PulpLit.net

The Bachelor-at-Large

I'm back from a week-long trip home in Cahvah (that's "Carver" to non-Massholes). Carver, for those not in the know, is a town just next to Plymouth, home of the Pilgrims. Carver is also the place where I spent the majority of my childhood. It has cranberry bogs. Lots of them.

Unlike the trip to Hawaii I took in March, this week seemed rather long, though punctuated by moments of high drama. I went home primarily to surprise my grandfather on Easter. Every Easter, my grandfather, father and I drive out to Malden, Mass. to put flowers on the graves of my grandfather's parents and other relatives. We then head down to the ballfield my grandfather played on as a kid and my granddad, who once pitched for the Boston Braves, throws a few to my father and me (it goes without saying that the athletic skill of both my father and my 82-year-old grandfather puts my own to shame). Easter Sunday passed pleasantly; Grandpa was surprised, my good friend Beth came to join the family dinner, and we all laughed at Ed for bathing with his underwear on.

It wasn't until Easter Sunday night that the fun really started. My sister returned to her dormroom to discover her computer had been stolen. The next day, I visited the dentist to have a few cavities filled. As we waited for the novocaine to kick in, I was somehow made to reveal that I am a bit of a liberal. My dentist then launched into a fifteen-minute philippic of hawkish proportions, denouncing the UN, Iraqis and the French at length while revealing a belief that the US went into Iraq for oil - which, according to my dentist, was a good thing. I, of course, was not going to argue with a man about to stick a drill in my mouth. Nonetheless I expected him to start asking me "Is it safe?" at any moment.

Tuesday was relatively calm, the highlight being dinner with my friend Sat in Cambridge, where he proceeded to listen heroically as I took the opportunity to inform him, in detail, of just how boring my life can be - something I find rather off-putting.

Wednesday saw a return to the dentist, sans tirade. But Wednesday night, my mother started having terrible pains in her stomach, culminating in an early morning trip to the emergency room and, eventually, a removed gall bladder. It was a standard procedure and my mother is doing fine now, but there were certainly a few tense moments.

Thursday night I visited the aforementioned Beth in Cambridge and, along with her friends, was treated to an episode of "The Bachelor." Of course, I was immediately drawn in; and quite as naturally, the one girl I found appealing was dropped on the very episode we watched. As for Mr. Firestone himself, I say that anyone that goofy-looking, whose name conjures visions of hydro-reducing treads and the heady scent of black rubber at every mention, deserves none other than "Tina Fabulous," a piece of fiber optic cable with a blonde wig and too much eyeshadow.

The rest of the week was fairly uneventful, though I was pleased to discover I seem to have licked my fear of flying as I returned to SF. The flight was simply boring, as opposed to being six hours of pure, unadulterated terror. Though now that I think of it, I'm not sure which is better.

The only other relevant piece of news is, I sent my acceptance into Emerson. Yes, I will be padding that resume with an MFA in Creative Writing, the graduate program second only to law school in opening doors to high-end, lucrative jobs. I think I'll go write myself a check for $5 million, dated 4/28/2007. I think one of the contestants on "Joe Millionaire" did that. Not that I'd know.

--JC