Good morning

This morning I woke up feeling much like I always do; annoyed at my alarm’s snooze button and it’s damned extra 5 minutes of slumber, groggy from the boogers crusting the caruncles of me eyes and mystified from my outlandishly senseless dreams. After battling my inner demons I finally rouse. Leaping nakedly in the air and out from under my russet down comforter, I pull back the crimson curtains and expose the John Hancock tower. Every morning I look at its colorful beacony light while thinking about a poem in which here I will recite:

Steady blue, clear view.
Flashing blue, clouds due.
Steady red, rain ahead.
Flashing red, snow instead. (unless it’s the summer, then the Red Sox game is cancelled)

It was steady red. Rainy, cloudy, downy, miserable, depressing.

That’s fine. Bostonians have cold stone hearts and black souls made of stiff rawhide. The plethora of rainy days we’ve had this season can’t get me down, no-no, today I welcome that rain with a positive mentality. Turning from my window, I jump off my bed and grab my new taupe towel I bought yesterday at Target. I remember an article I read in the South End Courant about how the considerable amount of rain has raised the groundwater table to record levels—which is good because the water protects the wood timbers that hold all of the south end’s buildings up. Yay! ...but wait a minute, doesn’t that mean…

Without enough rain, the buildings will collapse. As if knowing my home is sitting on wooden stilts pushed deep into sea marshes a hundred and fifty years ago isn’t unsettling enough, learning that the annual rainfall determines whether the heavy brick brownstone will stand infamously strong or teeter and collapse into the sea is downright frightening. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I thunder down the stairs and into the bathroom. Closing the door I turn on the light, fan and heater. I hang up my towel and look in the mirror, deciding what I’ll look like today.

“Hmmmm…curly and unshaven,” I decide, “but what are these?” I notice stray hairs’ growing in bunches around my nipples, vagrants across my chest, a hair on my left shoulder and two unsightlies on my right shoulder blade. Reaching for my tweezers nestled in the medicine cabinet, I think about all the yard waste I raked from the front yard yesterday. Leaves, branches, candy wrappers, condom wrappers, glass and newspaper. Plucking away at my areolas, I think about the forty square feet of gardenable land now scoured and cleaned for the growing. A clean blank slate allows for new creativity, refreshing experiences and good times. Just like my fresh unsullied chest. I brush the clinging hairs off and put the tweezers away.

Today will be a good day.

A brief commentary on your now…

Poor Eliot Spitzer! Disregarding all the poor choices he’s made, I have an element of sympathy for the former governor of New York. It’s kind of easy to pick out the humor amongst the scandal. The fact that he was such a fierce enforcer of ethics that he’s been coined many do-gooder nicknames is funny now because he likes to bang expensive prostitutes. The man has money. He spent over $80,000 of his own money on whores from a prestigious internet escort service. He didn’t use money laundered from the state or tax payers, no no, he used his own! Isn’t that something to be commended? I respect people with needs. Mr. Spitzer needed loving so bad he was willing to pay over $2,000 an hour for some. Poor, poor Eliot Spitzer didn’t know where to turn. After properly researching which vendor to use, he chose the top of the line which means that man has class, which I also respect. I wish he didn’t resign, I wish he fought for his job. Personal lifestyle choices should be kept separate from professional image.

Alas, I guess in today’s society, everything you do and wear and say adds to your reputation. Status and sourceablity are increasingly becoming the most important thing in this world. Eliot Spitzer’s is now tarnished forever, along with the rankings of men we all know and a couple that I’ve known in particular.


Appendment: Haven't we all done things we are ashamed of?

A brief commentary on my now…

My little brother turned 19 yesterday, Bob turns 30 today, Tim D. turns 24 tomorrow. I’ve found myself going on dates with guy’s ages ranging from 21-45 and I’m turning 27 in August. With Bob feeling the stress of turning the big 30 and John turning 30 in August but drinking to forget and Rob being 32 while scared of 33 leaves my sister turning 14 in June while my little brother turns 18 in September. The men downstairs are married and 27, Adam is 26 and Marco and Jeremy don't have any age.


All this does not matter. Age is just a number, character is everything. Now watch Adam do a hula dance:


HAPPY BIRTHDAY BOB!!

The undulating health / fashion week report

Question: What’s more fun to caress and look at than muscles?
Answer: Nothing.

Fashion week has long been over and now that the dust has settled, pop culture is finally able to personificate what they should invest in. That’s right, rumor has it that the next big-thing is going muscle! The forecast for the future shows chances of huge defined bulges coming from arms, legs, chests, and even buttocks.


Apparently this isn’t going to be just a passing craze either. While this year’s designers were sifting through recycled culture for imaginative stimulation, they finally found revelation in what nature rewards with sweat and diligence.

Muscle! To give their visions an edge, designers turned to artists for inspiration. Marc Jacobs sought out Richard Prince to collaborate while artist Takashi Murakami made his impression on Louis Vuitton. If that wasn’t enough, even Prada’s spring show seemed to showcase the exact same. Up and down fashion week, Runway to runway, the color and fabric of designers varied yet the continual constant stayed muscle. The proof is found within the ripped abs and contoured jaggedy edges of the models bodies. In fact, muscle is so hot now, it’s getting hard to find.


While consumers flood the malls in search of this hot new trend, cultural analysts are noting the depletion of muscle everywhere, especially in local shopping centers across America. Despite the lack of muscle nationwide, urban centers such as New York, Boston and L.A. are noting accumulating muscle, especially in local hot spots.
“If you want muscle, the city’s the place to be,” says Boston resident Peter Marino.

My mother says...

My mother says that when I was born I did not come out kicking and screaming like most newborns. Instead, once I got out of the womb, the doctor sat me up; I opened my crusty blue eyes and just looked around, contemplating and examining. The doctor was momentarily confused with my benevolent entry into this world. Why wasn’t I crying? Extending his hand apathetically, he wondered if he should slap my bottom to induce some temper-tantrum blood curdling shrieks. Exhausted from pushing, my mom intervened, demanding to hold me. She held me tightly ogling the thick jet black hair atop my big head.

“Tim, I tell you, you were just thinking and thinking. From the moment you popped out of me, I knew you were a true Wallingford thinker.” She said.

“Mom! STOP IT!” I would squeal as she recites stories from my infancy to family and friends.

I get so outwardly embarrassed when she starts in on childhood tales. Of course despite my humiliation mom continues, unabashed. Her mouth blazing with words, who knows what awkward account she’ll disclose next. She could talk forever. Mother's sole purpose is to shock and awe; absorb the audience, all at my expense. The Nerve! She probably knows that deep down I narcissistically enjoy these tales about life before my memory kicked in. Maybe it’s my narcissism that keeps me awake into the night thinking and rehashing all of life’s trite and infinite perspectives on what makes me, me.

Mind Ablaze

This morning my alarm woke me in the middle of a nightmare that I needed to finish. Smashing the snooze button, I didn’t care if I was late for work. I was going to wrap up this dream regardless of real life responsibility or the horrificness of it all.

The scenario was this:

Stuck believing my dream world was reality; I was hastily driving my car to high ground in an attempt to escape doomsday. I'm not positive by I think nuclear bombs were supposed to simultaneously explode all over the world at any moment. One thing was sure, I wasn't about to stick around to find out. In my car was my apathetic little sister, an indistinguishable elderly woman and a sleeping dog. While I was nervously eager to save ourselves, the others were surprisingly indolent to the idea. Even though it was the end of the world, no one else seemed to care, and that bothered me. Strangers wandered the streets asking questions which pondered the logistics of when the bombs were exploding and what that meant for us. I felt they sould of caring that they were all going to die. Wouldn't you? I mean, their curiosity had rendered them blind! Even the radio announcer on my car radio was lazily referencing the explosions with little demeanor or charisma. I was alone in attempting survival.

Slowly but surely, through five minute increments, in-between snooze button pushing, I desperately dreamed my way towards a conclusion. Though I stubbornly want to be the hero with an outcome, I was eventually pulled out my illusive daze by a housemate Rob, calling my name to ask if I was about to get in the shower. Scared of losing my turn I shouted, "yes! I’m up!" as I gathered my naked body around a towel and groggily sprinted downstairs to the bathroom.

Rob, in his boxers, was waiting anxiously in the hallway while the bathroom door slammed.
"…four minutes, urr… promise." I grunted.
I like my showers hot and this morning was no exception. While the steam clouded the mirror and the water scorched my skin red, I soaped and gargled while wondering why I had such a crazy dream.

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Xanadu Weekends

Reminiscent of the small pox plague that exterminated most of the Massachusetts natives making way for our alpha-dog European descendants, Xanadu fever hit the house last weekend. “Xanadu, your neon lights will shine for you, Xanadu / The love, the echoes of long ago / you needed the world to know.”

It all started with a glimpse at a website advertising Xanadu on Broadway, http://www.xanaduonbroadway.com/. Upon entering the site you are first met with a dazzling pink background with rainbows crisscrossing top to bottom. First an energetic thunka-thunka beat starts to play over the speakers. “Where am I?” you ask, evocatively awakening happy fantasies of gay dance-club shirtless decathlons. Then while your heart patters to the beat, you suddenly see Pegasus, leader of unicorn planet take wing and soar across the screen. Finally a flash movie starts to play, showcasing the Broadway stars of Xanadu asking, “Where’s the place where all my dreams will come true?” And answering, “I grant you a Roller-disco!” After seeing such a thing, my housemates felt like we had to see the 1980’s original epic musical adventure, Xanadu featuring Olivia Newton-John, and Gene Kelly. Given the circumstances, you would be inspired to do the same thing…

While the 2008 Broadway show sits in New York collecting rave reviews, the 80’s movie will arduously stay present in history, forever tarnishing the warmth of our modern Xanadu love. While the musical numbers of the movie are interesting to say the least, the plot is horribly constructed while being equally dreadfully acted. Needn’t we forget the ever popular idiom , “Xanadon’t” It’s best not to watch the film. Rather just watch YouTube clips of the famed musical numbers. I tell you this; the all inclusive excitement you feel during the full length feature never achieves the exhilaration you get from the internet site.