An Open Letter to Justin Bobby

I took some time off a while back, in order to rediscover who I am. I was confused, to say the least.

I had been watching a lot of The Hills, and I found my self totally befuddled by the concept of Audrina's not-so-erstwhile boyfriend, Justin Bobby. In my mind, there was just no way possible for this guy to exist outside the bounds of the show. I asked my personal biographer Matty if he thought MTV invented him.

"I can't imagine. As a writer myself, I could see inventing a Spencer, or even an Audrina; but a Justin Bobby... that would take an immense talent, one whose special skills would be wasted in developing a persona for a reality show."

I wasn't as easily convinced, or at the very least, I needed to see this thing myself, outside the filter of the TV camera. I flew out to LA, in hopes of seeing a Justin Bobby in the wild.

A local source familiar with the situation (Sir Ian McKellen) told me where Mr. Justin Bobby hangs out. I found out that Justin Bobby not only exists, but the MTV portrayal of him was spot on, or perhaps they went a little easy on him. He had the same voice, hair, and attitude. I was flabbergasted.

I took some time and sat on Venice Beach, watching the waves. If an individual like a Justin Bobby actually existed, the next logical question had to be: do I? Everything that I thought was true and right had been tossed out the window. I felt like going back to him. I had more questions now: how did you become so ridiculous? do you know you're that ridiculous? are there more like you? what do your parents think?

It was like a bad acid trip. In my 37 years on the planet I had never experienced anything like it. I had no proof anymore that I was real. I felt it was time to end the madness, and I drank a fifth of Don Julio and walked towards the surf, ready to let it take me into that long goodnight.

I woke up the next day with a face full of sand. Some kids had been covering me on the beach, and their mom found me, thinking I was dead. I spit some of the sand out, and thanked them for their generosity. Without showering, I packed my things and boarded a plane back to Boston.

Whaddaya Think?

I was sitting on a bench at the Harvard Square T station the other day, when a man who looked an awful lot like Brian Dennehy sat down next to me. I tried to ignore him while I read my book, Paul Bowles' The Sheltering Sky, which I started reading because Matty called out Mads the other day, saying a traveling tale of his was a fabrication lifted from the post World War II novel.

"So," he said, "waddaya think?"

I looked up. He nodded his head in the direction of an old Asian woman bending down to get something out of one of her myriad bags.

"Not bad, huh?" I shook my head incredulously. "Believe me, at my age, you gotta take what you can get, and nothing's better than an old Asian woman. They're minxes in the sack."

"Dude, you're Brian Dennehy. You can get tons of chicks."

"Who told you I was Brian Dennehy?"

Mads: A Night in Tunisia

I was hanging out with my Boston friend, as I usually do, and we found ourselves trading traveling stories, and all the shit we've gotten into.

"What about that time," he said, "when you almost got killed by those Arabs in Tunisia?"

Wow, what about that night?

I had taken a walk, leaving my friend behind at the hotel. I got a little lost, and crouched down on the curb to smoke a cigarette. Then a swarthy looking fellow approached me. I tried getting rid of him, but he followed me around, as I became even more confused on what part of the city I was in. He took me into a cafe, filled with more swarthy Arab types, and mentioned a woman I should get with, his whore, who wouldn't cost too much money.

Matty the Mainer, who was with my Boston friend and I as we were re-telling these tales, interrupted me.

"This never happened to you."

"Are you calling me a liar?" I said.

"Sure. Let me guess the rest of the story. You're left alone in a tent in some remote area with the woman, and you find her trying to expropriate your wallet. Am I right so far?"

I nodded, a tad incredulous.

"So you secure your wallet, push her away, and she screams, alerting the Arab guys in the tent next door. Now you're in it; you run as fast as you can, barely escaping with your life."

"So you've heard the story, what're you getting at?"

"It's not your story."

"The hell it ain't."

"The hell it is. It's from Paul Bowles' The Sheltering Sky. You're a moron."

I was nonplussed.

"So next you're going to tell me I don't exist," I said.

"Well, if the shoe fits..."

Mayor McCheese: Big Mac Turns 40

1967. Not a bad year at all. Much better than 1968, if you ask most folks. I personally wasn't around then, and there was a good reason for that: my raison d'etre had not been created. The Big Mac.

The Big Mac, beyond being perfect as a burger, did more for fast food than any other invention, other than maybe the drive-thru. It is difficult to imagine myself, or my fellow McDonaldland citizens, including Ron Gorske, existing without it. It's also difficult to imagine Burger King, Wendy's, or Taco Bell having anywhere near the kind of success they've had without these two all beef patties special sauce lettuce cheese pickles onions on a sesame seed bun.

In order to boost lagging car sales, GM invented a sense of patriotism around their brand, that, though moot due to the fact Chevys are now built in Mexico, caused many Americans to buy their cars over Toyotas or Hondas, which are built here. The reality is that the Big Mac, not the Chevy, is America in all its glorious, yet raunchy self. Toby Keith and Lee Greenwood can write all the songs they want, but nothing will ever tell the world America's story-- even better tell us America's story-- than that edible slice of Americana.

Go out an buy a Big Mac today, and know that that's what America is supposed to taste like.

A Couple O' Mainers

During the summer, when the Texas Rangers killed the Baltimore Orioles 30-3, it was quite the story around baseball. Gary Thorne calls the Orioles' games for the local TV station, and not too many days after the game Matty, my personal biographer, and I were in the Baltimore area, and thought we'd look him up to see what he thought about the game.

"Hey, you went to UMaine," Matty said before I had a chance to speak.

"I did, you too?"

"Oh yeah."

And that was it:

"You think them Sox are gonna win it awl this yeeah?"

"Well, I hope they gonnew. Ya knhoe, you can nevah count out them damn Yankees though."

"Ayaht. You can't get theyah from heyah."

Charles Samuel Shaw, esq.

With Soap Operas being all the rage these days; with them being the "Next Big Thing"; with them being "what the Kids are into"; I thought it might be cool to talk about my brief stint on General Hospital some years back.

I played geeky divorce attorney Charles Samuel Shaw, and I was hired by Alan Quatermaine. This was the extent of my time on the air:

"Alan Quartermaine?"

"Yes?"

"This is Charles Samuel Shaw esq. You called about some services you needed rendered?"

"Oh, the divorce attorney. My old med school buddy told me you were the best. I hope that's true."

"Oh, it is..."

Zoom in and ramp up serious music; end scene.

It was the greatest thing ever. I sometimes pull out the old tape when I'm hammered and need to show off.

Mads: Thinking

I frequently have trouble thinking between 5:30 and 7 PM. As such, I was caught completely off guard when my Boston friend asked me if his new designer jeans made his ass look fat. Instead of saying "you dumb bastard", I said:

"Let me have a look."

"I was just kidding. Do you really think I care if my ass looks big in my jeans?"

"Um..."

"Especially when I know it's not humanly possible."

"Yeah, I know, you skinny bastard, you should mix in a sandwich sometime."

"And you should play hide and go fuck yourself."

"Good one."