The House behind The Foxy

Winter time.

As he rounded the abandoned movie theatre, emerging as an island fortress in the paved parking lot sea, the house set back in the woods behind the Foxy crept into view.

The late-night police calls, the emergency trips to the hospital after someone caught bloody Hell in the teeth, the multitude of damage working in red vengeance against a black-inked profit explained weight of the image which flashed into his mind upon first glance of the house. A photograph of the name carved deep into the front porch’s wooden banister. ‘SCUDDER.’

Jay parked by the front lawn. The cool night air kissed his face exiting the vehicle and he looked upon the abode while ambling up a cracked, uneven cement path leading to the doorstep. ‘I’m just going to check on them,’ he thought. It’s important to monitor one’s investments.

Heavy evening blanketed the 2-story’s living walls in palpable silence. Only the peaked roof poked through into a deeply speckled indigo sky scribbled with black tree branches creeping around his renovated structure. Aside from the full Moon’s incandescent silk beaming down to the bottom dweller, the only Light sublimed from vertically rectangular windows, nostrils set into dew-kissed clapboards exhaling the warm yellow glow of inside lamps. The petrified wooden porch slats creaked as he stepped up to the front door resonating to the beat of low wave bass and high-pitched percolating chatter. He knocked on the vibrant wall and waited a drummer’s count. He noted the fresh carvings etched into the wooden railings and not yet weathered or worn by time. ‘SCUDDER’ had faded, but he would never forget that.

A 1; a 2; a 1-2-3-4.

The door swung open slowly wide, revealing Lordi, wearing nothing but a pair of wrinkled boxers, his wiry frame silhouetted against the bright inviting background. His flat stare slapped Jay in the face. Then the lanky leaf dangling on a door handle greeted him in a low monotone, “Whatt’s aHPP, duude?

Beer Die

Boston Herald sez ‘Lllllllet’s get ready to Rumble!’

"Llllllet's get ready to Rumble!"

For all you lushes out there getting ready for Beer Die, keep in mind Brownie’s Beer Die Open made it to the paper last year. This is no longer for shits and beer goggles. The Greater Boston area now focuses its discerning gaze upon Abington come the sweltering mid-August tournament.

Know your competition. Read up on the strategy that Mike H. and Shane C. employed to take home Lord Brownie’s Cup. When we finally realize we can’t become Masters of the Universe, we enlighten toward “a beer competition to die for.”

Profiles

The tale of Tiers

Jon Watters just wanted to settle down.

A quiet mild-mannered man by day, Jon Watters soon learned of the existence of another, more explosive personality that broiled beneath, waiting for the right time to emerge upon the world, like an 18-foot crocodile poised inches below the African Serengeti’s edge. Wildebeest wild nights would succumb to the thousand-psi bonecrush his vice jaw could inflict upon the good times. Tiers.

All would love Tiers in his heyday, except for three: Watters himself, his faithful Jenn and the State of Massachusetts, all of whom were charged with pacifying the warpath of this tornado wrapped in human form. Years passed, and the appearance of Tiers shone fewer and farther between, until many regarded the very existence of Tiers as myth, the stuff legends are made of. Soon even these fables were forgotten and none uttered the name “Tiers” anymore.

And all was right in their quaint Hanover town…

But little did Jenn, Watters or the Great Bay State know, this–the emergence, the emergency rooms, the James Taylor concerts and so on until He finally retreated to the recesses of his mind–was part of the wily Tiers’ plan, from the beginning. He would strike at the perfect moment. A moment created painstakingly by the effect of a long drawn out plan… when all the world was convinced that He did not exist.

short stories

An alternate ending to “How I Met Your Mother”

I’ve noticed the most recent episodes of #HIMYM taper back the narrator and shots of his future kids as he, middle-aged Ted, tells the story to them. Perhaps the kids are a future projection slowly fading from 30-something Ted’s imagination. In fact, he’s a writer, not an architect (something he may have stolen from George Costanza, who’s pretended to be an architect for years).

He contrived the kids to acquire voice and structure his story. He writes for a weekly network sitcom and those kids always seemed to cure his writer’s block. It then only made sense to incorporate them into the plot.

His best friend and college roommate is, indeed, still Marshall. He and Lily moved back to Minnesota, where Marshall’s from, years ago, however, when Lily finally had the baby. He meets up with Barney every now and then at the bar, but mostly Mr. Stinson has to work late. A year or two passes and even these scant meetings cease.

Now most of what had happened within the gang happened, but not to the exaggerated hilarity Ted told his imagined kids these past years. What fish story couldn’t use a few more inches?

The irony of the title, How I Met Your Mother, then, is that even the narrator, the one person who should know your mother, does not.

The story continues in this alternate reality (his friends had left years ago, but a faithful Ted has continued to write about them), yet the mother of his children won’t show. The thought of an unknown outcome seems daunting to the hopeless romantic… especially without the support of his estranged friends.

He gives up upon his firstborn’s would-be birthday. Then he thinks he’ll never find his soul mate.

In his decline, hitting rock bottom, the forever single Ted prepares to live out his life as a bachelor. Separated from his friends and his plan in shambles, Ted utterly lingers alone, like the stale stench from a dried coffee stain.

The light comedy takes a tragic turn. Ted frequents the bar below his apartment now not to socialize, but to drown his sorrows and forget. It’s at that point, when all hope is lost, he sees a beautiful girl, or at least what he thinks to be beauty through the blurred vision of abuse.

She’s sitting at the bar and flits him an inviting glance as she orders a certain port wine. Her twinkle ignites a spark Ted hasn’t felt for years. Memories. He walks around the bar to her, thoughts of his friends flooding back into his brain.

“My best friend’s wife, Lily, used to order that exact wine,” a rosy-cheeked Ted says, as the color returns to his previously flushed face.

“Is this how you usually pick up women: mentioning other girls they don’t know?” she playfully banters back. She really is beautiful up close.

“No not really. I just haven’t seen anyone order that wine in a very long time,” the starry-eyed Ted ogles. “I guess it brought back some memories of some very good times I had, with even better friends, in this very bar.”

“Well I’m glad to be of service.”

“So how come I haven’t seen you in here before?”

“I just moved here from Canada. My best friend from home, Robin, recommended this place to me. She said it was the best bar in Manhattan, although I don’t see what’s so special about it.”

“If you join me for a drink in that booth right over there, [he points to the gang’s regular booth] I can tell you what’s so great about it.”

Ted takes her over to the booth and proceeds to tell her many of the stories that made the series great. That time they all performed the “Naked Man.” And ‘Who won that NYC public transportation race again? Who cares. I know the bus is the fastest route anyway.’ He does not tell her right away that he knows Robin.

The series ends where it began, MacClaren’s Pub. The scene fades on an intimate conversation between Ted and Robin’s beautiful friend as they sit across from each other in the gang’s regular booth.

As the camera pans away, that familiar narration, almost forgotten, fades in:

“…so you see, kids [in this instance the ‘kids’ and the audience become one], you can never give up. I assure you: life will NOT work out the way you’ve planned it. But that’s not to say you can’t find what you’ve been looking for all along another way, in another time, in another reality altogether. [Fade in to 30-something Ted writing at his desk.]

“I don’t know how this relationship will go. You can never know what’s around the next corner. But the important thing is that you try. That you get out there and live life… and make it worth something writing about.”

[Cascade sepia-style photos of Ted, his friends, and this new girl across the screen–yet now show wedding photos, shots of his kids, then his grandkids, show Marshall and Lily’s baby and the gang reuniting when Robin returns from her broadcasting job in Japan–in the same fashion each and every show has opened on.]

“BAA BU BA ba baH ba ba bah ba duda buda Buddha duda dadummm… “

SWEET SYNDICATION: This post is also featured in the pop-culture blog Rumor Control. Get all the latest culture, style and taste spoon-fed to you.

Beer Die

Beer Die across the nation

Recorded history of Beer Die reaches back to the early 1980s, when frats at Colby College in Maine sat behind closed doors and played, according to the official Beer Die site. Brownie’s Beer Die Open (BBDO) commissioner Jay Brown said he once met a Colby alum, who affirmed he was playing as early as 1978, coincidentally the year the BBDO commish was born. Yet neither the official site nor Brown himself can confirm when this drinking game first began. Many accounts conflict on the Internet as the sitting-down version spreads west across the country.

It’s reached at least as far as the Lone Star State.

This reporter “tweeted” the hash tag #BeerDie, on the popular social networking site Twitter, and struck a chord all the way in Corpus Christi, Texas…

…then again, that’s Beer Die sitting down. Everybody, who plays South Shore Beer Die, stand up.

Beer Die, Profiles

The Guys Who Throw ‘Die’

On a sunny Sunday Abington afternoon in mid-July, four warriors mount in a backyard off Rt. 139. Their battlefield: a banquet table; their weapon: a die.

Dave Comis, 31, sets the die by his shoulder and hurls a left-handed jump-shot to the far side of the table. The die flies wild from the springy surface and escapes the catch of Jason Brown, at the other end. Brown, 31, takes a sip from the beer sitting on his table corner. Comis and his teammate, Adam B., lead 1-0 over Brown and the fourth player, Mike H., in a sport they call “Beer Die.”

These ‘Die’ players will compete in a field of 100 for a chance to take Lord Brownie’s Cup, the coveted trophy for winning Brownie’s Beer Die Open (BBDO) on Aug. 14, in Abington.

Beer Die: a drinking game involving the toss of a six-sided die onto far ends of an 8-foot by 30-inch banquet table. Teams of two stand at opposing ends of the table, where each member sets a Solo cup full of beer at their respective corner. One member from the throwing team lobs the die at least nine feet in the air to the receiving team’s side. A member from the receiving team must catch the die with one hand after it hits his table section. If not, the throwing team earns one point; the receiving team takes a sip of their beers. Sinking die into cup, or a “plunk,” earns two points for the die hurlers; “plunkees” finish their beers. First team to seven points, by at least two, wins.

“Once the table sides were fair (territory), that’s when this game became a sport,” says Comis, a former champion of the BBDO, the annual bracket-style tournament sprouting Summer games throughout backyards off of Rt. 18 in preparation for the mid-August meet.

“Nobody wants to go into the tournament cold,” Brown says.

Originally an indoors gentlemen’s drinking game, where college students would sit down and casually toss dice for hours, Beer Die has spilled out onto grassy South Shore lawns and requires a high degree of athleticism while sipping suds. The ‘Die’ these warriors throw brings players to their feet and charges receiving teams to field errant projectiles in any direction they may spring from the table—the gentlemen’s version only counts dice that fly between the Solo goal posts.

“We may not have invented standup Beer Die, but we’ve perfected it,” says Brown, who spearheads the BBDO, which organically grew from a Wiffle Ball tournament about a decade ago. Brown said they’d play Beer Die after the tourney until 2002, when Brown decided to make Beer Die the main attraction. What started as about 30 players competing, grew to 88 contenders last year. Brown set the cap at 100 for this year’s BBDO, in the same backyard off Rt. 139. At this point, he has to turn some players away.

“I probably had 25 to 30 e-mails in May alone asking when the tournament was so people could plan their vacations,” Brown had said. But the Beer Die commissioner maintained an early-admission e-mail would not guarantee entrance into the BBDO. He has to know them or know someone who can vouch for them, he said. The tournament is about friends and family reuniting every year; if just anyone could compete “it (would be) too much of a liability.”

Even for friends and family, the BBDO enforces a strict no drinking and driving policy. Brown hires a shuttle service every year that ships players from the Cellar Tavern’s parking lot to the tournament. Aside from the 50-dollar entry fee, BBDO contestants also need a ride home.

“As long as responsible adults (of legal drinking age) have plans for alternate transportation, they can knock themselves out,” Mothers Against Drunk Driving (MADD) spokesperson David DeIuliis said, in reference to games like Beer Die. “We’re not an anti-alcohol organization. Our concern is more when these types of (drinking) games are marketed to minors.”

Now up 6-“bizz” (players say “bizz” instead of the number ‘5,’ or else they finish their beers), the long-bodied Mike H. cradles an incoming throw in his stomach and lets it fall to his open hand. Mike, 25, steps back about five feet from the table and launches a rocket from his over-6-foot frame for the win, but the die goes long. Brown and Mike sip their beers in penalty.

“You don’t see this very often:” Brown says, “four BBDO hall-of-famers.”

A game that usually goes to seven continues well beyond that. These All-Stars have earned their place in Beer Die history by not backing down so easily.

“If you aim for a (certain point) on the table,” says Adam B., “you’ll hit it 90 percent of the time,” after he pinpoints a section of the table to connect die. The prospect of “plunks,” which requires players to aim for the edges of the table, and likely inebriation often deter players from the consistency that this 25-year-old BBDO hall-of-famer speaks of.

Last year’s BBDO champion, Mike Vantine, would agree.

Someone whom the BBDO commissioner himself referred to as a “pitching machine,” Vantine said he played “meat and potatoes” Beer Die, trying to hit the table every time and force his opponents to catch every one of his throws.
“Going for ‘plunks’ is like (panning for) fools’ gold,” the 28-year-old defending champion said.

At 11-10 in favor of Comis-Adam, sure enough no one has “plunked” in a game approaching 30 minutes, three times longer than the average bout. After snagging a cube with his shortstop glove hand, Comis sets up a jumper to seal the win. He lets the die fly well over the 9-foot minimum and splits Brown and Mike down the middle of the table. The Comis-Adam tandem stands victorious, 12-10.

“I feel like it’s the end of that Wimbledon match,” Comis says, in reference to the record-breaking first-round match at this year’s All England Club Grand Slam, where John Isner defeated Nicolas Mahut, 70-68, in the fifth set.

Beer Die, Profiles, Top 10 Lists

Top 10 Things to Ask a BBDO Champion

Last year Mike Vantine plucked himself from obscurity to conquer Brownie’s Beer Die Open (BBDO). One year later and in sight of BBDO 2010, OMD engages an instant Q&A with the Cinderella story via Twitter.

No need for transcription, when one can tweet “The Top 10 Things to Ask a BBDO Champion.”

short stories

The Path to Enlightenment

Once a man, tired and weary from a long laborious day, sunk into a deep yawn and retreated to his bedroom. He wasn’t ready for bed, but could feel the waves of slumber roll over him and knew he should prepare for retiring.

In this somber state, he thought it fitting to have a light on when he would return–no need stubbing a toe again in his subconsciousness. He flipped the switch that granted power to his table lamp. Nothing. So he followed the cord to the wall. Alas, it lied on the floor unplugged.

“Easy enough, I’ll simply plug it in,” he thought.

He crouched down into the dark depths where that errant plug lied, picked it up and felt along the wall for its socket home. But he couldn’t see through the midnight room and feeling around was getting him nowhere.

“I know,” this time speaking aloud. “I’ll use the light from my cell phone,” and he reached into his left pocket while the right hand guided that orphan plug blindly still.

In this ambidextrous procedure, a realization struck him: that phone sits on the end table in the living room, as his left hand swooped into the pant pocket in vain. “I’d have to leave the room, shuffle down the long corridor past the bathroom, down the stairs, to left of the dining room, trudge into the living room, get my phone and then make that trek back,” he stated, which he knew defeated the purpose of his mission in the first place. The long prospect of this drawn-out process excited synapses in the man’s brain now performing higher functions than moments ago, when he thought he could just flip a switch.

Agitated, the man began to force the now frantic plug into the wall, which only made things worse. Now the ridges around the socket frame escaped him. His anger boiled and he suddenly felt more awake. The man’s frustration was scaring away the Sand Man. A fact that tortured him even more. “I will not spend another night staring at the ceiling!” he asserted in an elevated voice.

At this outburst, he heard his own ridiculousness. Then logic kicked in. “You don’t have to come back right away,” it said. “It’s early yet. You’ll have more opportunities to turn the light on once you have that phone.”

Suddenly the man relaxed. The pressure to unite plug with socket evaporated from his shoulders and he steadied his blind hand. His mind cleared, unfettered by the seemingly impossible task.

Then a light bulb went on over his head. And he saw the light.

Beer Die, short stories

‘Tis the season for Beer Die

Clickity clack. The die bounced back.
Look, listen for that aerial attack.
The spring of the board, the bed of the ground.
Balance inbound of that rickety sound.

The six-sided die can go left, can go right.
The die can find height in the twilight of night.
Then the die can lie still on that flat wooden sill,
when the cup o’beer stands topped to its fill.

And hope, young lad, when that die finds rest,
that ‘bizz’ be not at its upright crest.
For you’ll down the suds, 16 oz. in full.
Golden bubbles, liquid cold, froth like wool.

Then slam it down. And fill it once more.
Don’t say the numeral that comes after ‘4.’
Roll that good die on the grainy wood ply.
If it hits ‘bizz,’ opponents will pour.

Top 10 Lists

Top 10 Things I’d Ask Conan O’Brien en route to TBS

When NBC gave Coco the heave ho earlier this year and forbade him from appearing on television, the 6-foot-4 redhead from Brookline barked back with “The Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television” tour.

The tour was a success, selling out all across the nation. It also marked a series of firsts for the writer-turned-TV personality. For the first time in his life people had paid to see him, O’Brien had said on stage at one of his 40-plus tour stops. The clean-cut comedian also let it all hang out sporting a fiery beard (reminiscent of the writers’ strike not too long ago) and hauled his axe on stage to shred some Slash-like power chords with the Max Weinberg Seven.

Now that Conan’s tour is over, it looks as though he has some free time on his hands, before he and his staff land the 11 o’clock spot on TBS weeknights starting in November. The prolific comedian may want to take this (rare) opportunity to reflect on his career, as well as look over the horizon toward things unknown to come.

While O’Brien delves into the Cone Zone, OMD issues the next installment of its Twitter experiment. This time entitled “Top 10 Things I’d Ask Conan O’Brien en route to TBS.”