. I invariably rounded out each meal with my favorite dessert, a sticky raisin cake with an essence of mango, served with a delicious fruit chutney and topped with caramelized sugar.

I'm starving just thinking about Banana Leaf, despite the big breakfast I just finished.

Ulrika's



A standby for tasty and affordable Scandinavian comfort food. They were Swedish, but I didn't hold that against them. Ulrika's was a charming, cozy space on the Upper East Side, where cozy and affordable are not so easy to come by. Thank God we now have Smorgaschef to fulfill many of my needs in this regard.

Caffe Rafaella



This closing will be especially bittersweet for Mindy since we just had her birthday there in July. This was the standby for late night dessert and general hanging in the West Village. It was a large, casual place, kind of a classic coffee house environment consisting of two wide rooms filled with mismatched antique tables, chairs and sofas. The service was unbearably slow, but that didn't matter because you went there to hang out and spend time with your friends. It was most popular for coffee and fancy desserts, but the regular menu of sandwiches, salads and continental entrees was delicious as well. And they had a full bar, with which one can never go wrong.

In all seriousness, I honestly don't know what we're going to do without this place. There is no dessert place comparable in Manhattan that I know of. There are smaller places that have a nice environment and good food, but Caffe Rafaella was unique in that there always seemed to be a table available that you could use guilt-free for three hours if you wanted to.


Thank you all, Gentle Readers, for indulging me in my soulful mourning of these lost delights, these true loves of mine. My heart has begun to heal, but it will take time and patience.

Martha Dumptruck, RIP

Because our blogging friend Pink Fluffy Slippers has put my cyberstalking skills to shame by discovering the identity of Martha Dumptruck, I have decided to delete all my posts about the latter.

Seeing as how Martha is a real person who plays around on the Internets a bit, it could only be a matter of time before she tracks me down and wishes me ill. And, seeing as how she's involved in the paranormal along with her obsession with disaster movies and celebrity deaths, she might best be left alone.

Not to mention that I do in some ways aspire to act like a nice person.

But I encourage those of you who wish to develop your own Martha Dumptruck obsession to visit her by way of Mindy June, who is not troubled by minor things like morals or a conscience.

It's been fun, Martha. Thanks for the laughs.

CP

Jeff

I clearly remember the first time I visited The Official Site of Grant Miller because the first piece I read was entitled My Cat is a Godless, Killing Machine. What's not to like about a post like that? Mr. Miller had me hooked with the title alone.

Well Grant, I believe your cat Bully has finally met his match. Blogfriends, meet my new hero, Jeff.

Jeff is a stunning orange tabby who guards his outdoor domain with a vigilance worthy of Hannibal Lecter. Nothing on four legs escapes his deadly clutches.

We must get down on our collective knees and worship at his feline altar. Oh Lord Jeff, we beseech thee, have mercy on our mortal flesh. We beg you not to rip our heads off like you did to that snake.

In Jeff's holy name I pray,
CP

Happy (Belated) Canadian Thanksgiving!

On accounta the Elite Liberal Northwest of the US is really part of Canada (see map), I've decided that we should have been able to celebrate their Thanksgiving this week instead of having to wait until the end of November.

No offense meant to our blogging friends in the red states, of course...I assume from your writing that you vote with us, anyway.

So instead, we will have a virtual celebration of Thanksgiving for the new United States of Canada. Below are pictures, both taken by Mindy June, of the first Thanksgiving in our refurbished apartment last November. George and I are seated with our wine merchant, Imran, and his lovely wife Emiri (who is also our friend.)

Today I give thanks (in no particular order) for dim sum breakfasts, Abe Vigoda, the French, and all of you!

CP

Who can turn the world on with his smile?

The Gentle Readers who already know CP in person may remember the awesome powers bestowed upon him by Mary Tyler Moore.

The relationship between MTM and CP began in 1997 when CP's friend Suzanne had a nervous breakdown and got locked in a mental ward for a few days. After her release, things were touch and go for several weeks while Suzanne recuperated at home and regained her sense of the world. CP kept wondering what he could do to help Suzanne feel better.

Late one night, Mary Tyler Moore came to CP in a vision. Mary said to CP "you need to call Suzanne and play her my theme song on your piano." Then Mary went away, never again to be seen by CP except for in late night reruns.*

The next morning, CP called Suzanne and left his version of the MTM theme song on her answering machine. Suzanne called back later to tell CP how much the message meant to her. Thus began the Coaster Punchman tradition of MTM'ing people during their times of need.

The powers bestowed upon CP have lain dormant for a number of years now, but have recently been revived and are again ready for use.

If someone you know needs to be Mary-Tyler-Moore'd, send CP the party's name and phone number at cp.marytylermoore@yahoo.com.

CP adheres to a strict privacy policy regarding all phone numbers sent to him. Phone numbers are deleted promptly after a successful MTM'ing, and CP never shares these numbers with anyone. Not even Poor George.

So MTM your friends and loved ones today - if they need it, that is!



*The Gentle Readers of this blog may be interested to know that Poor George once appeared in a low-budget independent film with Mary Tyler Moore, entitled The Story of Sissy, which starred drag legend Jackie Curtis. The film never enjoyed a wide theatrical release, and the whereabouts of the masters are unknown due to the death of the film's producer in the early 1990s. Unfortunately, Mary's involvement in the film project was not voluntary. The producers were simply filming on a New York street one day when they saw Mary Tyler Moore approach. They quickly shifted their camera angles so that they could capture Mary's image as part of the setting. Mary probably never even knew she was in the film.

I've been tag-teamed! (Wait, that didn't come out right...)

1) Would you bungee jump? No. In fact, hell no.

2) If you could do anything in the world for a living what would it be? Direct pornographic movies. In color.

3) Your favorite fictional animal? Probably Ralph, the Mouse on the Motorcycle. Or maybe the Cheshire cat.

4) One person who never fails to make you laugh? Mindy, Lulu and Michael J. (who is too important to read this blog.)

5) When you were 12 years old what did you want to be when you grew up? I had my head in my ass when I was 12. Being an adult seemed too far off to worry about such things.

6) What is the first thing you do when you wake up in the morning? Mama Gin imitations. She once told me to come upstairs to get the laundry out of the dryer because she wanted to go to bed. She kept saying “I old. I sleeping.” So whenever I’m sleepy (as I am when I first wake up) I usually say “I sleeping.”

7) Have you ever gone to therapy? None of your damn business.

8) If you could have one super power what would it be? I always envied Samantha Stevens. So I guess I’d be a warlock, except I wouldn't let my husband stop me from using my awesome powers. I’m not sure if that counts as "one" magic power, though.

Another fantasy I have is that I could make the world go in slow motion so that I'd be really good at tennis. But then I always think that someone would figure out what I’m doing, and expose me as a cheater to the rest of the universe. I can’t even have fun in my fantasies.

9) Your favorite cartoon character?

Stimpy.

10) Do you go to church? Not as often as I imagine I would like to. It turns out that I like the idea of being religious more than I like being religious. I have a real commitment problem with that stuff.

11) What is your best childhood memory? One time I was at a party at the home of one of my dad’s music friends. I was lying on the couch, and my dad’s friend came over and started petting me like a cat. (It was completely non-creepy, and there were no bad touches. Plenty of people around, too.) I would have purred if I had the ability.

12) Do you think marriage is an outdated ritual? This question is too complicated. It goes without saying that I think everyone should have the same right to marry.

13) Do you own a gun? I think we have a staple gun somewhere in the boiler room where we keep our tools.

14) Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex? In high school I was drunk at a party, and my friend Coleen kept making me laugh so hard that I would slap her on the back. Finally she said “stop hitting me! That is not a masculine thing to do!” Then I felt shame.

15) Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people? Many times, more as part of a group than as a soloist.

16) What is the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? I always check for cleft palates and harelips.

17) What is your biggest mistake? Worrying too much about money when I was fresh out of college. For as little money as I made at first, I should have just searched high and low for something really interesting to do, even if it paid minimum wage starting out.

18) Say something totally random about yourself. I have a few Tourettes-like behaviors that are starting to alarm me. Lately I’ve been doing the Peewee Herman spaz hands whenever I’m working in the kitchen. I have no idea why I do that.

19) Has anyone ever said that you looked like a celebrity?

In high school, people said I looked like Matt Dillon.

In college, I became Ivan Lendl.

More recently, a friend commented that Tobey Maguire's mouth and chin remind her of me.

Personally, I think that from certain angles I resemble Abigail, the Fugitive Kitty (who is a celebrity by virtue of her appearance on Stuff On My Cat.)

20) What is the most romantic thing someone of the opposite sex has done for you? This guy once drove to my house in West Hollywood at five in morning right after the Northridge earthquake, to make sure I was OK. That was really sweet. But then he ruined it about half an hour later by taking his breakfast fork, which was covered with yolk from the egg he was eating, and dipping it right into my friend’s jar of fancy strawberry preserves. WTF?

21) Do you actually read these when other people fill them out? Oddly enough, yes, I do.

I tag: My sister. Tumuli. And I think it's time we hear from the Molecular Turtle.

Is CP the next Little Miss Sunshine?

Gentle Readers,

Within this post lies my entry in the First Annual Little Miss Sunshine Online Pageant.

“Where is CP’s childhood photo?” you may ask. Well, Gentle Readers, the picture you are about to see is so disturbing, so graphic, and so hideous that I consider it my solemn duty to provide you with the most dire of warnings. Gentle Readers, you must guard your eyes until you have accepted that you will behold the most unattractive child ever to grace this planet.

At the bottom of this post is a link to my third grade school picture, taken not long after my plunge off a ten-foot wall in front of our church. If my mother had known how ugly I would turn out to be, she might have considered leaving me on the pile of rocks where I had been knocked unconscious.

I did not lose any teeth as a result of my infamous fall, but from the looks of my mouth in this photo I may as well have.

And I don’t know what’s up with the Indian dot between my eyes. I think it's a smudge on the photo itself, but for all I know I probably had a gigantic wart growing right out of my forehead. If I had a kid who looked like this, I’d put him up for adoption.

Now Gentle Readers, after all that I’ve told you, if you still wish to continue you may do so at your peril by clicking here.

(See links to the other contestants on Beth's blog.)