Meladori needs to be careful where she’s swingin’ them hips.

•January 31, 2008 • 1 Comment

That’s a tough act to follow. I’ll just have to keep it short and sweet.

The intersection of Mass Ave. and Boylston St. keeps you on your toes. It’s this strange area where college kids, Newbury St. shoppers, homeless people, and drunkards that want Little Stevie’s pizza all rendez-vous.

Not too long ago, I was dragging lostandsafe to come along shopping with me. The Marshalls on Boylston is where I often empty my wallet. Thus we were graced with crossing Mass Ave. Getting heckled by the homeless men at that spot is nothing unusual. But this particular day, we encountered a gentleman.

There was a man sitting on his ledge outside of Berklee College of Music. For some reason, he had buzzers, clippers, whatever you want to call those things. No mirror, just an impromptu side of the road hair cut.

He spotted us as we were walking by. “HEY!! How does this look??”
Knowing the fundamental rules of homeless etiquette, we responded “Good!”

I see this man’s eyes glue to my tush as we began to pass him.
The man then shouts the nicest compliment I’ve ever received.


Thank you, cutie pie. *runs away*


Keep it in your pants

•January 26, 2008 • Leave a Comment

We received our first anonymous story and it’s pure gold.
Thank you to our rock hard donor.


So if you’re a female and you’re reading this then you probably know by now that men tend to wake up with what’s commonly known as “morning wood”. I’m certainly no exception.

One morning in particular when I was in high school I woke up with the worst morning wood ever. I must have had too much liquid the night before because I needed to relieve myself like crazy. But like I said: WORST MORNING WOOD EVER. It wasn’t just hard, it was straight up. It was truly a force of nature which would not give way one bit. It was, without exaggeration, touching the area right below my belly button.

So, with my lightning rod erection I dashed to the bathroom in desperate need of urination. In such a rush I had no time to take care of such measures as closing the door. I now had the difficult task of making a stream of urine aimed upwards go at a downward 45 degree angle. I quickly decided the only solution was to make an arch.

So by now you can all-too-vividly imagine this scene of me standing there with my unsheathed lightning rod spouting a tall fountain of yellow liquid. A few seconds into the flow my dad walked past the door, stopped, and yelled “HOLY CRAP!” and then just sort of dashed away.
We’ve never spoke of this incident since.

The most celebrated awkward situation

•January 20, 2008 • 2 Comments

800px-safety_pin2.jpgPants ripping. In high school.

I don’t get too heartbroken when I destroy clothes, it’s something that has come naturally to me all my life. But when I find corduroy pants that fit my ass like THAT, I get a little nostalgic.

By revealing that my corduroys were my favorite, I set the scene that I was not the sexiest dresser in high school. But on this one particular day, I had some cute underwear on. A pair of red Calvin Kleins. This was my junior or senior year a high school, so luckily I was too old for anyone to steal my lunch money.

I had a computer class of some sort. My high school mainly consisted of portable classrooms from the 1970s (a real high budget place). For some reason, the computer rooms were in pristine shape. The room was surrounded by white boards with metal chalk trays under them. This would be my downfall.

All I remember was getting up quickly, nailing my ass on one of those chalk trays and hearing one of the loudest rips of my life. I was somehow lucky enough not to rip my pants right down my ass. Instead, from my hip to my knee was tripping on the side, revealing my bright red undies. I gave the deer in the headlights shocked looked for a moment or two before the teacher instructed me to go to the nurse.

This concept interests me. It wasn’t “go to the office, call your mom, and have her bring you new pants.” It was “go to a licensed medical worker and see what she can do.” Not only that, but the geography of it did not make sense. The main office was about 50 down the hall whereas the nurse’s office was about five miles away on the other side of the school. I assumed the teacher had witnessed another buffoon rip their pants before, so I followed her good judgment.

I did my best to hold my pants together as I made the long trip to the nurse’s office, awkwardly passing my peers at every turn. Upon entering the nurse’s office, she asked if I could sew. I replied no (a problem that I’ve remedied since). She pulls out a box of safety pins from her desk. “Do the best you can, then go back to class when you’re finished.” I sat there, milking my time as long as I could, pinning corduroy together.

I spent the rest of the day moving my leg as little as possible. I feared that one wrong move would disrupt my delicate display of pinning and the pants would rip even more. I remember kids asking me about what happened, and me explaining it was “punk rock” in my best SLC Punk voice. That excuse got me through the day.

R.I.P. corduroys

I just wanted some fucking corn pops

•January 14, 2008 • 1 Comment

For my first post in this blog of awkwardness, I’d like to tell you a story of an event that happened almost two years ago. In spite of this, the memory was sufficiently awkward to still remain fairly vivid in my mind to this day. It helps that I have another blog of sorts, where I posted this story on the night that it happened. That serves as a good refresher.

Anyway, everyone knows that one of the most important things about dorm life is knowing where the nearest 24 hour grocery store is. If you didn’t know this, consider yourself informed. The closest 24 hour store to my college campus happens to be a Walgreen’s. The closest 24 hour store that sells food happens to be a Wal-Mart.

A quick note on my views about Wal-Mart: I hate it. Certain Wal-Marts in other areas may be different, but this particular Wal-Mart is seriously THE trashy people store. You get all the fat, inbred white hicks. All the toofless black people on welfare. You know, all the people I generally despise on a group basis. And all of them in large numbers.

Wal-Mart at night is a different story all together. Wal-Mart at night consists of an entirely different sort of shady shoppers, most of which look like they really should only come out at night. Granted, you’re dealing with far fewer of them, but also far fewer open checkout lanes, so chances are you’ll have to deal with them sooner or later. Awkwardness abound.

Anyway, I digress. Regardless of my views on Wal-Mart, it still happens to be the closest 24 hour store that actually has just about anything I’d want to go shopping for at any given time. This is important, because I end up doing most of my shopping at night. I suppose my hatred for crowds is greater than my hatred of the types of people generally populating Wal-Marts at 2 AM.

Now that you have 300+ words of unnecessary back story, I can proceed to the story itself.

So let’s set the scene. It’s March 16th, 2006. Approximately 12:30 AM. And I am HUNGRY. So I check my private stash of food in my room. Nothing. I check the community fridge in the common room. Nada. I check all the drawers and cabinets in the half-kitchen. Oatmeal. The only thing to eat was OATMEAL. Plain oatmeal. My hunger will not be satisfied by mere unflavored oatmeal. None of my roommates even had any food lying around which I could “borrow” and restock at a later date.

There’s only one way to solve this, short of cannibalism. Late night Wal-Mart run. Since none of my roommates were around, I was on my own. Grabbing my coat, keys, and wallet, I set off to brave the freakshow that is Wal-Mart at 1 AM. But when I walk inside, the few people I see look relatively NORMAL. Somewhat relieving, yet somewhat unsettling. Further reflection on this was interrupted by the sharp hunger pains in my stomach.

Now normally, grocery shopping is something that should never be done on an empty stomach. I learned this lesson several times the hard way, by running out and only intending to buy a few items, but returning with twenty bags of edible goodness. However, this time I was prepared. I knew what I wanted: chocolate mini-donuts, corn pops, and a half gallon of milk. In, out, and eat. And you know, the hunger pains.

First stop: mini-donuts. Two boxes of these firmly under one arm, I make my way to the cereal aisle. I notice an elderly woman, not quite old enough to be a grandmother, squatting in the middle of the aisle and digging through boxes of Bran Flakes (or some other wrinkly-people food) for who knows what reason. As I approach her, on my way to corn pop goodness, I see her reach waaaay in the back of the shelves for a box…and promptly lets out one of the loudest and wettest farts I have ever heard. If I were this woman, I would have immediately checked my underwear for “uninvited guests”. It was that type of fart.

After she toots, I can see her visibily stiffen, then she turns her head and looks me DIRECTLY IN THE EYES. Time freezes. I don’t want to make eye contact, but I can’t look away. So I sit there and stare at her for what seemed like an eternity, not knowing what to do while her eyes were locked on to mine, DARING me to say something. Meanwhile, the only thing I can think is “I just wanted some fucking corn pops!”

What seemed like hours later (but in reality was probably only two seconds), she shrugs and makes an awkward half-smile as if to say “I’m old, what do you expect?” and then breaks eye contact and goes back to reaching for boxes of Bran Flakes.

I quietly grab my corn pops and proceed to the register, too stunned by the situation to even feel hungry anymore.

“And when there is no hope, I’ll smoke some crack I’ll shoot some dope”

•January 14, 2008 • 2 Comments

I was returning home one day from East Boston, a place I rarely venture. I hopped on a busy green line train home. I found a cozy spot to lean and I threw on some headphones. Usually if you pretend to listen to some music, no one bothers you.


In the seats directly across from me, there appear to be two crack heads making out. Making out is an understatement. Sucking face to the point of ripping clothes off might be more appropriate. The couple seemed to be about my age, very early 20s. Everyone around them, like me, was trying to ignore the possible public sex act.

Suddenly, the passion ends. I mean, they literally pull away like NOTHING happened. The very fine male specimen looks around the train car briefly, and then spots me. Okay, so I might have been watching whatever those two were doing. Not in a diddler sort of way, more in a “I want to see that hideous car wreck” type of way. The man gets up out of his seat and approaches me. For some reason, I thought turning my music UP was going to do something to make him go away.

I take off my headphones because obviously I’m dying to hear what this guy has to say to me. He starts with “Excuse me, excuse me miss”. Someone calling me miss is always bad news. I look up. The man then rolls up his sleeve. His arm is covered in tribal tattoos and those Chinese symbol tattoos. I can only imagine what inspirational words he has permanently written on his arm in another language. He then points to a wound of some sorts on his arm. Small, round, surrounded by bruises. He asks me if it’s a spider bite.

No, sir, that’s an injection mark.

Honestly, I have no idea what a spider bite looks like. I’m not a drug aficionado. And if I can identify what that is, then you’re a scary person. After my diagnosis, I realize that I have to tell this dirty doper SOMETHING. I glance back to his seat and see his classy girlfriend patiently waiting for my response. And the best response I thought up? “Uhhh…errrmmm….I DON’T KNOW WHAT A SPIDER BITE LOOKS LIKE!!!”

I hardly finished my sentence before I hustled to the complete other side of the train car. I put my headphones back on and took a moment to reflect. Did that guy seriously whip out his injection mark at me? I tried to pretend it didn’t happen and continue with my subway routine of staring at the floor.

At this point, the train is pulling out of Park Street. I glance back over and I see the same fine male specimen walking over to my end of the car. When he approaches me, I’m a little smarter this time, and I don’t take off the headphones. I can still hear him explain to me “Yo me and my girl gotta take the commuter rail home. It’s $3. We got like…$1. You think you can help us out?” I apologized and said I had no money, which was probably true.

The couple of the year gets off the train at Boylston or Arlington or something. You know, a place NOWHERE NEAR A COMMUTER RAIL. Not that a commuter rail ticket would cost $3. Oh well, I suppose this is another day in the life of a crack head.

Lost And Safe – The Slickest Boy In the Universe

•January 13, 2008 • Leave a Comment


Ok, so this past New Years I met up with this friend of mine whom I haven’t seen in forever on account’a her studying abroad in Italy. We were at this party, and she brought along this friend from home. This, mind you, was the first time her friend and I had ever met. Also be mindful of the fact that by that point, I had a few cups of jungle juice under my belt, immediately followed by a few visits from the forget-who-you-are-cuz-your-mother-never-loved-you fairy. So while we met, we never really “met”.

Anywho, the night went on, we conversed (i think), and were pretty friendly with eachother (in all likelihood).

Fast forward to about a week and a half later. This same aforementioned Italy friend was having a birthday party, and I, being the most requested and admired guy in the universe (surpassing Slash, Kanye, and Jesus), was invited. I took the train into Boston that night, dressed to impress with the confidence to match. I was hungry and realized I hadn’t eaten that day. Maybe i could swing by Burger King on the way, I thought. I arrived at South Station and considered maybe picking something up there, but decided I could hold out a bit longer. Oh God, if only I knew what I know now… Damnit I would have stayed.

As fate would have it, I boarded the Red Line to Alewife, and got off at Park Street. As I was waiting for my next train, I walked by a familiar face. After a moment of consideration, it suddenly hit me – it was Italy friend’s friend, the one who’s existence was questionable up until that very sober moment. Damnit, what was her name? Should I say hi? How can I say hi without even knowing her name? What could we even talk about for an entire train ride? Maybe she was too trashed to remember me. Just act like you didn’t see her. With my eyes firmly glued to the ground, I walked to the opposite side of the train stop. When it arrived, we boarded on opposite sides. Score. I was in the clear. The train was way too packed for her to- shit! Is she coming over here?! DON’T.. COME.. OVER-!”

This next part was undoubtedly my shining moment of the night. Sure enough, she recognizes me, AND remembers my name. She offers a welcoming greeting – you know, the kind that immediately kills off any anxious/nervous feelings. The kind that says “hey, let’s make this NOT WEIRD.”

My response: A smile. No hand gestures, no big people words, no evidence of possessing any basic communication skills – just… a smile. Her reaction was actually pretty funny though. You know how sometimes your face responds in spite of your attempts to remain still. There’s this sort of subtle contortion, like someone just squished a bug in front of you or you caught a whiff of something awful. Yep, that was her. She quietly stepped back into a corner and avoided eye contact for the rest of the ride.

I attempted to sneak off on an earlier stop, but alas, she was standing directly in front of the door. It was either slip by with a high chance of another horrible (albeit brief) confrontation, or get off at the same time, and attempt to either run ahead (not likely, i’m a fat kid), or walk creepily behind. It was like choosing between the Holocaust and 9/11.

We ended up both getting off at Fenway, so I tried to keep my distance behind them. Clearly God (also known as Santa Clause and The Boogie Man) was punishing me for SOMETHING, because no matter how hard I tried, there was no point where I could get more than 10 feet away from this girl. We’re talking lurker in the shadows distance hear. Like, there are two possible outcomes of me being that close – a rape or a mugging. That poor, poor girl.

It wasn’t long before we got to a cross walk bombarded with traffic, effectively forcing an end to my stubborn avoiding. The cat was out of the bag. She asked, with a hint of caution, if I had remembered who she was. To which I responded “Yeah! (obviously).” Like a dork I tried to play it cool, like nothing ever happened. She was a sweetheart about it too, making several (failed) attempts to make conversation on the way to the apartment. It turned out her friend (the birthday girl) hadn’t even showed up to her own party yet, so without me she wouldn’t have been able to get in. Funny how smoothly it all worked out.

…That girl is going to hate me forever.

Mumble mumble cough mumble

•January 13, 2008 • Leave a Comment

This idea has been brewing in my head for awhile. During lunch with lostandsafe, I bounced this idea off of him and it immediately took life. I called up blindman because I really wanted to get him involved too. We produced this blog ASAP.

So alas a general direction. We all live sufficiently awkward lives. Telling awkward tales is one of my favorite hobbies. As much as I love telling them, I love hearing them. I want to collect all these awkward stories to eventually put a smile on someone’s face. I want to examine what makes us feel so awkward. And I want to have silly moments in the process.

I have a few awkward stories I’m working on posting. Living in the city gives me plenty of inspiration. I can’t wait to see what the other guys come up with. Lots of laughs in store.
Hopefully deep belly laughs, not those awkward fake laughs.