Goings on between Dot and the 'bury

Are they shooting a movie in Dudley Square?  I drove by where the new police station is going up and the cops in hi-viz lime jackets were directing traffic or, rather, watching traffic go by.  There were a couple of trucks on the northern corner unloading sound equipment and spot lights big enough to qualify as Klieg lights, though I doubt any premiers are debuting.  The trucks blocked my view, but it looked like a film crew and maybe some caterers, hair stylists and, dare I suggest, actors were blocking out scenes between the back of the Silver Slipper Restaurant and Drain's House of Style.

The Silver Slipper and Drain's are certainly two Boston landmarks that deserve to be commemorated on film.  Too bad they couldn't have been worked into the verisimilitude of "The Friends of Eddie Coyle."

Further up Warren Avenue, I noticed that Gyro King has closed down in Grove Hall!  One of the reasons I had meandered in that direction was for a gyro.  The other reason was because today was wonderful motorcycle weather after yesterday's relentless rain.  I had taken a shortcut to Blue Hill Avenue and instead of the most beautiful Shwarm-tastic sign in all the Boston metro area, I saw a colorful sign for "Chifipi"

Stuck in traffic about a half block away, I wondered what this Chifipi could be.  I had to navigate traffic on two wheels as I passed but I can tell you this based on the logo painted on the front window: Chi stands for chicken, Fi stands for fish, and though I can't be sure I'll bet dollars to donuts that Pi stands for pizza.  This doesn't bode well, gentle reader.  It takes specialization to become King of anything, be it with gyro meat or purple prose.  I don't know any cook yet who has mastered the trifecta of chicken, fish and pizza pie.

It's worth a future investigation though.




I saw The Friends of Eddie Coyle recently at the Brattle.  Good movie.  Pretty much how the world saw Boston in 1973 and the cinematic image hasn't changed too much if you consider Mystic River, et al.  The Athens of America.

Riding the 28 bus

I was wondering about the MBTA Route 28-X that was supposed to bring high-speed bus service along Blue Hill Avenue.   I thought it was a good idea when it was proposed but I thought I should test my instinct.  

I took bus # 0821 on the existing Route 28 yesterday morning.  What follows is the arrival time for each stop, the name of the stop, and how many people were on the bus when the bus pulled away.  

        10:40. Depart Mattapan Station up Blue Hill Avenue.  2 people aboard.

1.     10:41. Mattapan Square. 10 people
2.     10:43. Babson Street.  12 people
3.     10:44. Woodland Street.  12 people
4.     10:44. Almont Street.  14 people
5.     10:45. Norfolk Street.  13
6.     10:46. Wilmore Street.  13.  6 degrees C per Frugal Furniture sign.
7.     10:47. Evelyn Street.  15
8.     10:47. Woolson Street.  14
9.     10:49. Morton Street.  14
10.     10:50. Woodrow Avenue.  16
11.                 Arbutus Street.   No stop.
12.                 Calendar Street.  No stop.
13.     10:52. Westview Street.  17
14.                 VA Health Center.  No stop.
15.     10:53. Talbot Avenue.  18
16.                 Vesta Street.  No stop.
17.     10:54. Blue Hill Avenue at Wales Street.  17
18.     10:55. Charlotte Street.  17
19.     10:57. Ellington Street - Columbia Road - Franklin Park Zoo.  19
20.     10:57. Pasadena Road.  18
21.     10:58. Castlegate Road.  16
22.     11:01. Warren Street at Sunderland Street - Grove Hall.  17
23.     11:02. Intervale Street.  18
24.     11:02. Gaston Street.  20
25.                 Holburn Street.  No stop.
26.     11:03. Quincy Street.  24
27.     11:03. Savin Street - YMCA.  26
28.     11:04. Maywood Street.  25
29.     11:05. Woodbine Street - Mall of Roxbury.  26
30.     11:05. Waverly Street.  27
31.     11:06. Montrose Street.  25
32.     11:07. Warren Street at Moreland Street.  27
33.                 Kearsage Avenue - Roxbury District Courthouse.  No stop.
34.     11:10. Dudley Station.  13 passengers.
35.                 Malcolm X Boulevard at Shawmut Avenue.  No stop.
36.     11:13. O’Bryant Park High School.  12
37.                 Madision Park High School.  No stop.
38.     11:14. Tremont Street - Roxbury Crossing.  11
39.                 Tremont Street at Prentiss Street - Boston Police Headquarters.  No stop.
40.     11:16. Ruggles Station.  End of the line. 

Out of a total of 40 stops, 32 were taken at a minute between stops.  Total time elapsed: 36 minutes.  This isn’t too bad and probably not too much longer than regular traffic.  The number of people getting on and off were one or two per stop except in Mattapan and at Dudley Station.  

Would the 28X be faster?  It’s hard to say, but probably not on a Saturday morning.  If more people had been getting on at every stop, which I assume is what happens during weekdays, the trip would have been much longer.  All in all, it was a pleasant trip.  A tip f the fedora to Operator 67942 for an enjoyable ride.

The wind does the wiping

When I checked the weather this morning in the Globe, I knew my mission was assigned.  I dreamed about taking the motorcycle to work today and Boston's paper of record confirmed my fate.  The temperature was predicted to be above 50.  Sweet, unexpected January goodness despite the concurrent promise of rain and high winds.

It was at least fifty degrees this morning and no active rain when I left the house.  I wrestled my bike out of the mud that had formed overnight, but once on the street it was smooth sailing through an atmosphere that was gray but the opposite of blustery; the calm before the storm.

As luck would have it, I was tasked with a crosstown errand in the afternoon.  By then the rain had picked up.  The wind too.  The Globe estimates wind speeds are reaching 30 mph.  Perhaps.  My little Ninja 250 can outrun it.  The people I was supposed to meet offered to reschedule.  "We don't want you getting wet."

No way, I replied.  I've been itching to balance on two motorized wheels for more than a month.  The worse the weather, the better the ride as long as the mercury is above freezing.  I had to drive home anyway, why not make an adventure of it?

I arrived at my destination.  "You must be soaked!" the women exclaimed.  I agreed that my pants were wet, but from the elements rather than from fear.  My jacket keeps me dry enough.  "Doesn't the wind blow you around?" they asked.  Not really.  If I were on top of the Tobin Bridge, that would be another matter.  On the streets of Dorchester, high wind is my friend; it blows the rain off my helmet's face shield so I don't have to worry about wiping it clear with the back of my thumb.

If it were fifty degrees every January day, I wouldn't kvetch about Boston winters as much as I do.

Ninja and MacBook take a licking

I was going to take the T this morning but a step outside changed my plan.  I had heard the rain earlier this morning but I was expecting winter weather.  It is December 14.  It was warmer than I expected and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.  It appeared to be a sterling day and I vaguely remembered reading in the Sunday Herald that highs today would be in the upper 40s.  That may have been a wishful confabulation on my part when faced with a seemlessly azure sky and invisible breath.

I turned right around and picked up my helmet. I predicted Ninja weather.  I got a dishtowel and mopped the leftover raindrops off the seat and fairing.  The Little Ninja fired up as ready to take to the streets as I was.

Motorcyclists, beware this time of year!  On Bakersfield Street, without a care in the world and looking forward to some high speed revolutions along Malcolm X Blvd, I hit a slippery patch.  I can't say it was black ice though I slid like I was on ice.  One instant I am balanced on two wheels; the next instant, I feel my helmet hit the road and I realize, from experience, that I have tipped over.

After sliding maybe twenty feet, I got up and walked around.  I checked my burning knee and confirmed that I have lost some skin in two places.  No more kneeling in church for the next three weeks at least.  A pair of Irish workmen came over to help me set the bike back vertical to the road.  Their accents gave their nationality away.  An off-duty mailman walked over.  He scuffed his shoe on the pavement, "It happens to me all the time," he said, "You've got to be careful this time of year."

What's the most heartbreaking part of this accident besides my torn pants?  I bought an Apple MacBook eight days ago and that very same investment was in in a satchel pinned under my hip as I slid down the road with my little Ninja motorcycle on top of my midsection.

The keyboard doesn't sit flat on the desk anymore.  The screen has a crack that radiates a yellow-tinged, rainbow aurora that matches up with the factory issue wallpaper.  I don't think something like this is covered by the warrantee.   The damage is more cosmetic than functional.  The software works, as you can tell.  Like a Timex, an Apple, apparently, can take a licking and keep on ticking.  My new MacBook is now as scarred as my old knee.  Both are still working fine, thanks, if a little worse from wear.

I popped my turn signal back into place, rubbed the fiberglass shavings off the fairing where the Ninja hit the road directly, adjusted the mirror, and hesitantly made my way across Boston via Dudley Street, scared like a man who would be in a coma if he hadn't been wearing a helmet.  Kawasaki lets the good times roll, but sometimes Boston's weather reminds a driver to be cautious above all else.  Boston: always a picturesque killjoy.

The Dot is a lady

Dorchester is a lady. She may be a little bit brawny and bloated, but she is yet elegant, like a ballerina in work boots, a debutante who made her debut in 1630 and married in 1870, a dowager still full of spunk and spitfire. Dorchester, Mass. isn't a widow and or a frustrated wife nor a divorcee, Dorchester is a part of Boston, Mass., the biggest and best part of the city,and any one will agree, and a willing helpmate. Though she's put on a few pounds and her conversation can seem a bit dotty and meandering at times, Dorchester still keeps her wits and her grit. You can't keep a good neighborhood down for long.

A voluptuous temptress, Dorchester, Mass. is skilled in the ways of love and adoration. Fecund and suspended off the body of Boston like a pregnant belly, Dorchester is plump with feminine wiles, emotional wisdom, intuition, and indirect communication skills. In polyglot Dorchester, body language is the lingua franca. Affirmative nods, handshakes, and friendly waves are the most common words spoken. Fourth most common is the knowing wink. After that, the sidelong glance that takes disapproving measure of bad behavior.

No drudge or charwoman, this Dorchester, she works hard nonetheless, thanklessly and thankful for her chance to add to the harlequin, parti-colored tapestry that is Boston, the Athens of America. If Boston is akin to Athens, Dorchester is a match to Thessaly. Scored knuckes, chapped hands, sore elbows, calloused knees and a splitting headache to match, Dorchester gives and gives its best. Enduring legends cut their teeth and make their mark in Dorchester's warren. There are no monsters, no minotaur, no centaurs. A senator was born here. Any monsters are those conjured by the overactive imaginations of people unfamiliar with Dorchester's civil manners. No one eats children in Dorchester, raising children to be responsible citizens is the neighborhood's mission.

Have you been to Dorchester much? Even if you've only been once it takes nerves of steel to resist its charms. Stronger men than you have been sucked into Dorchester's vortex and come out the other side better for it. If you are a woman, have you experienced Dorchester? If you have, you know what it is like to be in the company of supportive friends, a sorority of camaraderie, you and the Dot. Dorchester is the best friend you never had...until now. Nothing bad happens in Dorchester except bad decisions and then you have no one to blame but yourself. You can't blame Dorchester, a neighborhood of milk and cereal and meats cooked so thoroughly there's no chance of contracting salmonella.

Dorchester's enthusiasm is infectious. Once bitten, not a bit shy. Once bitten by the Dorchester bug, it gets under your skin. Though Dorchester is big it can lodge like a chigger producing an invisible itch that demands scratching. The only cure: a return visit. The permanent cure: becoming a Dorchesterite in deed as well as sympathy. Dorchester has experienced a rash of new home buyers descending on properties that a decade ago no one would give a second look. People look twice at Dorchester now. They do double takes and crane their necks as they pass her curves. Dorchester has a hamburger and fries to go with her shake.

A bicyclist passed me on Dot Ave this evening. He was whistling a familiar tune as he pedaled past the Blarney Stone. His phrasing mimicked Sinatra, justly so. The song was "I've Got You Under My Skin."

Come on you fool, you've got to give into the Dot. This lady is no tramp.

Cleopatra wasn't black

Despite the slogan, Cleopatra, though Egyptian, wasn't black. Egyptians are Africans, so it's correct to refer to the last ruler of an independent Egypt (until relatively recently) as African. She was however, the last of the Ptolemaic Dynasty, a dynasty founded by one of Alexander the Great's generals, Ptolemy, and hence she was of Greek descent. There was a lot of Appalachian-style intermarriage in this dynasty, so the chance of some black blood getting into the line, while possible, is remote.

Even if Cleopatra VII had come from native Egyptian stock, she wouldn't have been black any more than modern Egyptians are. The Ptolemaic Dynasty lasted between 305 BC and 30 BC, when Egypt was conquered by the Romans. Prior to the Ptolemies, however, there was a dynasty of black pharaohs, between 750 and 656 BC. This would be the period of the Twenty-Fifth Dynasty, also known as the Nubian Dynasty.

What does this have to do with the price of tea in Boston Harbor? It turns out that the National Center of African American Artists in Roxbury has a permanent exhibit that commemorates the Nubian Dynasty. The imposing and somewhat dilapidated mansion that serves as the Center's headquarters at 300 Walnut Avenue is also home to the recreated tomb of the Nubian Pharaoh Aspelta (600-580 BC). It's a remarkable exhibit showing how this pharaoh was laid to rest for life everlasting. If you want to see some photos provided by the Center click here, but for the $4.00 admission price, I recommend going in person since the experience can't be replicated on a computer screen.

I believe this is the only permanent exhibit the Center maintains, and it's an important one. The Nubians were centered in the Kingdom of Kush, in modern Sudan, and they preserved Egyptian civilization during a critical, if ancient time. This is something to be proud of if people are going to be proud of their race and it is much more accurate than erroneously claiming a Greek as a relative. Take it from someone who often mixes fact with fancy. If you're going to do it, you'd better have your facts straight.

Unfortunately, the Center isn't served by train. You have to take the 22 bus from Dudley Station to Walnut Avenue on Seaver Street. It's a short, three-block walk up Walnut to the Center and it's located in a picturesque and well preserved neighborhood. Don't believe all the horror stories you've heard about Roxbury. This little pocket is a peaceful jewel.

Mattapan rent

I was taking the MBTA's High-Speed Line between Cedar Grove to Ashmont, chatting it up with a fellow passenger. "Did you know that Manhattan has the highest rents in the US? An apartment averages $44.33 a square foot."

"So much?" she said, "I'm paying a thousand a month for a two bedroom on Blue Hill Avenue with heat and hot water included!"

"No, no, wait," I replied. "I'm talking about Manhattan, not Mattapan. You don't live in the heart of New York City. You live on the edge of Boston. If you didn't, we wouldn't be commuting on this trolley.

"I'm sorry," she replied, "I have dyslexic hearing. My right ear overrides what my left ear is hearing. With all the clacking of the car on the tracks I must have transposed the letters in my head. We're talking about Mattapan, right?"

We were now. I started again: "You've scored a two bedroom flat with utilities for $1000 a month?"

"Yes," she said, "I'm overpaying but I enjoy the convenience. I'm going to stay to lock in the price when the Silver Line gets extended. I work at Logan so I'll appreciate less transfers even if the commute takes as long."

What a neighborhood.

What do you call a guy with no arms and no legs? Matt. What do you call a part of a city that gets little respect but deserves a lot more? Dorchester.

Travelling from Longwood to Savin Hill this evening, I went from one world to another within the same municipal jurisdiction. Both are Boston. Both have their part to play in this urban opera.

Huntington Avenue, between Brigham Circle and Symphony, is crowded with bright-eyed youth full of half-digested book smarts untarnished by experience and without a scar to show they've earned their place in the sun yet. Tremont Street is another story. The farther one gets from Brigham Circle, the darker and more sparse the city seems. Mission Church has a chapel filled with crutches from those who cast them off after being healed by miracles. After the church are a few pizzerias and then the wide, concrete and asphalt, sterile intersection of Roxbury Crossing.

I was on my motorcycle by the time I hit Roxbury Crossing. The light turned green and I rocketed down Malcolm X Boulevard, a street with few features, canyoned on one side by dynamited puddingstone and on the other by factory-facaded school buildings and an enormous, institutional post office. My speed was just right and I passed through Dudley Square and all down the length of Dudley Street without hitting another red light. Dudley is a place where no one gives up hope. They mill between destinations like the city's grist that gets leavened into airy bread. Self-contained, little wrong is committed in Dudley. It is a half-charmed place in which Fate never forgets to bestow a few blessings.

I passed the over sized, bronze pear in Everett Square, a symbol of Dorchester's fecundity if there ever was one. I parked my motorcycle on Dot Ave, walking the street to pick up some sundries before I settled home for the evening. The sidewalks were just as crowded as those in Longwood, but a different breed of humanity was out and about. I passed the bleary-eyed, the watery-eyed, the cross-eyed, the legally blind, the blue-eyed, the brown-eyed, the almond-eyed, the mystically third-eyed. I passed among the bloated and the spindle-ribbed, between the straight-backed and the wearily bent, the chalk-faced and the rosy-cheeked. Young and old, adolescent and senescent, addled and sage, the only homogeneity was provided by context and common experience. Dorchesterites. Dorchesterites all. Human beings foremost, Bostonians of course, citizens of Dorchester in the end. What a city.

Why fear?

It is natural to feel fear in certain situations but not when you are just walking down a street. Dorchester unjustly has a reputation that makes drivers' knuckles go white around the steering wheel as they exit I-93 onto Freeport Street. I don't know why. I have lived in Dorchester almost two years and I have never felt my life or property threatened. I've been all over Dorchester, in the classy neighborhoods and in the sketchier ones. Everyone has always been polite and helpful. I have never been approached to be a party to an illegal act, though my manners and dress would lead one to assume that I was in some places for no other reason.

I have been the most pale-skinned person for blocks but I have never felt uncomfortable for that. I have been the oldest person in a knot of young men on a sidewalk who were less well-dressed, less educated, less socially connected, and less law-abiding than myself, but it was never an issue for any of us. I am not boasting, only making deductions based on the available evidence. I ask for directions and they give very accurate ones. One of the toughs wishes me a nice day. I thank the group and respond likewise with good cheer. Have a nice day, sir.

Some places get known as Wild West war zones where might makes right and the black market is the only market. Good news and no news doesn't sell newspapers. If it bleeds, it leads. Plenty of nothing goes on in Dorchester, but most people never get a chance to learn about that. This applies to other parts of Boston. I am thinking of Roxbury in particular and the Dudley Street corridor that connects the two neighborhoods. Dudley Street is a vibrant and interesting avenue though disposable income doesn't slosh around it the way it does in other parts of Boston. People do, and people are what make a city interesting and livable.

It is easy to look down your nose at how the other half lives. It is just as easy to get out and about, saying hello and complimenting the people you pass on the street, gathering greetings and goodwill in return. To be cheerful doesn't make you a mark for hustlers. Common courtesy goes a long way. It is better to live a century as a rube than one day as a snob. I've been a snob. It is comfortable to be smug but it is much better to be open to what the cityscape offers.

The Pepper Pot

Looking for some good Jamaican jerk food? We recommend Irie Restaurant in Kane Square near the crest of Meeting House Hill in Dorchester. If you can't make it there because it isn't connected to the T and bus connections don't run terribly frequently, may we offer an alternative that is just as hygienic and savory?

The Pepper Pot is a short walk down Dudley Street to the east of Dudley Station. You needn't bring your compass. The freindly folk that frequent Dudley Station will be more than happy to direct you. For authentic Jamaican flavor, the Pepper Pot can't be beat. Knowlegable, attentive wait staff will guide you through the menu. Once you make your selection from a variety of stewed meats in savory sauces paired with Carribean greens, the kitchen staff will lavish loving kindness to your dish. Sip an Irish Moss drink and enjoy the easy-going ambiance and mouth- watering aromas the Pepper Pot has to offer while your meal is being prepared to your satisfaction.

Demanding diners know they don't have to sail away to a Sandals resort for real Jamaican food. This fare is easy to find in Boston if you know where to go. Here is a tip: Take the Silver Line to the end of the line. Walk two blocks to the Pepper Pot. Your palate and your stomach will thank you.