Perch

The world had gone simple.

It’s the thing I remember most of all from the dream; how quiet everything had become. The sounds of our everyday existence had been silenced by the awful truths of a species unleashed. All of that vitriol had spilled out of us and it painted a biblical reckoning that had served to put humanity to sleep. A war . . . no, it was several wars from the looks of it, had diseased the great big world. It was the kind of involvement that possessed nations large and small and from every corner. They had wrought an irreconcilable finality whose horrors were saved for the few who remained witness. The details would never be catalogued in memoriam; the participants would never be vilified and heralded. No one would ever be remembered.

My shoes crushed pieces of the old world as I waded the middle of a once bustling avenue, my eyes deciphering landmarks stretching out before me as if a foreign language. The smell of death permeated my insides with each breath I took as my legs attempted to remain steady in spite of the convulsions that were setting my stomach on fire. Steel structures had been peeled into cursive branches while stone buildings had been reduced to dust. The innards of cars, buses, trucks, motorcycles, vans, taxi cabs and trains were scattered in every direction; their muted colors gave the appearance of exploded baubles.

I navigated a breeched sidewalk that had been tilted upwards in a ten foot high wave whose semblance both terrified and captivated me. On the other side of the weeping pavement was the entrance to a hospital, or what was left of it. The gaping wound had transformed its former iteration into a sad and twisted irony of the horrors it had succumbed to. As I struggled to gain access to the shelter, I realized this had once served as the ER department. It seemed impossible to believe this place had once played host to a vast spectrum of purposes as I trudged over charred plastic and synthetic dirt. I remained still as death as my ears searched for any sounds, but there were none; no static laden voices commanding the attention of doctors, no wheels scratching the linoleum floors, no crying or cursing or pleading for someone to take away the pain. Worse than this, nothing had replaced that which came before it; no stray cats or dogs, not even that urban legend about cockroaches.

As I walked further into the labyrinth, I found a wing that had gone untouched to the catastrophe. Panels of LED lighting flickered me down one hallway and into the next like a string of cracked dominoes. This final sliver of normalcy was most likely the result of a complicated arrangement of emergency backups that would serve as the last rites to the facility. And it was at the very moment I had become resigned to living out whatever time that remained for me in solitude that they appeared as straight from the pages of some macabre fable. We were separated by several feet, their backs remained to me as if taunting me with hope. But I knew there was none to be had. Even in the dream, I knew.

It was a nurse, pushing a young boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve years of age, if that. They remained still for however long a time it was; in dreams, time means even less than it does in our waking hours. And then the boy turned his head in a one-hundred and eighty degree twist, his eyes soaked in blackness as his face remained as stubborn as granite. And when he spoke, he told me how the disease had come calling. He explained to me, in excruciatingly fine detail, what happens when the body is assaulted from the inside out. Never once, not once, did his eyes blink or his facial expression twitch as he divulged this information. And once he had finished speaking, I knew it was the end for me. The disease had been transferred, which had been the whole point of this interaction. The intent was not for him to be saved but rather, for me to join him in the abyss.

Just then, a panel of lights went stillborn. And then another and another until I was drowning in the silence. Everything went still as my soul attempted to weep but found nary a tear with which to do so. It was inside the nothingness that I recognized the only hope that remained was in the fact this was a dream.

And then I awoke.

Oscarisms, Drinking With Redcoats and Diss Management

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go — Oscar Wilde

If ever there was a book you could probably judge by its cover, it’s Canada. So when I heard tell that a new coworker hailed from Ontario, I violated my own personal treatise and introduced myself. To add insult to my injurious adaptation, I did so with small talk.

I refer to this individual as Sith Rogen or Kea-No Reeves or William Shitner. I’ve also used Michael Booblay and The Weakened. What I refuse to do is refer to him by his actual name. Unless it happened to be Dildohead Do-Right, which unfortunately, it is not.

I’m ashamed of myself for having created what I can best describe as a Social Butterfly Effect; which happens when I shed my somber, cranky manner and replace it with a cordial, welcoming imposter who possesses the mistaken belief that I really should be more outgoing.

I know full well what happens when you assume and may Oscar Wilde forgive me from his balcony perch in the solar system for being simpler than Simon on this count. Because I would have bet Terry Bradshaw’s money that the new guy would be an affable fellow who would regale us with stories of his many ice fishing citations. I imagined he might even show us his scars from all those heated curling competitions. He sports an unkept mess of a beard, which I took to mean he had fostered polar bears and had a mooseburger recipe at the ready. You know, typical Canadian stuff.

Nope, this guy is a total dick sandwich. If he was a weather event, meteorologists would coin him a fuckstorm. He’s a whine spritzer with the personality of a failed paperweight. Engaging in a conversation with him is akin to paying a bill. He puts the poo in poutine.

There’s another old saying I will reference here. It says that if you don’t have anything good to say about someone, don’t say anything at all. To which Imma add an addendum . . .

Unless that someone has the personality of a rabid hyena.

. . . . because as far as old sayings go, I refuse to give any credence to a writer who tossed back shots with bitter veterans of a foreign war that didn’t go the way they imagined. Apologies to Charles Caleb Colton and all the British veterans of the Revolutionary War but I gotta draw the line somewhere.

So anyways, after restoring my social circuitry to its original factory settings, all interactions with Michael J. Fuckhead were thusly avoided in order to prevent me from gifting him with the five finger death punch. I would love to say it was because I wished to avoid an international incident but that would be a lie. Hell, if I thought it would get Trudeau and Biden to show a pulse, I’d be on it like bacon on a burger. Nah, the reason I steer clear of this mosquito zit is because being charged with assault and battery means jail time, and my ass wouldn’t be getting any rest in jail. Literally.

“He really IS an asshole!”

This was my work pal Nicole’s expert evaluation mere days after she made fun of me for making fun of him. I explained to her that I don’t talk shit about a person unless it’s incredibly well deserved. It took her all of five minutes around him to understand.

“Hey, thanks for the validation that I never really needed in the first place . . . you’re the best!”

I’m pretty chill in my certain age but I still have a mental briefcase inside of which resides a key, that once turned, euthanizes all euphemisms and delivers pithily plotted nuclear spirals at any pit stains who piss in my parking space. But I feel as if to unleash hell on Wayne Putzsky is like wasting prime time material on a cable access channel so unless it’s absolutely necessary, I’ll keep my hound in the house.

Besides, I still have that call to Uncle Sal in my back pocket.

 

Into Every Life, A Little Yin Must Yang

Praying to Zeus worked better than a call to my Uncle Sal: A trip to the car wash is a window into the downfall of humanity. It’s where all hope goes when it wants to get lost, which is why I always try to make the scene after hours in order to avoid the lines. Last weekend I gave it a shot mid afternoon.

Nope.

Lemme preface this by saying that I tend to be a wand guy, preferring it to the claustrophobically inclined automatic touchless which offers zero guarantees that you’ll make it out alive (Yeah, I read the fine print). The port I chose to wait behind featured a husband and wife team who cleaned their fifteen year old Honda Civic as if it were the Hope Diamond. After which they broke out their shammy towels, which is obviously against the rules. There were three possible outcomes if I decided to call them on this. One, they apologize and move. Two, it gets stupid quickly. Three, they ignore me and . . it gets stupid a little less quickly. I chose the fourth outcome and got the fuck out of there whilst cursing my newfound diplomatic nature. Alas this temporary annoyance was resolved soon thereafter.

It rained the next morning.

Making (Bud)Light of the latest fifteen minute boycott: When conservatives joined together to condemn Anheuser Busch for promoting transgender influencer Dylan Mulvaney last month, it begged me to ask the question.

Culture wars. What are they good for?

This particular petty party is really the muchest of ados about absolutely nothing. Anheuser Busch isn’t going anywhere and if the flatlining continues long enough, they’ll simply rebrand and reload and nobody will even remember this latest boycott. Thing is, I didn’t even know who Mulvaney was until these conservatives introduced me, so guess what? Her brand will be just fine as well.

I shouldn’t complain too much seeing as how Bud Light 24 packs are going for less than four bucks right now, and I need to stock up on water for the summer.

Hitting rock bottom (again!) with my B movie addiction: My list of regrettable cinematic excursions is something I’ve cultivated over several decades. Crystal meth would’ve been easier but I was never much for Nick Nolte impersonations. I am the B movie keeper whose extensive collection of anti-classics includes Attack of the Killer Clowns, Samurai Cop, Maniac Cop, Manos: The Hands of Fate and Birdemic. And while the guys at RiffTrax aided and abetted in a fair share of my rock bottom moments, the truth is, I was a lost cause long before I ran into them. But Cocaine Shark proved to be worse than any of them, which is saying lots . . . and nothing much.

Both.

I gave up on Cocaine Shark after ten minutes because it was as if a bunch of middle schoolers had gotten hold of a Power Point presentation and murdered the soul of all things proper and good. And I can imagine Ed Wood’s reaction to this diaper inferno would’ve been something like, Oh hell nah!

Why the games will always matter: You can’t get any closer than my Miami Heat got on Saturday night. Three seconds separated them from their second trip to the NBA finals in four seasons. And then in the blink of an instant replay, it was all gone and now they’ve got to ship up to Boston and pray that Jimmy Butler has one more big game left in his arsenal.

But if my only takeaway from the Celtics buzzer beating dagger was heartbreak, I’d be doing this sports thing all wrong. I can’t hate the fact that my team lost what might’ve been its best chance to play into June, because if you would’ve told me they would have any chance at all a couple months ago, I’d have taken it.

Maybe Jimmy has one bullet left in this showdown, and maybe he’s all out. And you know what? Either way, I’m going to love this guy for everything he’s meant to the organization since he showed up for work in Biscayne Bay. And those band of undrafted misfits and their Hall of Fame coach too. Because together they made it further than anybody could’ve predicted, and they gave me moments that don’t get stolen away if Game 7 goes to the other guys. There is no shame in what has been a magical ride. Tonight will serve as Miami’s high noon, where we look forward to next week or wait till next year.

Giddyap.

When Making History Goes Wrong

With my beloved Miami Heat threatening to snatch defeat from the jaws of certain victory in their series against the Boston Celtics, I got to thinking. And once I was finished contemplating the miracle of life and Grimm death whilst sipping on a robust selection of Bukowski, I decided to compile a list. This particular collection involves those moments in history when the frosting never made it onto the cake. Call it bad cosmic sushi or a faulty altar, call it having the odds in your favor and then getting mugged by those very same odds.

You remember when Warren Beatty was handed (and then read) the wrong envelope at the 2017 Academy Awards show, after which La La Land was celebrated for having won Best Picture for about a minute and a half? Well, this list is sorta like that with the only difference being, the participants couldn’t even blame Warren Beatty.

A top five you say? Como no! . . . .

Hillary’s “Inevitability” Goes Missing: The other Clinton possessed everything it was going to take to score the democratic nomination in 2008; Married to the first democrat to win two terms in half a century gave her the political brand. Influence gave her the advantage on a national stage. And money, she had more money than anyone. Hillary navigated a series of unfortunate events at the tail end of 2007 while maintaining a solid lead in the polls over some guy named Obama. It was all set up for her in what Terry McAuliffe referred to as an “inevitable” conclusion. And then she lost Iowa .  . . and then Obama’s grass roots appeal caught fire . . and well, you know the rest.

The Loneliest Ranger: You have Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter and a fleet of rock solid character actors in a story with enough appeal to draw enough eyes to at the very least break even. It was released as summer was just getting started back in 2013 and none of that seemed to matter. This flick is believed to have lost as much as $200 million dollars. Now, I could understand if this beast broke even but this?! They obviously needed Warren Beatty.

Slide of the Yankees: In 2004, this storied rivalry added a chapter that nobody but Curt Schilling saw coming as the Bosox flipped the script on the long running hit show “The Curse of the Bambino!”. The manner in which Boston stormed back after being down three games to none was shocking, especially considering New York had taken Sox pitchers to the woodshed in Game 3 by a score of 19-8 as the Beantown scribes wrote up their epitaphs for the local team. The Yankees took a 4-3 lead into the bottom of the ninth of game four in Boston with Mariano Rivera’s legendary arm toting the final three outs that stood between the pinstripes and another pennant. And then a different kind of history got busy writing itself as Dave “Fucking” Roberts hustled the tying run across the plate and then Big Papi Ortiz sent the fans home happy. Less than a week later, Babe Ruth retired to Boca Raton.

The Atlanta Falcons Make Patriotism A Bad Word: When the Falcons took a 28-3 lead on Tom Brady’s New England Patriots late in the 3rd quarter of Super Bowl LI, the seventeen year long national football league nightmare appeared to finally be coming to an end. Matt Ryan was about to become the most reviled man in Boston and the most beloved just about everywhere else. And then they kept playing and I really wish Warren Beatty had been a referee that day. Okay, now I’m piling on to the Falcons misery, and Warren Beatty’s. Both.

Okay, I realize that’s only four but in the name of public decency, I can’t go on. Four is sufficient . . You listening down there in South Beach? FOUR is all you need! You have three of these fuckers already so let it be Jimmy Time tonight and get this thing over with before you become the wrong kind of trivial pursuit question, coo?

Good thing it’s a drinking night . . .

 

 

From The Archives: Clowns To The Left Of Us, Danger To The Right

It’s leftover day here at Sorryless, and we’re dishing up a vintage selection from August 10th of 2021. This piece chats up the information age we have refurbished into a steel cage match dynamic. Because having an opinion means never having to say you’re sorry, even when you are. 

As a two scoops for the price of one special, this post also happens to be relevant to the Lebron James vs Michael Jordan GOAT debate that so many sports talking heads use to fill the time while they pretend to be journalists. I dropped the mic by issuing MY opinion on the matter and I happen to be right.

Just saying!

Is it possible to have too much information at your fingertips?

The question came to me as I was watching two sports analysts go at it on a debate show recently. The topic of conversation had to do with the best NBA player of all time. This isn’t something the vast majority of the population gives a flying Wallenda about, to be honest. But these guys deliberated until they had created a dually believable narrative, whittling it into a potent mash. Of course, well enough wasn’t left alone for very long, and as often happens inside this time of nonsense and instability, the shit went south. Further south than a Lynyrd Skynyrd Key West tour.

The succinct nature of their respective points soon gave way to a volatility whose pitch was a bitch, on wheels. And so the evaporative nature of modern discourse held sway until I stopped trying to figure out whose opinion was most valid and started wondering who was going to break out a “Yo mama!” first.

Of course, I recognize that information doesn’t fool people . . people fool people. But armed with enough information, anyone with half a brain can paint their argument into Van Gogh. And half the room will toast the bold and dramatic brushstrokes while the other half of the room reaches for a carving knife with which to cut off their ears.

The touchstone, regrettably, has been bastardized. As if Rob Zombie got hold of the Constitution and turned our fundamental principles into a kill count. Educated opinions have given way to a zealotry that seeks to deify even the most corrupt of men. Meaningful dialogue has been relegated to the ash heap thanks to dissociative politics that attempts to guilt us into confessing to crimes we didn’t commit.

What good is having all this information at our fingertips if we’re going to dis- it and mis- it into an interpretation?

During this sports debate, as the decibel levels increased, so to, did the tells; those easy to miss points of entry that had been glossed over initially were now much easier to hear. Both sides, using their information not as a map, but as a boxing glove with which to punch out their opponent. Much the same way a peaceful transfer of power might stage a coup, or a state might flout the concerns of a pandemic, or a city council might consider me the enemy because I’m an aging white dude.

I don’t know how we can possibly achieve a middle ground, because to quote Buffalo Springfield, nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong. And I have not a blessed answer residing under my cap, except for one.

Michael Jordan . . . duh.

 

 

The Art Of Misremembering

I hate clichés.

Granted, not as much as I hate war, racism or gun violence. Those tragic trinkets of humankind’s diary are far worse propositions than a betrayal of original thought ever could be. I could never hate clichés as much as I hate the undeserving slice of American niche that Applebee’s broadens its britches on. And the only reason I don’t hate the unimaginable popularity of Jim Belushi more is because that magical marquee of a last name keeps his vastly more talented older brother in the building.

Still, clichés crook my nook. They nada my colada. Clichés are the better ideas gone stillborn. And they are everywhere; from our favorite team’s aversion to success to some wealthy ass-hat’s predictable relationships to sayings that really should have been left unsaid.

Those were simpler times

You don’t hear this one a lot more today, you simply hear it as often as you probably heard it say, twenty years ago. Or forty, depending on your age. Your parents heard it a shit ton themselves. And believe it or not, your grandparents . . yeah, they heard it plenty.

I’m fairly certain I’ve uttered these words before and I’m even more certain that I hate myself for having done so. Because it’s candy coated pretense that’s being served up in artificially flavored past tense by someone yapping in the present tense and that is way too much tense for the empty calories it’s supplying. To put it nicely, whenever someone bemoans our present circumstances by waxing poetically about our past, they are being insincere. To put it less nicely, they’re lying their ass off. The only thing worse than the bemoaners are the piners. Because while the former group is merely being expressively unsophisticated, the piners are just being whiny. Or winey. And sometimes . . . both.

Listen, we sure as shit are up against it these days. Everything is way more expensive and way less dependable. Cities are under siege, most of our leaders have eloped with Becky Sharp and the Doomsday Clock now sits a scantily clad ninety-seconds away from Boom, sans the Shaka Laka.

The fine print on our day to day business ain’t beautiful, but that doesn’t mean the rearview was all sushi and Rembrandt. Take for instance, the middle ages where almost a quarter of the population was broke. Back then, most people celebrated their thirtieth birthday by being dead. In the 1800’s, people buried half their clan on cross-country road trips and it was considered a success! The early 20th century was a brave new world unless you were a toddler, since the child mortality rate sat at a robust thirty percent. If you were lucky enough to make it to your tenth birthday, you celebrated by going to work in a factory and if that didn’t kill you either, welp . . scoring a fake ID on your 14th birthday so’s you could join the Great War? Probably did. If you made it through that shit storm of an existence, you had the Great Depression to look forward to.

The point is, things were never simple. Hell, most of the peeps who write love letters to the past probably didn’t even live through it, and if they were alive, they’ve probably forgotten all the terrible shit they went through. And do you know why they forgot it? Because they were busy thinking about how much simpler the future was going to be. A little too ironic . . .

Don’t cha think?

Sorryless Letters: Yup, More Of This Shit!

There’s a reason why I ignore my blog inbox. Because entering that dark web of misbegotten is akin to dredging up a Satan worshipping pirate ship from the cold, murky depths. Nothing good comes of it. And since I don’t receive any assistance from FEMA in dealing with this man-made catastrophe, y’all get to be the beneficiaries.

You’re welcome!

Dear Sorryless,

I’m just wondering which burger you’re choosing if it’s between Five Guys and Shake Shack? And you can ONLY choose between those two, okay? Be a man! 

Dave

Mr. Portnoy, first off, love your videos. Well, at least the videos you were producing back when you were still hustling your empire into play. And congrats on that. Hmmm, if I absolutely HAD to choose, Imma go with La Cage in Boucherville . . .

YOUR FAKE INTERVIEWS WITH ME MUST BE TAKEN DOWN IMMEDIATELY OR I WILL SUE! IT HAS BECOME CLEAR TO ME AFTER READING THROUGH YOUR MANY FAKE INTERVIEWS THAT YOU WERE ALSO INVOLVED IN THE GREAT STEAL OF THE 2020 ELECTION! 

Dear Mr. Trump. Wait, what . . you read?!

Dear Sorryless, 

I’d like your thoughts on our great national sport now that both Toronto and Edmonton have been dispensed from the playoffs. We had high hopes going into this postseason, but in the end Canadian hockey will mark the thirtieth anniversary of the Montreal Canadiens Stanley Cup series win over the Los Angeles Kings with another early trip to the golf course. 

Sincerely, 

Don Cherry

Dear Mr. Cherry,

First off, your letter is by far the kindest and most thoughtful I have read thus far this morning. What’s up with that? You feeling okay? But seriously, the state of Canadian hockey is still quite strong seeing as almost half the league is made up of players born in Canada. That far exceeds all other countries and it speaks to the pipeline that still runs strong. Canada has won the Cup in every season since ’93, in lineups across the league. Yes, that’s glass half full thinking. And that glass is filled with Creemore Ale.

Dear Sorryless,

My next door neighbor is really starting to piss me off. He mows his lawn at five o’clock in the morning and has parties till all hours of the night on weekends. Is homicide justifiable if your neighbor is a royal pain in the ass?

Asking for a friend

Dear Mr. Simpson,

Sorry to say, homicide is not justifiable under these circumstances. Understandable? Hell yes, but you’re still going to have to deal with the long arm of the law on the other side. And please be advised that Johnny Cochrane, F. Lee Bailey and Robert Kardashian are all dead.

Dear Sorryless,

What’s your favorite show right now? Also, give me one guilty pleasure and one take it or leave it show. 

All the best, fellow traveler

Dear American Streamer,

By far, my favorite show is The Diplomat. Imma be in mourning until season two drops. As for my guilty pleasure, that’s easy. Indian Matchmaking is so much fun. And a show that I can take more than leave would have to be White House Plumbers. 

Dear Mr. Sorryless,

Would you be so kind as to give me your early betting favorite to win the Oval Office in 2028. 

Your friends at Caesars Palace

Hail Caesar!

And a big thank you for bypassing what is destined to be a highly forgettable 2024 national election. For my money, Imma go with an individual who has exhibited erratic behavior in the past. A person whose knowledge of American history is limited to fast food and liquor. A person who believes you can drive to Europe from the states. And no, I don’t mean the guy who occupied the White House before Joe. I’m talking about Britney Spears. And I already have a winning slogan for her campaign.

Make America Late Again!

 

 

 

 

The Rundown

More than two decades worth of waiting so that Charles can wear a hat that’s ten sizes two large while poodling around in a carriage that weighs more than the entire Manchester United soccer team. I hope it was worth it! Oh wait, yes it was worth it because now we have something called Coronation Quiche.

Anyways, in this week’s episode, we’ll talk about a grief book only OJ Simpson could relate to. And there’s George Santos, who vows to clear one of his many names. I’ll finish with a story that will have you believing in humankind all over again.

All that and more, so let’s get to it . . .

You can cheat at marriage, you can cheat at politics and you can even cheat at taxes . . . for a little while anyways. But don’t go cheating at a fishing tournament because they will nail your ass. It happened to Jacob Runyan, 43, of Ashtabula, Ohio and Chase Cominsky, 36, of Hermitage, Pennsylvania when the two were caught stuffing fish with lead weights. They were sentenced to ten days in jail and forced to give up their $100,000 boat as a result. Wait a minute, fishermen who cheat the details? What will they think of next?!

Kouri Richins was that person. The thirty-three year old mother of three had overcome the tragic loss of her husband Eric one year ago while becoming something of a local celebrity in the process. The real estate agent from Kamas, Utah penned a children’s book on how to deal with grief titled “Are You With Me?” with the help of her three kids. She was a shining example of resiliency and strength in the face of tragedy, until she wasn’t.

Earlier this month, Richins was charged with the murder of her husband. Authorities are alleging she gave him five times the lethal dose of fentanyl in what was supposed to be a celebratory drink. And it wasn’t the first time she tried to kill him either. And then there’s the life insurance policy she tried to change in order to make herself the sole beneficiary.

And now Kouri Richins is that person for a very different reason.

When George Santos is asked if he swears to tell the truth and all that jazz, I sure as hell hope the sprinkler system is working in that courtroom. If not, I sure as hell hope everyone in attendance brings plenty of chocolate bars, marshmallows and graham crackers for the occasion.

Make the most of it, yanno?

Our favorite new streaming fix is happening on Netflix right now. The Diplomat stars Kerri Russell and Rufus Sewell as a husband and wife team whose marriage makes Bill and Hilary look like the Cleavers. The cast is dynamic, the writing is an upper deck shot and the chemistry these two stars have going makes you wish she was a real candidate. Him too.

Both.

Finally!

Something was dumped near a creek bed in a residential New Jersey neighborhood and it wasn’t a dead body, toxic chemicals or Jimmy Hoffa’s laundry. Nope, it was several hundred pounds of pasta. We’re talking heaping helpings of spaghetti, elbow macaroni and ziti. Area residents used their noodle in order to figure out who dumped all those carbs and now Olive Garden is reintroducing its Never-Ending Pasta Bowl menu, umm . . . while supplies last.

Donald Trump boasted about sexually assaulting women with that little asshole Billy Bush all the way back in 2016, so it’s not like we’re covering new ground here. But the wheels of justice are cranky when you happen to be a reality show influencer and ringleader extraordinaire with an insane clown posse of money and influence bowing at your feet. His former BFF’s who are jumping ship now that Colt 45 was found liable for sexual assault this week waited seven long years to express their outrage over his behavior. Because it was never about the women involved for these guys. It was about preserving their own political careers.

Christian Bowers is a twenty-four year old kid who loves video games, the St. Louis Blues and his Mom. But dudes can’t be expected to live on that alone, yanno? Sometimes it’s just nice to have a social circle, but when you have Down Syndrome that can be easier said than done.

So Donna Herter took to her Facebook page in an attempt to find someone who might want to spend a few hours a month with her son, playing video games and just hanging out. She promised to reimburse anyone who was interested for the time they spent with Christian before posting her offer and going to bed.

When she woke up, she started scrolling through the comments to her post. All 5,000 of them. And those voices she was scrolling through weren’t just from her hometown or even her home state of Missouri. She found people chiming in from all across the world. And so it took her some time to actually whittle down the list of candidates to a group of fellows but with a post that now stands at 60,000 shares and more than 26,000 comments, Christian’s got friends in every corner of the map.

These people didn’t want a payday. They weren’t looking to score a trending tweet on humanity and they sure as hell didn’t care to be known by the whole wide world. Nope, all these people really cared about was a kid who doesn’t deserve to feel lonely or less than. Because all Christian Bowers wanted was someone he could lean on when a day wasn’t so kind, and it just so happened that he ended up finding a whole lot of someones. In the process, Donna was gifted an early Mother’s Day gift when she took a chance for her kid. And a mother and son learned a lesson about friendship.

It’s the kind of thing money can’t buy.

The Search For The Best Cuban Sandwich Goes North Of The Border

Yes, I know . . the title belt for Primo Cubano was settled in 2018(!) when me and Linds traveled to Cuba Libre Rum Bar and Restaurant in the City of Brotherly Love. You can read all about the victory lap we took that day right here, but ‘lemme ‘splain this addendum to our Cuban constitution, por favor.

If you’ll remember, our verdict for the Cuba Libre checked in at a 9.5 so technically there was a razor thin slice of a savory chance for some ‘mo if a worthy challenger stepped forward. Five years later, a worthy challenger did just that.

Q was my partner in rhyme for this particular excursion and all these lovely captures I include are the result of her shutterbugging skills. The get down began with a brisk walk up Mount Royal to visit the site of the famous cross that the city’s founder, Paul de Chomedey, erected in 1643 as a token of gratitude to the Virgin Mary. Old Paul believed that a higher power had intervened when a massive flood threatened to steal the town away before it really even got started. I might have practiced a tad bit more reverence when looking up at the descendant to that original wooden cross if the weather had gifted us an extra ten degrees or so, but hey, it was still special.

French explorer Jacques Cartier’s mission to find gold in them there hills of southeast Canada may have fallen short of the mark but in hindsight, he did just fine. The city of Montreal is a twin kiss of geographical diversity; it’s an island with a mountain tucked in for good measure. And so we made our way back down that mountain, conducting our own personal tour of St. Joseph’s Oratory along the way, and maybe I’m going to hell for saying this but I was starting to feel the rumblings of a beer run conspiring in my stomach by this point. If this means the fates will one day be fitting my feets for the fiery pits, I’ll make sure to pack inappropriately.

Because of course we had to chase the guilt away with a pub stop, just to cleanse ourselves of all that saintliness. If there is more to this life than deep fried pickles and a healthy pint? Well, maybe you’re just asking for too much.

After that glorious rendezvous, I found the answers to every maple syrup question at Jean-Talon Market before Q reminded me that we had some more churching to do and we best get to stepping. We had a couple hours to play with before our date with the Aura Experience at the Notre Dame Basilica in Old Montreal, but traffic and parking spots equal much less time than that.

Our bottom of the eighth inning moment happened at La Cecilia, a modest little joint in Little Italy. Imagine a place with none of the trappings of those eateries with the brawny bank accounts that hit you with a surcharge for just walking in the door. It’s places like this that I absolutely love to find. La Cecilia spares the airs while giving you all the things that matter most in a grub hunt: Great food, native tunes and simple banter.

We ordered a couple Cubans and a plate of platanos maduro, because I find that the sweet variation on the tropical fruit jibes best with the savory dealings of this most special sammie. With that sway hitting on all heels, we dug in.

First off, the conversation doesn’t get started if you don’t bring the bread. I have to mention this every single time because bread is the transmission to this muscular meal, without which you’re talking fast food. Water bread is how Jesus takes the wheel in this holiest of sandwich creations but that’s not a set in stone proposition. A soft baguette works plenty fine if you can’t find a bodega, so long as you get to kicking on it before its cloud like chew plummets.

Points got lost for the lack of press, but age has mellowed me to the point where I’m not going to be a dick about it. The bread talked me into charging the culinary crime as a misdemeanor instead of a full fledged felony. Tomatoes and lettuce broke the Cubano rule as well but I couldn’t go mucho meno since it produced plenty of mas. Provolone over swiss lost me but the salami was a chapter saver. No mustard or pickles, well . . not so much. The pork’s succulent clench was steeped in the majesty of a rich history’s worth of brilliant wine. If there was going to be any chance for this head on collision of old and new to win the day, the pork was going to have to be the the rock star of this odd assemblage. It was all of that and then some. Perhaps the most complicated entanglement to grade came in the dill citrus mayo sauce that was tucked into our arrangement. As with the lack of a true press job, we had to deduct points.

In dishing up the results of this better num-num than never edition, I gained my inspiration from John Lennon’s five year intermezzo between albums after breaking up with the Beatles: Get back to it when the getting is good. Nonetheless, La Cecilia came up a point short of a tie, weighing in at 9.4. Which means this beautiful excuse for a sammie lost out to Cuba Libre by the slimmest of margins, the same way our Habs had taken one on the chin to the Bruins a week earlier. In both instances, we stuck it out to the end and rooted like hell for an upset, knowing full well that the box-score never tells the whole story. Because there was plenty of winning in the loss.

Seguro que si.

Sorryless Letters: Fan Mail Made Simpler!

Anyone can read fan mail, but how’s about I make some shit up and package it as legitimate? Okay, how’s about semi-legitimate? And failing that too . . let’s just do this thing anyways . . .

Dear Marco,

I love your blog but I do have a small complaint. Enough with the checkout line posts, please? I know you’ve only penned a handful of them but they are simply dreadful. 

Julia Child

Julia!

Eh too?

I thought if anyone would appreciate my love for grocery shopping, it would surely be you. Hell, it’s the only shopping that I don’t set a timer to. And since the average person spends more than nine months grocery shopping over the course of their lifetime, it’s obvious that I don’t write about it nearly enough but thanks for the inspiration!

 

Dearest Sorryless,

Back on your old blog, I believe you wrote something to the effect that the US women’s soccer team would get equal pay when they achieved equal ratings. Well, they have in fact scored better ratings than the men in US World Cup action in recent years so would you like to expand on your previous comments? 

Elizabeth Bennet

Hey Elizabeth.

First of all, thank you for paying such close attention to my work. As for whether I would like to dig a bigger hole for myself by expanding on my previous comments? My short answer is nope. And the long answer would have to be hell nope!

 

Hey man, 

I was wondering if you needed any landscaping done around the house? My  schedule is wide open so if weeknights or weekends suit you best, I can make it happen. Thanks in advance! 

Sincerely, 

Mr. Brady

Hey Tom,

I told you not to quit your day job until you had something else lined up, remember? I realize you’re just looking to make ends meet until you start your new gig in the fall but I’m afraid I can’t oblige. Check out Target, I think they’re hiring!

 

Mr. Sorry L Ess

As a distant bystander to the political machinations of this day and age, I do declare that what y’all have on your hands is Hades on loan. Your muscle headed leaders are an embarrassment of leeches given to removing the stubborn dye from Lady Liberty’s flag! 

Regretfully, 

Huey Long

Dear Kingfish,

Just when I thought our political climate couldn’t get any worse? You go and prove me absolutely wrong.

 

To whom it may concern,

You spend far too much time penning film reviews in spite of the ghastly state of the industry. Pardon my saying so, but this circling of the drain is beneath you and your friend Mr. Pesci. 

Ignatius Reilly

Yo Iggy!

It seems you have way too much time on your hands. I’m going to give you my friend Tom’s phone number. He’s an out of work athlete looking for venture capital with which to start up a seasonal business and since you clearly have none of what he’s looking for, this works splendidly!