I'm about to go on a date with Linda, to a party at the Boston Center for the Arts in the South End. How I got in is a long story. I'm nervous, as I rarely go anywhere. Other than to the local pharmacy, supermarket or sake distributor. To prepare for the big date, I got some Always Mandarin artificially-flavored Stride gum, to keep my breath pleasant. Horrible, horrible stuff. It's like trick gum. One assumes that it's supposed to taste like an orange, as in Mandarin orange, but it tastes more like an actual Mandarin.
That it! This fucking gum tastes like a Chinese guy. Always.
Normally at a function such as this, with monied patrons about, I'd assume that I'm the craziest son of a bitch in the room, but given that the people invited to this thing are live theatre fans and artists, I'll back it up to the top 5.
One thing is for sure, though. I'm the poorest motherfucker in the room. That was true at the Deval Patrick Christmas Gala at the Copley Plaza. Also true at every DeCordova Museum event I worked at or attended. Shit, you could spend all day throwing darts out the window in the South End and never hit a poorer person.
Maybe we'll meet a celebrity. Perhaps Vanilla Ice is working the bar. Mmmmm, Vanilla Ice. At Deval Patrick's party, which we got into by finagling a deal regarding a very small amount of volunteer work, Linda and I actually spoke to The Gov. He's about two feet tall, and had a smile screwed onto his face.
Anyway, got to go. Also, I like the picture, "Never Forget." Cracked me up for some reason.