Friday, September 25, 2009

Sweet scents from a cigar shapped dispenser

Riding the Orange Line yesterday, a man jumps on at Back Bay station, and he's all in a tizzy. He throws his bag down on the ground, and starts assessing himself as though he's been shot. I think nothing of it: I myself have found the need to frantically search my person to insure that I am indeed of sound body. Usually after I've walked through Dudley Square or any place in Dorchester.
After this man, this very frazzled, very tanned, very middle aged, very grey haired man finds that he has no extra holes in his body, he pulls out of his bag a metal cigar tube. He then uncorks it, and pulls out a small spray bottle.
Energetically and with all the enthusiasm of a man clawing at your shins while you are holding his head underwater with your foot, he starts spraying himself. All over. Everywhere. On the back of his neck, the top of his head, his hair, his shirt, under his shirt, his pants, in his crotchel region, his shins, his butt, and then his feet. He then sprays his hands and rubs this stuff all over his face.
At first I thought it was strange. I smelled nothing. Not even a waft of scent. I was starting to think that he was just spraying himself with water when all of a sudden it hit me.
It was... all I can do to describe it is use a really long analogy that will waste not only my time in writing it, but your time in reading it.
It was like an old Greek woman named Nicola who has emigrated to the united states from her hometown on the Island of Lesbos. She has lived here in the U.S. for 35 years with her husband Yurgi. They run a small dry cleaning and tailoring shop over on Elm St. Two years ago Yurgi developed lung cancer, probably from the chemicals at the dry cleaners. The two couldn't afford the treatment, and so Nicola watched Yurgi slowly fade away as the cancer ate his body up. He died a painful death 3 months after diagnosis. Nicola continued to work the dry cleaning store, only to fall slowly behind in work. Eventually the bills piled up (Yurgi dealt with the finances) and her store was forced to close. Bank notices and collection calls hound Nicola for weeks, until finally she receives a foreclosure notice in the mail. Distressed, Nicola goes to the bank, pleading for help. The nice young man who is handling her case says that he can only afford to give Nicola one more month. Satisfied and placated, Nicola leaves the bank.
Only to be smashed into by a runaway bread truck.
That's how bad it hit me. Soberingly awful and with forced tears in my eyes. Fer Christs' sake dude, fucking spray that shit elsewhere. I've heard of cologne showers, but goddam! The fucking orange paint on the train was peeling. I'd rather you shower yourself with urine because then I'd understand you aren't sane! Damn! It still haunts me!

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

The Reaping!!!

This post was to be put up in August of '08. It ties in the fact that I had spent $76 on tomatoes the previous spring. It's been hanging around in the limbo that is my unfinished blog post section. I think it's funny, so read it.

It has begun! The reaping of the tomatoes!!! But not without peril... read on!

My coworker Corinne came up to me one Friday and asked "Hey, how are your tomatoes doing?"
"Fine, little wet" I said.
"Oh that's cool. Seems everyones tomatoes are getting screwed over this year because all the rain has cause a fungus to kill them all. Apparently it was the same one that started the Irish potato famine all those years back. Good to hear yours are doing well! You could sell them as locally grown and make a fortune because there is no competition!"

We chuckled and then went on our way. Later that night when I went home, I noticed that some of the roots on my tomato plants were looking very weak, and I had to dump excess water out of several of the pots.
Fuck. I was having just fine luck up until Corinne jinxed me. Thanks a bunch sweetheart!
So I did what any good, impatient, and pissed off man did: I ignored the problem.
Tim was a little more conservative. "Do you think we should move them in?" he asked.
"NO! They are fine, just keep dumping out the excess water from all this rain".
Apparently Mother Nature was having her period on my tomato plants. She was ruining them!!!
No to worry though, I only lost about 1 of the cherry tomatoes, and 4 (Out of 6) of the roma tomatoes.
Sure am glad I can make that $76 dollars is spent on them stretch out. After 3 weeks of constant rain and retarded determination of dumping out the excess water in the apparently undrainable pots, we had a nice sunny day so I decided to exam more closely the tomatoes.
All of them had almost no roots. I don't know how they were still standing up, but sure enough just like France, they were still around. Well that too harsh for my tomatoes. They never surrendered to anything. Lousy cheese eating surrender monkeys.
Anyway, there were a few roma tomatoes and probably 15 cherry tomatoes. All in all, I walked away with some very bitter, sour, 2.5lbs worth of roma and cherry tomatoes.
Holy fuck did I savor those terrible bites of tomato sauce that I made from the harvest. They tasted like your socks smell after you jog 5 miles. Acrid and milky.
Oh well, I didn't give in when they were being drown daily in rain, I sure as hell ain't giving up when they are "rippend" and "ready to harvest" (those terms used loosely).
I made a sauce and chocked it down. Mother Nature, you see what I do for you? Anyone else would have given up; not me with my stupid tenacity.
Stupid, stubborn tenacity.