Can't Explain - Fresh Dung: A Night with The Who

I went to see The Who last night with my friend Amy. It was time. I mean, The Who - rock 'n' roll legends! Why did it take me all these years to check them out? I think my resistance to seeing them stemmed from the fact that I cannot stand the whole Tommy thing. Rock opera is not my favorite genre. However, after enjoying a Who tribute band at the Beachcomber over the summer, I realized how many Who songs I actually really do love. Substitute, My Generation, Baba O'Reilly. Really, there are so many greats.

The show was at the Garden, formerly known as the Boston Garden, home of the Boston Bruins and the Boston Celtics. I'd been there in its heyday to see the Barnum and Bailey circus as a child, and even a Stanley Cup game way back when hockey tickets were affordable. The place has some history.

Our seats were way up in the balcony. Wayyyyy up. The higher we climbed, the more fearful we became of falling to our death. We finally got to our seats and while we were so far up, our view was great. In fact, it was quite a relaxing area, full of old timers and families. Very nice.

So, the concert opened with Who Are You and the crowd went wild. I began to get very excited and a little weepy, knowing that we were seeing true rock gods. Roger Daltry's voice was like butter. Pete Townsend was flailing windmill-style on his guitar. It was very powerful. And then it hit me...

...no, we won't go there yet. First, I need to explain that I have a very sensitive sense of smell. It is both a blessing and a curse. The aroma of marijuana was everywhere along with a few currents of cigarette smoke, the latter of which irritated me. Anyway, the band went into a few more hits, and as the first few bars of My Generation filled the air, a waft of fresh human dung filled my nostrils.

I mentioned this to Amy and she tried to tell me that someone probably just had gas. "No," I told her. "I can recognize the difference between flatulence and human feces." Again, she tried to reassure me that one of these fathers probably ate a Nathan's hot dog and drank a few Guinesses and maybe his system wasn't handling it well. Again, I begged to differ. Suddenly the stickiness on the floor beneath my boots and the chair that I was sitting on started to freak me out. I tried not to breathe in too deeply but the smell would just not go away. Finally, I looked around me and there it was - a smattering of something behind my seat that had the appearance of, well, poop. Needless to see I was appalled and disgusted. My only guess is that someone did not feel like making the trip back down the 100 steps to the restroom so he or she (come on, you know it was a guy) decided to lay cable right there in the balcony. Ahhh, humans.

The Majestic Bald Eagle

So, I've just returned from a fabulous trip to Maine with my friend Amy and later, my sister Jen. The weather was absolutely gorgeous, minus one day of mellowing rain. We ate lobster galore, watched the sunset almost every evening, and listened to the sounds of the sea right outside of our abode. It was magical. We had heard of incredible animal sightings in the area, such as seals, ospreys, and even dolphins. We hadn't seen any of these creatures during our stay and we were really hoping for a real far-out nature experience.

So a few mornings ago the three of us were sitting in our gazebo when I noticed a very large eagle perched in a tree about twenty yards away. Finally! We had already been in Maine for five days and hadn't spotted but a squirrel and a few crows. I ran into the house to grab my camera, praying that the bird wouldn't fly off. I made it back, shocked that the bird had remained so still. "It must be stalking its prey," I told my sister and Amy with authority. Hey, I watch National Geographic documentaries. I know these things. In any event, we were in awe. It was just breathtaking. My sister decided to move in for a closer look. I was so nervous that the thing was going to freak out and attack her with its talons if she got too close. But, the majestic creature remained perfectly still.

Jen continued to move closer and closer and could not understand why the big bird's feathers weren't blowing in the wind like the leaves of the tree it was perched in. She finally got close enough to discover...it was a fake! Our prankster neighbors had planted a phony eagle in one of their trees. I won't get into the humiliation and disappointment. In any event, you can see for yourself. Now that I look at my several photos it is quite clear. How embarrassing!

We later learned from our hosts that this is a joke that has been running for eight years. They love when their guests are fooled by the fake bird. Maine humor. Oddly, if you want to see a real bald eagle, you can visit Dollywood where they are in great abundance.

Fart Bag Surprise

I enjoy gags and practical jokes. I have always been a fan of things like googly-eye glasses, itching powder, gum that turns your teeth black and so on. Who doesn't like a chuckle? So, when I saw a cardboard box full of a product called Fart Bags at a convenient store in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire, I couldn't resist.

Let me describe the package to you: The packet is a little bigger than a tea-bag. The outer covering is metallic silver and there is a picture of a little boy with his pants down, rear end exposed, and smoke coming out of his bum. For some reason he has a bandaid on his right buttock. He is holding his nose and wearing a yellow cap that reads "Boy." Like a little girl would be doing this. There are two skulls on the ground in the distance.

This is where it gets confusing. The directions are extremely unclear. Mind you, I thought this was a small whoopie cushion. We all have experience with those. No sweat. But the directions were so unclear. Here is how the back of the package reads:

"Fart Bag

1. Do not tear this package.
2. Find the object. Break the small water-bag inside the package which will be full of air immediately. Drop the bag beside the object. (note: what object???)
3. When the bag pop and air. (huh?)
4. Eating prohibited."

At the very bottom it reads "Please do not put in mouth."

So, needless to say, I was confused but determined to set this thing off. So, my friend Jeannie, my sister Jennifer and I were lounging in our fleabag motel room looking for some excitement. "Let's check out this fart bag!" I suggested. The three of sat on our beds, Jeannie at the foot of my bed and Jen on the bed across from us. I followed the directions as best I could and placed the fart bag between the beds. The next thing we knew there was an extremely loud snap, louder than any fart I have ever heard. Our ears were actually ringing. "Is that it?" Jeannie asked. Yeah, I think so. We were not impressed. The fun was over. Nothing left to see here. Until....

...a noxious, toe-curling odor emitted into the air like the gates of Hell had opened and the most foul smelling beast had entered the room. The sounds of Jeannie's screams, Jennifer's moans and my own wails of disgust and laughter will forever be etched into my brain. We had to run onto the balcony of our room, choking and holding our noses while having to tolerate the drunken debauchery which was our next door neighbors, 20 something and boozed up on "Bacaahhdii and punch."

To make matters worse, we had no windows. It took about 45 minutes for the odor to subsist. Thank goodness for red wine. That is all.

A Dead Man's Porn

I am not much of a blogger but sometimes you can't believe certain events and you say to yourself, "ya know, I gotta write this stuff down." So, here goes.

I just recently bought an adorable little house in Quincy and moved in about four weeks ago. The house was owned by a lovely old woman who I had the pleasure of eating coffee cake and drinking tea with for several hours as I learned about the history of the home and all of its charm. She was about 75, her husband died in the house when he was 76, about a year ago. She was the gardener, her late husband was the woodworker. Keep wood in mind.

Well, the husband, "Charlie" we'll call him, had some tools in the basement that he used to make all kinds of cabinets, bookshelves, nooks and crannies. It is impossible to describe his craftsmanship because he appeared to be a perfectionist as is reflected as you walk through the house. In any event, the man loved to work with wood and his wife loved to speak fondly of him and all of his special talents.

I noticed during our conversation that the widow's eyes lit up whenever she mentioned her late husband's name. She revealed that he liked her to "go natural", meaning that he didn't want her to dye her curly locks. She also remarked several times that "he was a real man." Um, o.k.

So fast forward, the widow moves out and I move in. Ohh, what a quaint little home, so full of whimsy and old-lady-ness. What a sweet sounding couple, so in love. And then the junk mail started to arrive. Old person shoe catalogs, garden tool catalogs, and the infamous "Harriet Carter" catalog from which you can order sock puller uppers and various plastic undergarments. Very enjoyable reading. And then one day a very special piece of mail arrived addressed to Charlie, the late husband. I opened the envelope and to my surprise and wonderment it was a catalog from Spice TV's porn warehouse.

Well, I had to sit down for this one. Charlie apparently was a real man and I suspect that since he liked his wife to be natural, he might have gone for the "Hairy and Natural Ladies Gone Wild" DVD. Who would have suspected? Now fast forward again. Jen and Jack (sister and boyfriend) were hanging out a few weeks later and Jack decided to open the lid to the wood stove in my basement. He brought its contents to me as I was sitting in the back yard. What did he discover? Another catalog for ordering porn and a receipt for a box of 100 rubber gloves. Who were these people?