The Daily Dump

A place where everyone (me) is welcomed to express their opinions openly and honestly. I encourage free thinking, free wheeling, off-the-cuff banter and monetary donations.

Monday, April 25

Trains, Boats and Caaaah's

I don’t understand the fascination with Boston. People say it has “the city feel, but still a neighborhood feel” and that it has “charm.” I find it about as charming as “Gotti #2” in Growing Up Gotti.

But I might not be giving it a fair shake, considering I probably spent more time traveling to and from Boston than I actually spent in the actual city. Starting Friday night, I took a train out to my parents’ house on Long Island, woke up at 5:45 the next morning to drive out to Orient Point to catch the car-ferry to New London, CT, then drove to Woburn, MA to visit with my girlfriend’s family, then drove into Boston to check into the hotel, then drove back to Woburn to have dinner with the family, then drove back to Boston to go out for drinks that night. Woke up the next morning and drove back to Woburn (for the sole purpose of my girlfriend buying another pair of sweat pants from a J. Crew store in the mall there because there’s no sales tax in MA, no I’m not bitter it’s fine), then drove back to New London for the ferry and finally back to my parent’s house to drop off the car and catch a train back to Manhattan to get in bed by midnight.
Travel time: about 17 hours. Time spent not traveling: about 19 hours, including sleep. Realizing your “weekend getaway” was more stressful than a regular work-week: about $425.

I won’t bore you with all the details. In fact, I could just say, “We ate at a lot of chain restaurants and drank a lot of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and they still haven’t figured out that they’re saying their a’s weird,” and you would be caught up. But for the fun of it, here’s a general recap of the weekend, in excerpts of conversations.


(On the car-ferry)
The Girlfriend: (annoyed) “Is this how fast we move the whole time?”
Me: “We’re still docked.”
The Girlfriend: “Oh.”
(Note: She makes more money than me. There, I said it.)

The Girlfriend: (watching me write down notes on the ferry) “How come you refer to me as ‘the girlfriend’ in your blog? You do it so girls won’t think you have a girlfriend, don’t you.”
Me: “I think they figure out you’re my girlfriend when I call you ‘girlfriend.’”

Hotel Receptionist: “Where are you traveling from?”
Me: “New York.”
Hotel Receptionist: “Oh, are you Yankees fans?”
Me: “Indeed we are.”
Hotel Receptionist: “OK, let me just add some miscellaneous charges to your room here…”
Me: (over enthusiastic laugh) “Haha, yeah. Ha.”

(There’s a certain sense of castration that comes along with feeling indebted to a Red Sox fan. It’s like taking a really hot girl out on a first date, and her wanting to see a movie that you already saw and hated. You have to suck it up and pay to sit through it again. Here, I had to do the same thing, just stand there and joke along with the guy, because he had my proverbial balls in his proverbial mouth; my balls being an 11th floor room with a king size bed and a view and his mouth being a second floor interior room with pubic hair in the tub. Or some metaphor that makes sense.)

The Girlfriend: (sitting next to her father at table in a restaurant) “You see? Look at my nose, I really think it’s crooked.”
Me: “Babe, I told you, it’s not cro-“
Her father: “Jeez, yeah, you’re right! I noticed that before and I wasn’t going to say anything, but yeah it does look a little crooked.”
Me: (quietly, to her sister sitting next to me) “Three years of trying to convince her it’s not crooked, ruined in 10 seconds.”

The Girlfriend: (in the car driving back from dinner to the hotel) “. . . I knew it was crooked.”
Me: “My life is never going to be the same, is it.”

Me: “I’ve decided to start a campaign to rename Boston “Long Island: The City.”
The Girlfriend: “I don’t think that would go over very well.”
Me: “Yeah, you’re right. I guess I shouldn’t . . .”

Bouncer at a bar called The Rack : “Sorry bro, can’t let you in with that t-shirt on.”
Me: “Really? Even if I have this sweater on over it?”
Bouncer: “Well it’s got a zipper, it’s a jacket.”
Me: “I’ll keep it zipped.”
Bouncer: “Sorry bro, have to have a collared shirt on.”
Me: (steps aside, watches guy on line behind me with a sweater on go inside)

Me: (dressed in a pink, three quarter sleeve polo shirt borrowed from a girl we are with)
Bouncer: (not remembering me) “ . . . “
Me: (taking my ID back and going inside) “ . . . “
Me: (to girlfriend) “Man, that was awkward.”
Girlfriend: “Why, because you’re wearing a coral, three quarter sleeved women’s polo shirt?”
Me: “It’s salmon.”
The Girlfriend: “I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re right, it’s salmon.“

Me: (in the bathroom of the bar, changing shirts with various guys looking at me) “Uh . . .” (realize there’s nothing to say, fart and leave)

Me: (in the bar) “I think this place is a front for some sort of cloning experiment subsidized by the city of Boston. The only thing I can’t figure out is why they want their city filled with guys in blue striped shirts and slightly overweight girls.”
The Girlfriend: (loudly) “You mean slightly overweight whores.”
Me: (looking at her a little shocked)
The Girlfriend: “I think I’m getting drunk.”

Me: “We should market t-shirts for girls that just have the word ‘whore’ written across the front.”
The Girlfriend: “And then one for guys that says ‘I’m with whore.’”
Me: “Which is funny because it sounds like ‘I’m with her.’”
The Girlfriend: “Thanks for pointing that out.”

The Girlfriend: (sitting next to me in the car on the way home, finishes her Diet Dr. Pepper. burps loudly) “Whoa.”
Me: “It’s like taking a road trip with my grandpa.”

The internet just came back on and, my god, it’s like the very first time, like watching a picture of Cindy Crawford come up on my screen, inch by inch over my 33.3k modem. I finally know what Madonna was talking about in “Like a Virgin.” I can’t get enough. I’m even excited about checking my credit card charges.

I’m going to go catch up with my news and sports. It’s been such an eventful weekend and all I know right now is that the Celtics blew away the Pacers in Game 1, we’re spending another 80 billion dollars on a war that was so successful “we won it too fast,” and the San Francisco 49er’s blew the first pick of the draft on Alex Smith. (Not that I don’t like the kid, but come on – in all likelihood you’re going to have the number one pick in the draft again next year. You’re bringing in a really unproven rookie QB with a receiving corp. that couldn’t receive a package if it was sent UPS, and there were at least 4 quality-to-stud running backs on the board. Would you trust your backfield to Kevan Barlow after last season’s performance? I just don’t get it. Maybe at the private workouts, Alex Smith said something really funny and the coaches were like, “I like having this kid around.” Other than that, I’m baffled.)

Here’s a new segment of the blog – the daily email quote, taken from the 8,000+ emails my friends and I have exchanged over the past 2 and a half years. They're funny guys. And cool. And great friends. Actually, if you want to date any of them, let me know.

Quote of the Day:
“If you see me walking down the hall, please don't make fun of me. I’m just a water filter.”
- Matt Sucich, commenting on overhearing a conversation with a girl named “Brita”


wow that story just made me feel really single and sort of lonely. I'm blaming that on you asshole. (you kids are cute!)

By Blogger The Garbologist, at 10:50 PM  

ok i'm only blaming you if your advice doesnt work. if that doesnt work out...then I can still blame fate.

By Blogger The Garbologist, at 10:53 PM  

hey! just found your blog in some roundabout manner...i've already laughed (out loud) a few times. if any of your friends are as funny as you are, then by all means, let me know :)

By Anonymous Anonymous, at 9:45 PM  

Okay, I lied with that comment on the more direct route to Boston. It's still true, but maybe you guys should take the Fung Wah and make the girlfriend's family do all the Boston-Woburn driving. They can do it; South Station is not nearly as scary as Canal Street.

By Anonymous Anonymous, at 10:00 PM  

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