Hot Chicks With Douche Bags

On a lighter note…

Here’s Kisseus Vomitorious living beyond his means and lifting up his favorite Hottie Bar Wench.

It’s just like a love story. Only instead of heartfelt expressions of one’s innermost thoughts and dreams, there’s lots of KFC and body lotion.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off in Boston

On the Friday night in June that Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was released in movie theaters, I was in the last few days of seventh grade. The last throes, if you will.

School was out for summer.

Summer Break Awaited. Lots of MTV, Cool Ranch Doritos, and endless replays of my well-worn VHS copies of Re-Animator, From Beyond and Commando with my boys. Then off to a left wing Jewish summer camp up in Vermont that held the last vestiges of 1960s good will. Then back to Brookline in late August. Then things would get serious.

In the fall of 1986: Eighth Grade. Ruling the roost of Junior High.

Then, a year after that: The Big Show.

The imposing edifices of the ginormously huge Brookline High School.

The buzz on Bueller had been building in the seventh grade hallways for weeks. One Hero to rule them all. John Hughes was already legend, and this was the big one. The full rebellion. The vision we had all been waiting for.

Anyone who was anyone would be there.

Bueller was the future.

Before Ferris came along, we had only our smuggled VHS tapes of Fast Times at Ridgemont to promise us of a teenage future of soft fuzzy sweaters too magical to touch.

After Bueller? It was a whole different ballgame. The course of the events of our young lives would not be determined by asshole authority and institutional imposition. Bueller led the way with vision and hope. But Cameron would speak to our hearts.

The 7:30 showing at the Cleveland Circle Cinemas was packed to the gills with crazed twelve and thirteen year olds. It had to have been 60% filled with my entire seventh grade class.

Before the movie began we ran up and down the aisles saying hi to each other. We were a class that now found itself together outside of school. A voluntary mission of enlightement. This wasn’t just a movie. This was an event. Bueller would mark not only the end of the school year but also the beginning of a conceptual awakening for each of us as we began to grow and expand beyond the narrow confines of suburban normativity.

Like Bueller, we would reject gym class and droning teachers and find art, poetry, parades, and pancreas on our own time, thank you very much.

The movie began. For every line Ferris spoke into the camera, we cheered. Cold clammy hands. A John Lennon reference. I knew immediately that shoving a lump of coal up Cameron’s ass was going into my eighth grade yearbook. If I could get “ass” by the censors.

Every time Rooney appeared, we booed and hissed. Here was a villain we understood. Here was every authority figure in suburbia trying to break us.

Wasn’t gonna happen.

Aristotelian teenage catharsis at 24 fps.

Afterwards we poured out into the dark Cleveland Circle streets elated and buzzing. I talked to girls I never had the guts to talk to before. Judy. Crystal. Talia. The game had changed. And we all knew it.

The next day, a Saturday, my best friend Jason called me up.

“Dude. What are you doing today?”

“Nothing.”

“Lets do it. Lets pull a Ferris.”

We decided to create our own Bueller adventure by running though everything great to do in Boston. When I told my mom my plan, she gave me five dollars. “Enjoy,” she said. It was awesome. Enough for a roundtrip on the T, pizza slices at Pizzaria Regina in Faneuil Hall, and at least two dollars left over for miscellaneous expenses.

Of course we didn’t have a Ferrari. Heck, we were three years away from even driving.

But, most importantly, we didn’t have Sloane Peterson.

I decided my seventh grade crush, Masha, a Russian exchange hottie, would be our Sloane Peterson. And that if we got into enough Bueller-like adventures throughout Boston, that eventually we would run into her. That’s the way logic worked back then. It would happen. You know. Because.

Jason and I met up in Coolidge Corner. We pooled our money. Over eleven dollars total. Totally enough to pull a real-life Ferris Adventure.

“Life moves pretty fast!” I shouted at Jason.

“If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, it’ll pass you by!” he responded.

“Wait,” I said. “Is the line, ‘it’ll pass you by’? Or ‘you could miss it’?”

Neither of us could remember. We’d only seen it once.

But the sky was crystal clear. The air was crisp. It was June in Boston.

So Jason and I hopped on the T. In-Bound. The world was eternal and fresh and new. Anything could happen.

We headed to Kenmore Square. Walked around Fenway. Then we traipsed down Newbury Street looking for trouble. We poured over the latest Green Arrows at Newbury Comics. Then a long walk to Downtown Crossing. Then over to Faneuil Hall for lunch. Then the Red Line to Cambridge.

We putzed around Harvard Square.

Nothing much happened.

No Ed Rooney. No parade. No dramatic epiphanies. No Sloane. No Masha.

Late afternoon turned into evening. We were almost out of money. Even the 50% off coupon at Bartley’s Burgers had only gotten us one burger to split for dinner. So we wandered around Harvard’s campus hoping we wouldn’t get thrown out.

“What should we do now?”

“I gotta get home, dude.”

“Okay. Lets go.”

It was a good day. But it was no Bueller day.

Jason and I T’d it back to Brookline. Said goodbye. We’d see each other in class on Monday. There was still a week or so of school to get through. I walked home. Someday, I thought to myself. Someday, when I get older, I’ll have adventures like Ferris did.

Then High School came. Then High School ended. Then I moved to New York for college, where many complex, exciting, and dangerous adventures did indeed happen to your humble narrator.

But that spring/summer day in Boston in 1986 also happened. I look back now, and it was as exciting a day as anything in the life of Bueller. For it held promise. Endless promise. And the sky was very, very blue.

Boston Thoughts

I’mma take today and post a few thoughts on Boston. It’s going through a tough time right now, not the least of which is because Boston is a fairly reserved, conservative city, despite its politics. It is a place and a people with a loooooong memory. Hundreds of years. Events like this are not taken lightly.

It is a great city. But also a cold city. A troubled city. And a proud city. A torrid mixture of provincial pride, residual racism and puritan-era repression, yes. But mixed with a community of intelligence, historical reverence, and a philosophical understanding of the complexities of time.

Other American cities, cities with much shorter histories, can’t understand that yet.

That’s what makes Boston unique among American cities.

It is European but not European. American, but not noveau-American, like so many strip-mall suburban nightmares west of the Mississippi.

It is a city of paradoxes.

When I announced my plans to move to New York to attend NYU to my fellow co-workers on my summer food cart job, I was met with a mixture of indignation and rage. I was accused of betraying my people.

That kind of pride.

I’ll post a few more specific memories later today, but lets take a day to honor this strange, complex, and gloriously unique American city. You’re welcome to add to my thoughts in the comments thread.

Boston, and the whole state of Massachusetts, deserves it.

Herpster Frankie Designs Apps That Are Totally Gonna Make Him Millions

Most of Herspter Frankie’s apps won’t fly in a competitive marketplace.

But “Booblocater” has an outside chance of being acquired by Facebook.

Mellonhead Wong Offers Redundant Point

Okay, I’m probably being a little harsh making fun of Mellonhead Wong’s mellon head. After all, he’s not so douchey. Kinda okay. Borderline nottadouche and goinpeace.

But as Hashem offers us mere mortals the path to spiritual Halakhic enlightenment via Kim’s Belly Button Dangle Thingy (BBDT), I am not one to quibble.

Gettin' Back in the Mockin' Spirit

Because if you can’t mock greased up jackbags and oggle party hotts on a daily blog, then the terrorists have no uvula.

Patriots Day in Boston

Hard to fully express just how important Patriots Day is in Boston. Having grown up in Brookline, my memories of the marathon were like an annual marker of seasonal change. A time when the whole city gussies itself up and prepares to look good for our much bigger neighbors. Like when you’re forced to wear that tux in the back of your closet every year for a family event.

The city takes off the work boots and baseball caps and puts on its proverbial tux. The eyes of the world all shift to the city that birthed the modern marathon.

This is why Patriots Day is a distinctly New England form of transformative marker. It signifies the unofficial start of spring, yes, but also the end of the six months of ass-freezing shite that defines life as a Bostonian. When the running shoes and short shorts are careening down Boylston Street by the thousands, the snowy-ass assitude of life as a Boston denizen is finally taking a turn for the better.

Those ass-chafing winters have finally given up the frozen ghost. Forced to release their icicle grip on our collective nethers.

Sex lives put in storage for six months finally begin to heat up. The crisp air is just starting to turn warm. Flower scented. The collegiate boobie hotties tentatively bust out their mini-dresses for the first time.

It is renewal.

Baseball has started up again.

The Charles River no longer has ice floes on it.

College kids all over Cambridge, Boston and Brookline are finishing up their classes and preparing to search for summer jobs scooping ice cream or maybe that dream job at Newbury Comics will finally come through.

And there’s the marathon to usher in the change.

Boston will recover.

But it still feels like a rending of something sacred.

I was in the East Village on 9/11 and saw the second plane hit from my rooftop. So I’ve been up close with this sort of thing before.

It is awful. But it is not permanent. Recovery and healing will come.

Thoughts and Prayers with the People of my Hometown of Boston

Too depressed to mock douchebags right now. Thoughts and prayers that this isn’t as horrific as it appears right now.

Where's Creepy Hal?

How’s about a lil’ Where’s Waldouche for your Monday morning?

Somewhere in this pic of barely legal woo hotties with daddy issues and an affinity for singing late night off-key renditions of that Taylor Swift song about sitting in the bleachers, I’ve carefully hidden a Creepy Hal Waldouche.

Look closely.

Can you grow annoyed at his ruining of sapphic harmonance?

Like Hand Gestures For Hot Chicks

Got a lotta posts in the post-hamper ready for a week of mock here at the ole’ HCwDB, your friend through good times and extended economic recessions.

Like this one. Snarl Stu runs with the Goose with proverbial post-recession posthaste postulation.

Posthumously.

Markie Post.