I spent my thirties distrustful of Open Relationships. Mainly because the people I knew who had them never seemed happy. Most of them either divorced or separated. People freaked out when unexpected pregnancies occured where the paternity was questionable. People got mad because an Open But Don't Tell Me Partner would violate that rule. Things like that.

The worst, of course, was Zuzu and her husband. Twenty-something years of an open marriage fell apart when he had unprotected sex in a Jacuzzi (has anything good Ever Happened in a hot tub?) and got a stranger pregnant. His solution was that they would be some sort of Sister Wives thing and all live in the same house and raise kids together. He was kicked out of the house almost immediately and they never reconciled. But he was the one who called me and let me know Zuzu had been found dead in her house. Nothing more violent than cancer. But I hadn't know she had cancer, as she'd received her diagnosis while I was in a coma. And we hadn't spoken for three or four years before that. Our open friendship had deteriorated as she grew more and more venemous towards the people I cared about.

As this played out, another friend broke up with his primary partner when she got pregnant from another man. Only to find out a few years later, it Was his child but his partner wanted to raise the baby with someone else.

Shit is messy, y'all.

But I'm in my mid-forties now. I have been with more than my and your, and all our mutual friends' fair share of guys ranging from homophobically straight to offensively stereotypically gay, and everywhere inbetween.

I am Comrade's first boyfriend.

Fear not, this isn't a sad breakup story. Or a happy one. Calm down. OUR open relationship works great for us. We've lived together almost since we met. Every few months, Comrade goes on walkabout. It's pretty much building his own Insafemode Journals. I have never feared he was going to leave me for any of the men he's met. I know gay men. Most of us are garbage. We are Very Lucky together.

I also have permission to walkabout. But my legs are So Tired.

In Florida, last fall, we tried to set up some sort of threesome situation but we aren't interested in the same type of guy, which is obvious to anyone who's ever seen a picture of us. So nothing happened.

We each talked to some potential partners. As you might imagine, the skinny, effervescent, twenty something year old gets more messages than the exhausted, overweight middle aged guy who hates everyone. But the percentage of messages that we receive that we are interested in are very similar.

While Comrade anded up meeting some photographer who was nice and respectful until he was creepy (his story to tell, not mine), I met someone I'd been talking with for a few days. A chill guy in his thirties who was on vacation at Disney with his partner. They had a similar open relationship. He'd been skittish about us meeting at the house Comrade and I had rented but eventually relented.

It was a tired trope when I was writing the Insafemode journals: His picture was ten or fifteen years old. For me, it doesn't matter how attractive you are. If you are so terrified of what you look like that you have to send fake or antique pictures, I don't feel comfortable even spending time with you, nevermind pursuing any sort of emotional or physical relationship. I let him have a sandwich (we had too many groceries) and then told him he had to go.

That was in October. Since then, I haven't had the urge to meet anyone outside of our relationship.

Grindr is hilarious to me. I keep thinking back to when Ben invited me over for dinner one night in Allston, and showed me his OK Cupid matches. There were none.

"I've blocked EVERY gay guy in Boston." He bragged, fluffing his hair. "No one is good enough for me."
This was patently untrue. But funny.

I haven't blocked Everyone on Grindr but it is the thing I do The Most. Does a person's profile mention they wouldn't be interested in someone my age or size? Blocked. Why should I bother them? Does someone send me an unrpovoked naked picture or demand one from me? Blocked. Is someone just not my type? Blocked. Is someone aggressive or problematic? Blocked. Does someone have an incompatible kink? Blocked. There are so many great reasons not to waste my time trying to get laid. #1 is ... Comrade.

I had no plans to do any sexual adventuring in Vegas, but we did decide to check for possible threesomes in Vegas, as there's a wider age spectrum here than in, say, Orlando. (We are not going to try it out close to home.)

Nobody that was interested in us particularly sparked mutuality. But.

It's been, what, a decade since I regularly updated The Insafemode Journals? But there are people out there who read them regularly and remember them. People who saw pictures of me that I posted for Coming Out Day or other events. Maybe once or twice a year, I get a message from someone who recognizes me. And such a thing happened in Vegas.

Their opening message was unspectacular. Inoffensive. Fully clothed. Just a mention that I looked familiar. Which was funny to me because they looked familiar to me, too. But I knew why. They were in porn. Not a porn star. But someone who was in a couple of videos that were from a studio that amused me. Not aroused me. Amused me. The acting was terrible. The storylines were Awful. The camera angles were weird. His accent was spectacular. He could have been from the Midwest, Florida, Boston, England. His speech pattern needed a passport wherever he was.

So I told him that I used to have a sex blog, and he admitted to having some videos and asked if I wanted a link. I declined. But we decided to meet up. I wasn't quite sure sex was going to happen. I had seen his porn many years to a decade ago, and his pictures look freakishly similar. I just expected him to look as different from his 2012 self as I do.

We agreed to meet at the resort he was staying at at 9pm, while Comrade was going to have dinner with someone else. The thing was, this porn guy, Carter, was staying at Harrah's. I fucken hate Harrah's. Their signage is terrible. None of their employees know where anything is. And it was just as shut down as our casino because of the stupid the NFL Draft. But it was where he was staying, so I headed over there at 8:30, even though it was a 5-10 minute stroll.

I texted him that I was on my way, and was unsurprised when he wrote back that he'd be late. I wondered if he was having second thoughts. My shitty sense of self kept thinking "I'm not his type at all. I'm way too old, fat, boring, etc. for this kinky porn star." But, like, many of his partners in those videos were Older Then than me Now. And he is also ten years older than he was in those videos, so Shut Up Self.

I sat down at a bar near where we were supposed to meet. I ordered a soda but tipped like I bought a real drink, which caught the attention of the bartender.

"Do you work around here?" He asked.

"No. Boston. But I'm industry."

He nodded. "Ok. Well, thanks." and then he turned his attention to a Very Drunk woman who wanted to find the "valley", which I'm pretty sure meant "valet".

"Oh, it's..." he waved in a direction.

"NO NONO NO NO NO." Drunk Lady scolded. "None of you know where Anything is. Just walk me there."

"But I---" he looked around the bar, there were four customers and two bartenders. "Sure. I'll help you."

I put down another couple of bucks. Because fuck that particular casino. He was too nice to work there.

"Adam?" I heard.

"Oh, hey Carter." I said, getting up. "Good to see you."

"Likewise." he said. His voice was the same as in the videos. I had assumed that was a fake accent. Whoof.
He was wearing a cast on his right arm.

"What happened?" I asked, pointing to it.

"Oh, I just had surgery. Glass." As though that explained anything.

"Oh? Car accident? Walk into a sliding glass door?" I asked.

"I forgot." He sighed. "You're a writer. It's just glass."

"Oh. Ok."

Long, awkward pause of doom.

"What have you done so far in Vegas?"

"Oh." I said. "We went to the neon museum, Area 15 and Omega Mart, we saw The Beatlles Cirque Du Soleil show.--"

"Was that any good?" He asked. "I saw the Michael Jackson show last night, and I had No Idea what was happening. The plot was, I don't know. Maybe I'm just too stupid for theater."

"Noooooo." I said. "The Beatles show had some connecting scenes but it made No Sense most of the time."

"Did your partner like it?"

"He thought it was okay." I said. "But he didn't love it, either."

"How old is he?" I was not expecting to be asked.

"23."

"So you're sugar daddying."

I frowned. "No. We each have our own jobs and share of the finances. I can't afford to be anyone's sugar daddy."

"But you're in Vegas." he said.

"So are you. And you're on a floor so high you have to have a special card and elevator access to get there."

He almost smiled. "The view is pretty nice. Oh, don't judge the room. I'm usually military clean but--" he wagged his cast.

"Of course." I said.

He flashed his key at the door. A red light turned on. He flashed his key again. Same red light.

"Fuck. Again?" he said. "I've got to call security again."

"Ok." I said.

I was assuming, at this point, that he wasn't into me, and was using his key on the wrong door. His way of politely getting me to leave. So I started texing Comrade.

Comrade's Meanwhile Story is that the person he'd been texting decided to go to bed but wanted to talk later because .... he is from Boston.

Sure.

"Hi. This is Carter in room ... Yes. Yea. I got the new key but it doesn't work, either. Could you send someone up? Five to ten minutes? Would it be faster for me to go down there? Yea. Yea. Would I have to wait in line? I don't want to wait in line again. Ok. Five to ten minutes? Ok." He turned to me. "We've got to wait a bit. You're from Boston, right?"

"Yea."

"What happened to your acccent?"

"I broke it." I said "I moved around for a while and it disappeared."

I have never had a Boston accent. I'm from Connecticut and grew up on Cape Cod.

"People always make fun of my accent."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Iowa." he said.

Iowa? "Huh."

"You were going to guess Florida weren't you?"

I shrugged. "Gainesville, specifically."

"That's where my mom's from." he said. "God, what is taking them So Long?"

"It's only been about two minutes." I said. "Didn't they say it would be five to ten?"

He sulked. "I wish they'd stop giving me broken keys."

"Yea." I said. "This place is a steady shitshow."

"I'm going to call them again."

My turn to shrug. "Ok."

"Hi, this is Carter from Room...yes. Do you know when you're going to be able to send someone up? We've been waiting a long time. Do you know how much longer? Should I just go down there? I just don't want to wait in no lines again. It takes so long. No. No. No, don't send a medical team. No, jesus, I'm fine. Ok. Ok. I'll go down. No lines, though, right?"

Every flag in the building was red. His shirt was a red flag. His pants. His shoes. His accent. His impatience. Everything red. Everything flag.

"We've got to go downstairs so I can get a new key."

"Ok." I said, following him into the elevator.

I don't remember what we talked about because I was thinking I should probably just leave. I was beginning to think the accent included some slurring as the effect of a substance. Couldn't place which one, though.
It took less than a minute for him to get the key, and for us to get back in the elevator.

"I don't know why they keep doing this to me? I paid good money, you know? Hotels are expensive here. In Iowa, I can get a room for thirty a night. Nobody visits me but at least nobody's breaking my keys all the time."

We got out of the elevator and walked further down the hallway than we were before. It was 100% a completely different room than he'd tried to get into earlier. "Don't forget." He said. "My arm hurts, so it's a little messy."

I am, at my best, a little messy. Clothes piled in one place, a nightstand covered in chapstick, breath mints, change, and books. A little messy.

This was an addict's room.

Three whiskey bottles that I could see. Clothes everywhere. The TV on some random channel about Las Vegas culture. Both beds absolutely destroyed. Condom wrappers (but not condoms) on the desk. I didn't see any paraphenalia, but I also studiously avoided the bathroom because I was pretty sure that's where it was.

He took off his clothes. "Do you have any condoms?"

This was not quite what I had expected. "No." I said.

He shrugged.

"I'll just go back downstairs." and shake my head a bit. "They must have condoms in the little convenience store by the front desk. Should I get lube?"

"I'm allergic to lube." he lied.

"Ok. Can I have your room key? Otherwise, I won't be able to get back up in the elevator."

"Oh. I don't remember where I put my key. Did you see me put it down somewhere? I have this problem where I always lose things."

I shut my eyes. Red flags. "In your pocket?"

He produced two keys. "I don't know which one works."

I plucked them both from his hands. Opened the door, and waved each of them by the door. They both worked, of course. There was never anything wrong with the keys. There was something wrong with the keyholder.

I took the elevator down to the lobby, walked to the convenience store and took a picture of the condom display. "These are all lubricated." I texted. "Is that a problem?"

"Nope." He texted back. "Whatever."

I bought condoms and a soda, took the elevator back up.

He was ass in the air.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. Fuck me dadddddddddddddddddddddddddddddeeeeeee. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaadeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee."

I Hate Age Play Sex. There is no faster way to kill the mood for me.

"Please don't say that." I said.

"You want to be my coach?"

"No."

He turned around and looked at me. "Why are you still wearing clothes? What's the matter, I'm not young enough for you?"

"What?" I asked.

"I get it. I don't look like I'm twelve anymore so none of the fifty year old guys want to fuck me anymore. I should just kill myself."

I threw the condoms on the bed. "You can keep these."

"What, are you just going to go? Can't get it up because I'm so old, Mr. Writer?"

"Here are your keys." I threw them on the bed with the condoms. "Don't lose them."

"Oh, you're going to take care of me now? Don't want to fuck me, you just want to be my daddy?"

I walked out his door. He did not follow.

I texted Comrade. "Well, this went to super shit at the speed of drug addict. Can I come back?"

"Yea." he texted back. "My guy bailed. Guess we'll have to debauch with each other."

"I'm going to need a few minutes."

"Should we meet for ice cream?"

"Yes. That sounds great." I replied.

"Can you at least come back and eat my ass?" Carter texted. "I'm horny and my arms no good."

I blocked his number.

I unblocked his number. I didn't want to be named in a porn not star's suicide note, even if it was just as Insafemode.

Comrade was waiting for me in front of the ice cream/cupcake place. He kissed me Hello. "Waffle cones?"

​"Waffle cones." I said.

Uncle Creepy: Tony?

Me: Nope. This is Adam. Call back on Friday to talk to Tony.

UC: Ok. Ok. Hi. Adam. You've helped me before. Do you know Nosferatu?

Me: Not personally.

UC: Nosferatu The Bald Vampire. You know him?

Me: ...

UC: Hello?

Me: Is there something I can help you order?

UC: Do you know Nosferatu. He's the bald vampire. Like the first one. He's really old.

Me: Is there something I can help you find?

UC: Do you got statues of Nosferatu the bald vampire?

Me: No. And I'm looking it up now. There aren't any available. There will be one in November, but it's $650.

UC: I'm looking for the $100-$200 range. Like a bust of Nos--

Me: --feratu The Bald Vampire, yes. I get it. But there aren't any available.

UC: What about raven? You know raven?

Me: The wrestler? The Teen Titan? The bird? The bookstore?

UC: Yea. Yea. You know. The bookstore. The Raven bookstore.

Me: It's a couple blocks away. Want me to give you their phone number?

UC: No. No. Not the one nearby. The bookstore.

Me: I don't know what you're talking about.

UC: Sometimes you get me stuff from Raven?

Me: Nope. They're a different store. They sell books, but they don't sell statues. I can give you the number to call them, but I'm not going to call them for you.

UC: Maybe it's not Raven. But it's a store. Sometimes you call other stores.

Me: Nope.

UC: Ok. Maybe not another store. That's ok. That's ok. You know how you guys have comics with Vampirella the---

Me: the almost topless vampire hunter?

UC: Yea. Yea. Vampirella the Vampire Hunter.

Me: Uh huh.

UC: Can you get me statues of her?

Me: You're going to have to call back on Friday and talk to My Boss. He is the one who does the statue ordering.

UC: Ok. Ok. I should call tomorrow?

Me: Friday.

UC: Friday? Sometimes I call on ---

Me: The next time he'll be here to talk to you about statues is Friday. Until then, he won't be here. And none of the rest of us can help you with statues.

UC: What about Wedn--

Me: Friday. Not Tuesday. Not Wednesday. Not Thursday. Friday. Only Friday. Friday is the only day you can call him this week. Not Saturday. Not Sunday. Only Friday. You need to call him on Friday. I have to go now. Remember, call him on Friday. Thanks.

​I hung up the phone.

Buckle up. It's Monday.

Random Stoner: "Hey. Alright. I came in because I'm ready to talk about that movie."

Me: "O.k."

RS: "You know, there's all that...talk about it this weekend. And, like, it was supposed to be big."

Ah, Captain Marvel.

Me: "I haven't seen it yet."

RS: "No. Noooooooo. I came in to talk to you about it."

I've never met this person before.

Me: "Sorry, I'm seeing it later this week."

RS: "But, it was good, right?"

Me: "I don't know yet."

RS: "Oh, man. I -- Do you have any, like giant -- You guys don't have giant books."

Me: "Like the ones on the top shelf there?"

I point. He walks in the opposite direction. Of course.

Me: "No, there."

RS: "Wow. Wowwwwwwwwwwwwww. These are -- what I'm looking for are coffee table books. Motorcycles. Sketch art. You know, for the foyer...or, the, ummmm gazebo? Parlor. For the parlor.

Me: "Sure. We don't have those."

RS: "I need people to walk in when I'm painting and be like wowwwwwwwwwww. This --- this is some --- like A level shit, you know?"

Me: "Sure."

RS: "But you don't --- You seriously haven't seen that movie yet?"

Me: "Nope."

RS: "It's fine. I shouldn't be spending money anyway. I have to --- I need to -- do they do laser printing across the hall?"

Me: "You'd have to ask them. I don't know."

RS: "What I'm gonna do, right? Before my show. I'm gonna have shit lasered into wood. Like a table with good wood, but I'd laser it --- like SPACE. I have 47 --- no 59 paintings I need to unload, you know? Renewal. Like when those anime guys take all of their stuff and --- Do you have any gundam?"

Me: "Not currently."

RS: "Shit. Hey, when did the weed store go? I mean --- not a weed store -- a paraphernalia store."

Me: "It's still there. It's across the park."

RS: "I shouldn't be spending -- Hey, instagram --- like marketing --- I could get you 20%." of what I have no idea.

Me: "Great. You should come in on Friday and talk to the owner."

RS: "Yes! Like I did for the collectible store in Methuen. 20%. I'm not a monster."

Me: "That's good."

RS: "You get my vibe. Social media -- it's -- like 10% for you but maybe you have a friend who can help, and they get 10%, that's TWENTY PERCENT."

Me: "Sure."

RS: "Check out my Instagram. I need honest critique. Like, it's time -- my parents know I'm not like that -- but, like, I need to get rid of these paintings. Even if it's just 100,000. Which is -- which is 10% of what they're worth. You feel me?"

Me: "Suuuuure."

RS: "Let me write down -- what's my insta -- I think -- here. I should go. Do you think they really laser across the hall?"

Me: "I have no idea."

Fist bump.

RS: "I'm a mech guy. Captain Ha -- He -- you know."

Me: "Sure."

RS: "I'm not like manga. A little, I guess. But, like -- They need to make a Captain Marvel game. Open world like Tarantino, you know? Or Portal. Yea, Portal. How come there aren't any VR arcades around here where you can walk" he shows me what walking looks like "while you're in the virtual world? All they have around here is pinball."

Me: "I don't know."

RS: "They could make bank on that."

Me: "Sure."

RS: "Friday. You should get people to BOGO. Like, not BOGO, but make people think they're getting a deal. You watch Big Bang Theory?"

Me: "No."

RS: "You should youtube the gaffs. It will make you. You get people who smell the comics?"

Me: "No."  Ok, a couple of times, but I'm not going to talk about them with this guy.

RS: "It's always wrong but -- how late is the paraphernalia shop open?"

Me: "I have no idea."

RS: "Marketing is key. You get it. You got it. I'm gonna go laser."

Me: "Good luck."

He walks across the hall. I think the entire staff has gathered around him. So he must be equally entertaining there.

​His instagram is locked. His follower to following ratio is 1/100. I will not be following him. And, thus, shall never know of his million dollar paintings.

​Today I got an e-mail asking me to fill out a survey for a local cookie store. What kind of cookies did I buy, how was the service, would I recommend the cookies to a friend, etc. There was also a section asking me to describe the service in two or three words.

For filling out the survey, I would get two free cookies.

I filled it out positively, got a coupon code, and ordered two cookies and a cookie sandwich (icing between two cookies) to pick up when I was done with work.

When I got there, there were about a half dozen Harvard frosh women. And the two Very Very Very Stoned but happy employees, neither of whom were the very stoned employees from my last trip, gave them a shit ton of free cookies.

At one point, a student asked if they had any peanut butter left. They had one.

Student: "How much is it?"

Very Stoned Dude #1: "I'll flip you for it. Heads, it's free. Tails, it's a dollar fifty."

It was heads.

Everyone giggled, they all eventually got their free cookies, and they left.

Me: "Hey. I'm Adam. I'm here to pick up an order."

VSD #1: "An order? Did you see an order?"

VSD #2: "Check by the computer."

VSD #1: "Is your phone background Kanye's dick?"

VSD #2: "Nah, that's his thumb."

VSD #1: "Whose thumb?"

VSD #2: "Kanye's."

VSD #1: "Oh, here's the order. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaan. OH SHIT."

VSD #2: "What?"

VSD #1: "This is the guy who wrote 'Entertainingly Stoned' in the 'How would you describe our service' box."

VSD #2 (to me): "FOR REAL?"

I shrugged.

VSD #2: "You are definitely not paying for cookies tonight. That shit KILLED ME."

VSD #1 (shouts to the back): "The entertainingly stoned guy is here."

VSD #3 comes out from the back. "You are getting a whole bowl of icing in your Bigwich."

Me: "Thanks."

VSD #3: "And make sure he gets big cookies, too. I don't care what he ordered. You give him the biggest cookies he wants. I laughed my ASS off when I saw that."

VSD #3 goes back to the back.

VSD #2: "The bad news is, we're completely out of all three cookies you ordered. So you're going to have to pick from what's left."

I pick some basic cookies, and two huge ones for the Bigwich.

VSD #2 puts the cookies in a box, and hands me an overstuffed giant cookie sandwich and a bowl of icing.

VSD #1: "Give him that box of oatmeal raisin cookies we got left, too."

Me: "Woah woah woah. I thought we were friends. Oatmeal Raisin? What did I do to you?"

We laughed, and I left with way too many cookies, none of which I'd paid for.

​On my way back to the store, I waited at the intersection with two women carrying salads from Sweetgreen's. I gave them each a cookie and the entire bowl of icing.

If you're going to be out in public, or in, say a comic book store, or a restaurant, SMOKE BETTER WEED. I support your form of relaxation, but I don't want to have to smell your form of relaxation. If I did, I'd hang out with the dealer who is clearly ripping you off.
​
It's 2017. For every loss of civil liberties, and every disappointing political situation, there are at least two strains of affordable weed that don't smell like you just pulled your rolling papers out of a nervous skunk's asshole.

Or buy edibles. Anything that prevents me from having to Febreeze the store for an hour.

Guys, I am really worried. As those closest to me know, I am fairly particular about what medications I allow in my body. Because I rarely take anything, something as minuscule as two ibuprofen or acetaminophen are actually very effective in helping me manage pain.

Today, I accidentally ingested FOUR BREATH MINTS at once. Spearmint ones. I know that I should probably seek out a desirologist, but can anyone on my friends list advise me on how long before it is safe to kiss someone with this high level of sugar-free sorbitol inside me?

Please don't lecture me on responsible mint use, this was an isolated incident and not reflective of my usually responsible breath regimen

I wasn't sure if this guy in the store was weirdly flirting with me or whether he was just really high.

Then he spent a couple of minutes talking about how much easier it would be to wander around the store if we flipped it upside down and let people walk on the ceiling.

I'm not saying I know for sure if he was high, I'm just saying that I no longer cared if he was flirting with me.

Random Idiot (not giving them credit even for being a loiterer): I wish you'd told me you wanted to buy comics when we were in JP. You shouldn't shop here.

Idiot's Friend: Why not? I shop here all the time.

RI: It's super corporate.

IF: What?

Me: I'm sorry. I don't mean to interrupt but this store is about as anti-corporate as you can get.

RI; No. It's owned by Wal-Mart.

IF laughs uproariously.

RI: It IS though.

Me: No. It's owned by a guy named Tony. He works in the store three days a week, you can meet him if you'd like. I assure you he does NOT work for Wal-Mart.

IF still laughing: Wal-Mart?

RI: One of my friends totally told me this was the Wal-mart of comics.

Me: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that's not us. I've heard some people say that about th place down the block because they're a chain. And they ARE a chain but they are totally not Wal-Mart. They are also owned by a pair of local guys. I don't think you can accurately call them corporate but I get why some people might accuse them. But us? We don't have uniforms, time clocks, a staff training manual. We're not corporate.

RI: But, like, are you sure you're not owned by Wal-Mart.

Me: I am SO certain that none of the comic book stores in Massachusetts are in any way associated with Wal-Mart.

IF still laughing: This is like that time you tried to convince me that The Garment District was run by Urban Outfitters. You need to stop smoking all that weed and listening to your idiot friends.

RI: Shut UP. They MIGHT be owned by Urban Outfitters. You don't know everything, Jason.

Me: I think you should listen to Jason.

They walk around for a bit, Jason occasionally laughing, RI scowling.

RI: OMG the new Lumberjanes! I'm going to buy it!

Me: Sorry, it doesn't come out until Wednesday. All the comics on that table are just out so I can count them and get them ready to put in subscribers' folders tomorrow.

RI: But you can sell it to me, right?

Me: Nope. Not until tomorrow. Sorry.

RI: But I want it. I'll just take it and leave three dollars on the counter, it won't be a thing.

Me: It will. It will be a stealing thing. Sorry, you can't get it until Tomorrow.

RI: This place sucks.

IF: Yea, totally. Want to wait for me at Peet's?

RI: Fine.

I resist mentioning that Peet's is TOTALLY a corporation and would probably be considered the Wal-Mart of coffeehouses if Starbuck's didn't exist.

IF: I am SO sorry. She's just really high right now.

Me: That's fine.

IF: For real, though, how much do I have to pay you to get that copy of Lumberjanes?

I woke up on Saturday to the same waist-high pile of snow that everyone else in Boston did.  I threw on my hat and gloves, picked up my shovel, and began digging out.  All around me, neighbors were digging.  Mostly it was three or four people with shovels taking care of the spot in front of their house, and their driveway.  I live in a corner house, and thus, had to dig out the front porch, the front walkway, the street in front of the house, the street to the left of the house, and the back porch.  No big.

Everyone in the neighborhood appeared to have woken up at the same time.  adults were digging, children were fwomping in the snow piles, plows were clearing out parking lots, and across the street, the group of guys who smoke so much weed that when I open the windows, you can smell it in my living room, were sitting on their porch (which was still covered in snow), drinking, and watching everyone else dig.

Because the top foot and half or so of snow was the nice powdery kind, it only took me about an hour and a half to dig all the way from front door to the back.  Adults were still shoveling, kids were still fwomping, and the guys across the street appeared to be laughing (I had headphones on).  As I headed back around the house toward the front door, I saw them waving at me.

I walked across the street, pulling out my earbuds.

"Hey, man."  said the most drunk/stoned looking one.  "Can you dig out our car?"

I laughed because, of course, they’re kidding, and being high and neighborly.

"No, for real." said the one who walks out to the street at 2 AM to talk to people who drive by the house.  I’m sure he’s just complimenting people on their rides and not selling them any of the copious amounts of weed that he burns…for warmth.  "We’ll give you ten bucks."

I laughed again.  ”A hundred.”

Two laughed.  The one who offered me ten bucks did not.  ”Ten bucks.”

I shook my head.  ”I sold my car when I moved to Boston so I wouldn’t have to deal with parking or snow emergencies.  And I don’t need ten dollars.  Try one of the kids that lives” and, here, I had to look up and down the street because I had no idea where the kids in the neighborhood lived, “there.”

The dude stared at me.  ”I asked you.”

"I said no."  I laughed.  "Good luck."  And I put my headphones back in, and walked back toward my house.  My headphones are the lovely, noise-canceling variety, so, while I could see he was still talking to me, I have no idea what he was saying.  I’m guessing it wasn’t "Have a nice day."

As of this morning, his car was still completely covered in the, now wet and therefore impossible to shovel, snow.

Last night, on my way home from work, I was on the T, properly headphoned, when I noticed a person appeared to be talking in my direction. I removed my headphones, but the T was making the same noise peacocks make when they catch their wings in a paper shredder halfway through their Diamanda Galas medley, so I couldn’t hear him.

I moved closer to him, and he pulled a joint out from behind his ear and said “I just need to go somewhere and bang tonight.”

"Hang?" I asked.

"Bang." He smiled.

I then moved further away from him, and decided to get off a stop early and go grocery shopping. He did not follow.