An old reputation

From the WPA New Orleans City Guide published in 1938.  This book opens with the following stanzas reportedly written a hundred years before, presumably in the 1830s:

Have you ever been to New Orleans?  If not you'd better go.
It's a nation of a queer place; day and night a show!
Frenchmen, Spaniards, West Indians, Creoles, Mustees,
Yankees, Kentuckians, Tennesseans, lawyers and trustees,


Negroes in purple and fine linen, and slaves in rags and chains,
Ships, arks, steamboats, robbers, pirates, alligators,
Assassins, gamblers, drunkards, and cotton speculators,
Sailors, soldiers, pretty girls, and ugly fortune tellers;
Pimps, imps, shrimps, and all sorts of dirty fellows....


It goes on but you get the idea.  Plus ca change plus c'est la meme chose.  The more things change the more they stay the same.  New Orleans has had a reputation for a while.  I would change a few words here and there but the essence is the same as you'll find in any guidebook.

I don't know how much I disagree except to say that the above only paints a part of the picture this vast city encapsulates.  A tiny part.  I am glad to be a tiny part of this milieu.

That's a picture of New Orleans' official flag at the top, by the way.  I'll explain the symbolism another day.  For the moment, let's just say that it's the flag of my disposition.

Grand Discount Opening!!

The BD's from 280 Broadway in Chelsea has come to Dorchester, bigger and better.  The address is 90 Washington Street, though the main entrance is on the Columbia Road side of the building next to Burger King.  Look for the pennants strung between the light posts.  It's BD's Discount Grand Opening!!!

It is a department that has everything your heart desires (except love) at discount prices.  The cavernous center section is filled with racks and racks of women's clothes.  Some other things for sale, going counter-clockwise from the main entrance:

Perfume, DVDs, hair accessories, kinetic pictures (the kind you plug in and the waterfall looks like it's moving), party supplies and party favors, crib mattresses, toys...A WHOLE WALL FULL OF TOY GUNS!!!  Mardi Gras beads, a wall of ladies' undergarments, furniture, dog dishes, bunk beds, dining sets, settees, luggage, lamps, art prints and original paintings.....

Pots, skillets, coffee makers, cast aluminum casseroles, aluminum turkey roasting pans, rolling pins, plastic dishes, plastic cups, five kinds of plungers, brooms, mops, sponges, toilet paper, laundry detergent, bleach, candles, every kitchen tool you can think of for a dollar.....

Lay away plan...up to three months.....

Curtains, curtains, more curtains... toilet seats, sheets, towels, hardware, 26 KINDS OF ADHESIVE TAPE, light fixtures, television antennas, phone cords, speaker wires, men's clothes, low rise men's briefs in a variety of patterns and colors: Cupid Boy brand for adolescents and Hunter brand for adults, men's dress socks $1.49 a pair, wrist watches, batteries....

...and MORE!!!

I gave myself a writer's cramp taking down notes.

Saying it twice

If you say it twice, it's doubly nice: Dorchester...Dorchester.

There are no triplicate benefits from saying it thrice even though there's no such thing as too much goodness.  Once you get the idea, the repetitive routines positively reinforce each other so that 2 + 2 equals so on and so on no matter how many times you say it to yourself, or how many friends you tell it to to each other in an infinite game of telephone tag.  If media can be social, the sociable Dot forms its own neighborhood wide web.

I hate winter, but I like Dorchester.  Good neighbors make the bone-chilling months tolerable.  Good cheer on the streets warms a pedestrian's heart.   Good company in the grocery line, in the coffee shop, at the T station, at the bus stop, in line for scratch tickets, at the doctor's and the dentist's offices, at the library and at the packy, makes trudging through the bitter wind whipping of Dorchester Bay worth braving.  There is haven in community.

I live in Dorchester and I like.  I've said it more than once and I'm sure I'll say it again.  I'm happy to say it every day.

Flaherty-Yoon

Candidate Flaherty is tag teaming together with Dorchester's own Sam Yoon, against the incumbent in what is turning out to be an interesting mayoral election in Boston. When I first heard the news at Saint's Diner this morning, I wasn't impressed. I've had some hours to think about it though and I've heard a range of opinions and I think I am for the coalition (thanks, Yellow-Eye!).

There's always been a strong Southie-Dot axis (we call it Dot Ave in both neighborhoods) and marrying these two councillors-at-large into a single ticket brings out both of their strengths. Flaherty's been around awhile. He knows whose bread needs buttering. I'm sure he's got the dull knife ready to do it. Yoon has a heart of gold and he's smart enough not to tarnish it. Yoon may be relatively untested, but he hasn't compromised his principals yet. Not an easy feat for a politician. If Flaherty and Yoon are an odd couple, so were Oscar and Felix and, years after the fact, you know exactly who I am referencing. Flaherty-Yoon can make an enduring mark.

In twenty years, no one will know who Menino was or why his name appears on odd monuments around Boston. That's a statue that will make babies cry so let's hope it never gets cast in bronze. While I don't necessarily think Flaherty is tinder, I know that Yoon is spark. The two of them together just might generate enough heat to fire up Boston's potential more than the status quo. Maybe.

I'm skeptical and I am not in favor of change for change's sake. That said, I also think there is such a thing as too much mediocrity. I don't think any Bostonian would complain about a little more meritocracy. That's what Yoon promises and that is what Flaherty is introducing to his platform by inviting Sam Yoon into his administration. It's a win-win for both men and a win for Bostonians.

Another 4 years of Menino anyone? You can unbuckle your seat belt. Despite whatever enthusiasm the Flaherty-Yoon ticket generates, the incumbent's minions and henchmen can be counted on to turn out in force. Some zombies are kept breathing with a promise of regularly scheduled trash collection. It will be an interesting election but I suspect the result will be a bit more of plus ca change plus c'est la meme chose. A revolution is coming, but will it be this year?

Love over money

I was pedalling through the intersection of Dot Ave and Columbia Road today when I saw an off beat panhandler cajoling stopped traffic with a unique sign. He carried a placard of cardboard that read only "Kiss Me." No sob story, no explanation of why he needed a kiss instead of spare change, no photo of his children, just two words: "Kiss Me" written with a blue Sharpie on the blank side of a Budweiser case.

He approached each car stopped at the traffic light and leaned in, with his sign prominently held over his heart. At some cars, he pressed his mug with pursed lips against the rolled up glass. If he approached a car with the driver's window rolled down, he did it cautiously, but in the end he pursed his lips to offer a smooch.

I had to stop and watch. I didn't see any takers for his offer. He wasn't the usual grizzled panhandler with full, dirty beard and dirty sweatshirt who usually occupies this intersection. Neither was he a Hollywood-style model. He was just a regular looking guy with a clear complexion dressed in tee shirt and jeans looking for a kiss. I sat on the curb for ten or fifteen minutes and I didn't see him get what he was asking for. Maybe he should have asked for change. Money is easier to part with, apparently.

The angel of Dorchester

Some people call her by the name she was born with, Shirley. Others call her Sweettart because her benevolent nature is paired with her sharp tongue. She can swear like a sailor when her dander is up but at her center is a sparkling, 14 karat heart. She has a wall-eye too, which can be a bit disconcerting when you first make her acquaintance.

You can often find Shirley on Dot Ave where she picks cigarette butts and bottle caps out from between the seams in the sidewalks. She carries a plastic bag from Shaw's to carry her treasure. What does she do with all the detritus? No one knows and she won't tell. She does her part to keep the streets spic and span.

Fond of toddlers and the elderly, Shirley also collects tennis balls that wash up on Malibu Beach. She always keeps a few in the pockets of the windbreaker she wears year-round. She hands them out to children and she repairs the legs of old folks's walkers at Edison Green. She likes neither dogs, cats, nor rats and when she sees them in her path, she pelts them with tennis balls until they move out of range.

She is always happy give small change to panhandlers and always happy to receive a compliment. "Sweettart, you're looking mighty fine today," the soccer fans smoking outside the Banshee will tell her. "Thank you," she replies with a blush and a flutter of eyelids as one eye looks at the sidewalk and the other at her admirers' ankles.

Dorchester may not be the prettiest place (to some) but it a place that takes pride in its appearance and takes care of its own.

Hello cello

Some people think that the only instruments that produce music in Dorchester, Mass. are harmonicas playing the blues and car stereos spewing out obscene, hip-hop lyrics at high volume. Well, they haven't been on Boston Street where the cars exhale polka melodies, and they haven't heard of Tony Rymer.

Young Mr. Rymer plays the cello. You've heard of it? It's a big violin, like a bass in a jazz band but played with a bow. It requires practice and perfection and a long-earned familiarity with the instrument. Cello players don't usually play in garage bands. They need to read music. I'm sure there are a few gritty cello players who teach themselves, the way there are punk sousaphonists and self-taught violinists like Ian Anderson or any Okie who fiddled the Devil back down to Hell. Mr. Rymer has chosen a different path. He is learning to master his craft.

Picking up another torch

When Mary Smith-Jones dropped her torch for Larry Storch in 1976, she had developed a taste for hobnobbing with Hollywood celebrities. No one knows how she finagled it, but all evidence and people's recollections around her Dorchester, Mass. neighborhood point to an illicit affair with recently deceased actor and gourmet, Dom DeLuise.

I asked Mrs. McMurphy about the rumors and she confirmed the loose talk on the street. "Oh yes," she said, "Mary always had an eye out for the star power. She was attracted to those Hollywood types like a moth to a flame. Storch and DeLuise weren't the only ones who got caught in her web. There were others. I always liked Dom, though."

Had Mrs. McMurphy ever seen Dom DeLuise in Dorchester? "No," she admitted, "Mary was uppity. She always thought Storch dropped her because she came from the Dot and he didn't like picking her up at her mother's place on Sudan Street. Her mother kept house like a ditch digger, so you can't blame Mary for thinking this way. She wouldn't bring Dommy here, she would always meet him uptown at the Parker House or at the Locke-Ober. Dommy liked the Locke-Ober, he had a special table all to himself. He always paid, like a good gentleman. Mary, she could never afford to go to either of those places on the paycheck she earned at the Lenox Cleaners in Fields Corner."

How did anyone know she was dating Dom DeLuise on the sly? "Mary told everyone," Mrs. McMurphy said, "Everyone who would listen, at least."

Curious about Mr. DeLuise's appeal, I watched the movie 'Fatso" in which he starred in 1980. It's a charming, delightful, little comedy. As the title and Mr. DeLuise's physique would lead you to suspect, it the story of a fat man. You know what? Looking at this in 2009, the main character doesn't look very fat at all compared to what I see on the street every day. Check it out:

Dottywood

I passed Mrs. McMurphy on the way to work this morning while she was smoking a Pall Mall on her front porch. I stopped to discuss how late the recycling truck had been last Friday when she pursed her lips and pointed across the street. "That's Mary Jones-Smith," she said, "Look at how she's aged."

The woman across the street, carrying two shopping bags from Shaw's Supermarket, did indeed look to be in her 60s. She was about 5'6" and seemed to weigh 175 lbs. She was huffing and puffing under the weight of her groceries. "I never wave hello to her anymore," Mrs. McMurphy said, "I haven't for thirty years, since she went all Hollywood on us."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Mary was a pretty girl when she was younger. In 1973 she started dating a Hollywood actor who was shooting a commercial here in Boston, I think it was for Shawmut Bank. Anyhow, the two of them became quite an item until he broke it off. She went to California a few times and he flew into Logan nine or twelve times a year. I think he ended his courting during the Bicentennial. He would stay downtown in one of the hotels but come calling for Mary every day at her mother's place on Sudan Street. They would go to Castle Island and he would buy her two hot dogs. Oh, she used to brag about that. Mr. Big Spender! Two hot dogs at Sullivan's! Back then they probably cost a quarter a piece! She looks like he took her there for every meal and she ate two hot dogs every breakfast, lunch and dinner every time he was in town and didn't stop when he left. Look at her... what a fine figure gone to waste."

I asked who her boyfriend was. Mrs. McMurphy told me, "It was none other than Larry Storch! Can you beat that." I couldn't. My only brush with Hollywood fame was when Robert Vaughn told me to keep the change after he bought some cat litter when I was a cashier at my hometown supermarket.

"Can you believe Larry Storch fell for her?" Mrs. McMurphy continued. "If he could see her now he'd thank his lucky stars. Well, she got uppity after rubbing elbows with all those celebrity types they used to hang out with and now I won't have anything to do with her. Larry Storch! Personally, I always preferred Ken Barry, myself."

Can't put a face to the name? Investigate this and prepare to be entertained. Mr. Storch is in the upper right hand corner. Mr. Barry is the male in the bottom half.

G-8 in Dorchester

World War I, the War to End All Wars, is a memory preserved in textbooks and on granite monuments in Dorchester and Boston. We talk about "being in the trenches" but is was nothing compared to the men who actually lived the battles and boredom that gave birth to this phrase. Even today, three people won't light their cigarettes off the same match, two is the limit, in Dorchester. This custom became common in WWI, the first Big One.

Tiffany Peabody is preserving part of the legacy of the war that defined modern times. She is the great-great-granddaughter of the renowned battle ace, G-8,who isn't known by any other name. Peabody is this lady's married name and she doesn't give her maiden one. As she explains, "Everyone called my great-great grandfather G-8, his fellow legionnaires, the people at Saint's Diner, his children and grandchildren. Even his wife. During and after the war he was G-8 and no one ever said any different."

Ms. Peabody has a roomful of G-8 memorabilia stored and sorted in a walk-in closet in her apartment off Dot Ave. G-8 was born and raised in Dorchester and, after the Armistice, he returned to live a life that was uneventful save for watching his children grow and a next generation take the reins from them. G-8 passed away at Carney Hospital in 1963, though there aren't any obituaries on microfiche to commemorate that detail. Perhaps his exploits seemed too fictional to grace a newspaper of record.

That said, Ms. Peabody has shoe boxes full of medals and mementos that offer testimony to G-8's courage and daring in defense of liberty. They are a treasure trove of memorabilia that reflects the values of Dorchester in days long past that still have relevance today. Many little G-8s are growing up in Dorchester in the 21st century. It would do them well to know of the brave men who went before them.

The chicken smell

Claudia Fishburn has a rare medical condition. It isn't life threatening and people who aren't afflicted with pollosinusitis find it comical, but we all have our cross to bear and Ms Fishburn bears hers with a resigned air. You see, everything Claudia Fishburn smells, smells like chicken soup.

When a suitor brings her roses, they smell like chicken soup to her. When she stops by the perfume counter in a department store, all the testers smell like chicken soup. She went to the Wonder Spice restaurant in Jamaica Plain a few weeks ago and ordered the mango fried rice. It smelled and tasted like chicken soup. She's not a gourmet and her kitchen is stocked mostly with canned goods and lean cuisine. No matter what she cooks, it smells like chicken soup. Even her bathroom smells like chicken soup to her, which may be just as well.

She lives on Sumner Street in Dorchester, close to where this street branches off East Cottage. She moved here because it's right behind the KFC in Edward Everett Square. As she says, "I smell chicken all the time so it doesn't bother me. Other people might not like living behind a chicken restaurant, but I don't notice the exhaust off the fry-o-lators. I figured I'd take this apartment and free up one next to the public garden for someone who would appreciate that smell more."

Turkey patrol

I met with the Edison Kid in the apartment he shares with his mother and sister on Edison Green in Dorchester, just south of Dot Ave's intersection with Columbia Road. Edison Green is the street's name as well as the name of the park that the pavement surrounds, and it is the name of the apartment building that makes up the hypotenuse of this quintessentially, strangely shaped Boston street. I vote in that that building. The street runs in four directions. You won't find that in Oklahoma City.

The Edison Kid is fourteen years old and he asked that I keep his secret identity anonymous. Because he is a minor I agreed. He wore a domino mask a-la the Lone Ranger and the Two-Gun Kid while we spoke, though his family's name was prominently written on the mailbox by the front door I knocked on to gain access.

"I'm going to keep turkeys out of the park," the Edison Kid told me and he said it like he meant it. What does he have against turkeys? I told him I hadn't seen any turkeys in our neighborhood and that I walk about just about every day, keeping tabs on what's going on in our shared jurisdiction. "I think the turkeys will eat all the hickory nuts in the park," the Edison Kid replied. "If they do that, the squirrels won't have anything to eat. There'll be no turkeys on Edison Green while the Edison Kid is on watch."

I'm no turkey biologist but I always thought turkeys eat grubs and forest dander. "No, no," the Edison Kid corrected me, "They're scavengers. They'll eat anything that isn't nailed down. They're the goats of the bird world. They're opportunists. They'll even eat tin cans if they have to."

I asked the Edison Kid how he meant to drive the turkeys away. He was wearing a pork pie hat that was a few sizes too large, and he pulled it down so the brim touched the top of his mask. "I'll show you," he said and then he marched into his bedroom to come out again armed with a wrist rocket slingshot. "Is that legal in Massachusetts?" "Sometimes a vigilante doesn't obey the letter of the law," he replied.

"What's your ammunition?" I inquired. He reached into his pocket and shook a 25-cent box of Boston Baked Beans. "Any baby can buy candy," he told me. "I buy these beans for shot. They won't kill the turkeys and they won't give 'em lead poisoning, but they'll scare the bejeezus out 'em and keep 'em out of Edison Green."

Feral turkey sightings have been on the rise in Boston recently in the most improbable places but so far they haven't been seen in North Dorchester. Is the Edison Kid responsible? He admits he hasn't seen any himself but he is on the lookout. Turkeys beware.

The Spitting Devil

There's a mean-spirited man who lives on Auckland Street in Dorchester. He stands out in a crowd because most people who live in Dorchester are good-hearted. This man never has a kind word to say. He is constant complainer for whom nothing is ever good enough. He rails against the street sweepers, he kvetches about the temperature of his coffee, he returns everything he buys because he says it is stale though the expiration is far in the future and it must have been good enough for him to eat 49% of it before he noticed. It is unpleasant to hold a conversation with him, obviously, but it is made doubly so because he spits when he talks. He is Dorchester's Spitting Devil.

Neighborhood children bestowed this name on him first but the moniker spread like wildfire through every age group. Say that you ran into the Spitting Devil in Dorchester and people will fetch handkerchiefs so you can clean up after the encounter. He can spray like the sprinklers that water lawns in Harbor Point when he gets worked up. This is to say, he spits in any weather, under any circumstances, whether the occasion calls for it or not. He is always in a lather.

People in Dorchester like a good complaint as much as anyone else, the more justified the better. To complain for the sake of it, however, is considered bad form. Dorchesterites prefer to count their blessings whether they have hatched yet or not. The Spitting Devil is a bad egg spoiling the bread basket. He taxes the patience of Dorchester's other citizens with his endless harangues. He is all vinegar, as if he has never tasted honey. Even if he has, we are sure he found it not to his liking.

I ran into the Spitting Devil at the Harp & Bard on Dot Ave. He was at the end of the bar, alone, complaining that his stool was too hard. I wasn't interested in interjecting on his monologue. The mahogany bar in front of him was wet, as if he had spilled his Budweiser more than once. One of the Keno players shouted at him, "Why don't you shut up? If you are unhappy here, why don't you go somewhere else? You can go there and die. Nobody will miss you, you devil." This insult got a round of polite hand-clapping from around the bar, but noticeably not from the Harp & Bard staff who are known for their exceptionally indulgent customer service.

The Devil looked up and sputtered. "You know why I don't move? Because nowhere is good enough. I'm happy here, happy being perfect in a rotten little burgh like this talking to stupid mugs like you. When I die, I'll go to Heaven and you know what? It will be just like here."

The Devil's spittle hung in the air under the glow of the Bruins game on the HDTVs that surround the bar. Little black and white and yellow stars floated out of his mouth. He was right. If he ends up in Heaven, which many people doubt, it will be like Dorchester. No matter where he goes, he'll find something to complain about.

Peter Lorre Eyes

Laurie Masters, who lives on Tremlett Street, is certainly the biggest Peter Lorre fan in Dorchester, and is probably the most devoted Lorre fanatic in all of Boston. She is twelve years old and has memorized most of the lines this character actor ever spoke on film.

I visited the Masters' household on Tremlett Street and, indeed, there is a shelf in the family's DVD collection dedicated to the work of Peter Lorre, from his first 1929 appearance in Die Verschwundene Frau to his last, in 1964's The Patsy. There are also stacks of old comic books and movie magazines full of both fictional and factual adventures of Laurie's hero. Why would a young, 21st century, tween girl fall in love with a film star who began his career before the Great Depression? To find out, Laurie, her mother, and I discussed it over #3 Value Meals at the Mc Donald's in Codman Square.

Laurie explained, "We have the same name." I pointed out that the subject of her admiration was born László Löwenstein. Laurie replied, "But he changed it to make it better." I couldn't argue her point, at least from a typographical point-of-view. I pressed further to discover what made him attractive to her. "He has the eyes a girl can fall into and lose herself," she answered. "When I get married," she continued, "I want to marry a man with Peter Lorre eyes." She probably won't have much competition.

Ms. Masters then stood up and started to perform impersonations of her hero. She recited lines from The Maltese Falcon, from Casablanca, and from the various Mr. Moto films and she did it all in perfect imitation of Mr. Lorre's accent and mannerisms. She was at ease and the dining room wasn't overly warm, but she appeared to be nervous and sweaty. If it weren't a skinny, under aged, African-American girl speaking the lines, people would have thought Peter Lorre had returned from the grave. Laurie's mother dipped a french fry into the cup of barbecue sauce we were sharing and then wiped her fingertips before patting my hand. "You see," she said, "Laurie loves the Mr. Moto movies the best."

Do lightning and genetic combinations strike twice? I hope for Laurie Masters's sake she finds her dream man. It may take her awhile (doesn't it always?) but if a modern day Lazlo Lowenstien exists in Dorchester, we are sure this young lady will find him someday.

Peter Lorre's least favorite role, but Laurie Master's pick from his oeuvre:

Big beauties bulk up Dorchester

The most current edition of The Bay State Banner (Vol. 44, No. 29) reports that the second annual Miss Voluptuous Beauty Pageant is being held in Woburn in the very near future. What does this have to do with Dorchester?

Well, firstly, the most beautifully voluptuous ladies call Dorchester home. You know the kind. Art history majors have seen them in Rubens' paintings. They are sensuous and intelligent with plenty to love. They are strong women with big bones and ample curves. They walk Washington Street and Dot Ave and Blue Hill Avenue and all the side streets in between, turning attentive heads. They can be spotted taking out thier recycling bins at the crack of dawn. If you haven't been to Dorchester, you may want to take the Ashmont Branch of the Red Line and maybe then the Mattapan High-Speed after that to get your full quotient of Ooooo-la-la....la-la-la-la-laaaa...Ba-boom! Big, beautiful women inhabit the Dot.

The second reason is that the pageant's organizer is Dorchester's own fellow citizen Fabiola Brunache. We are not going to paraphrase the Banner's crack reporting here nor will we second guess why Ms. Brunache is holding the pageant in Woburn rather than closer to home base. We will provide a link for more information: Click Here. We will encourage everyone to see the contestants strut their stuff and show off in competition for the title they probably all deserve. Admission to the event in Woburn is free, as free as a Dorchester walkabout.

Dot theology

An anonymous seminarian (by his request) who is serving a missionary tenure at an equally anonymous Dorchester evangelical church, has developed an interesting Biblical theory concerning the location of the Garden of Eden. He and I lunched at Shanti, the Indian restaurant at the intersection of Savin Hill Avenue and Dot Ave. Its address is 1111 Dot Ave for those interested in numerology. Apologies that the link is to the Boston Globe's review of the dining room. The Shanti web site seems to be down at the moment, hopefully only temporarily. It is really best experienced in person anyway.

This earnest, young man explained that after diligent research and sleepless weeks spent triangulating references in original Hebrew and Aramaic texts, he had located the spot where the site of Original Sin occurred. He posits that the famous apple tree where Eve succumbed to temptation and then coaxed Adam to the do the same was originally located where the Civil War monument stands in front of Dorchester's First Parish Church. His plate of eggplant curry had just been placed in front of him when he said, "Look at the situation. It's a perfect site."

I mentioned that most scholars put the site a few thousand miles and an ocean away to the east but he was undeterred in his conviction. He said, "If I stand on the corner of Quincy and Bowdoin Streets and look uphill, I can see that apple tree. I can smell apples. I can see a python curling around the granite of the monument around that Union soldier's leg." I suggested he may be hallucinating but he dismissed this as narrow-minded pettifoggery on my part. It's true I hadn't spent a lot of time researching the topic prior to our interview.

He said, "How can you stand at the summit of Meeting House Hill, in that triangular park in front of the First Parish Church, and not look around and see the makings of Paradise as far as your eye wanders?" I didn't argue the point but I did point out that we could take a dining room poll and easily find more than one person who did disagree with his assessment. He relished his eggplant and encouraged me to enjoy more of my lentils. The food, as usual, was very good, perfectly seasoned with a balance of salt and spice.

Is Dorchester Edenic? In some ways, yes. It is the birthplace of many sins. Is it a sullied paradise? Like so many other places, the answer is: of course. Is this guy a crackpot or a visionary scholar? I don't know. If he lands a segment on the History Channel some people may believe the theory he is peddling. For the people who live in the neighborhood, they'll probably keep peddling their bicycles and taking the bus to get to work. It's a nice idea and it is certainly applicable, whether it will hold water, is another matter altogether. Dorchesterites overall don't like being the center of attention or a world-shaking movement. They are busy enough getting on with their lives. This is a place where utility trumps conjecture.

Prettiest girls in the meat market

Patrons of Gene & Paul's Fresh Meats have come to expect expert butchery. In fact, in the trade, the men and women behind the meat counter prefer to be called 'meat cutters.' Butchery has the same unpleasant connotations in the meat business as it does in other human endeavors. That said, if you want the freshest cuts of meat expertly prepared, Gene and Paul's on the corner of Dot Ave and East Cottage Street, is the place to go.

The shop is also known as Dorchester Market and it contains a small, fresh produce section, and all the other sundries and comestibles one can expect from a neighborhood grocer. The shop is reliably home to some of the prettiest cashiers in all of Boston. We don't think this is done with intent. It is more probably an example of that oft-held belief that the outside reflects what is on a person's inside. This isn't always true, but at Gene & Paul's it seems to be the rule.

There are male cashiers minding the store from time to time but more often not you'll find young ladies ringing up your purchases. They are cheerful, efficient and professional. They are also, without exception, the kind of girls-next-door that have made up the plots of many a coming-of-age novel and Hollywood romance. They are pretty, young women you wouldn't be ashamed of bringing home to meet your mother. They are not only pretty and courteous, they are employed and responsible.

Whether Gene and Paul share the hiring duties as much as they do the meat cutting, we don't know. Whoever is in charge of staffing the market does a good job. Shopping at the Dorchester Market is always a pleasure.

Dot Sumo

I ran into Mr. Ikibuchi Yomomato at the Blarney Stone in Field's Corner. We were both nursing a Guinness and, as people in Dorchester do when they sit next to each other in a bar, we struck up a conversation. Mr. Yomomato is a slight, reserved man in his late fifties who moved here last year from his native Japan.

"There are big boys here," Mr. Yomomato said, "They look like they have the coal in their bellies to make good rikishi." He was using the Japanese word for sumo wrestlers. He would know. Before he retired and moved to Dorchester he made his living as a professional sumo trainer. With a connoisseur's eye he has been measuring the local talent and thinking about starting up a city-wide sumo league. As he says, the raw material is here. We split a plate of nachos and continued discussing Dorchester's sumo potential.

I observed, "It's not just big boys we have in Dorchester. There are plenty of big girls who can hold their own in a dohyo (as the ring is called)." Mr. Yomomato shook his head, "Female rikishi? No. That's not traditional. It isn't done."

I pointed out to my fellow citizen that we were sitting in Dorchester, a part of Boston where norms of propriety are often stretched as much as pants' waistbands. "Have you ever watched some of the Dorchester women keep their men in line?" I asked. "When push comes to shove it's always the women who win the day." Mr. Yomomato conceded that he had witnessed this same phenomenon.

"Lady rikishi," he said with a look of wonder, "In America, anything is possible." I added my two cents of correction by saying, "In America, anything is possible. In Dorchester, everything is probable."

With our pint glasses and nacho plate empty Mr. Yomomato and I shook hands as we parted company. I advised him to contact the Dorchester branch of the YMCA about starting up a sumo program. He said it sounded like a good place to begin. With all the private karate studios around the Dot, we both agree there is room for a sumo studio.

Selling ice to eskimos

Chauncy Dibble trudged through the snow this morning with a grocery cart packed with a card table, paper cones and bottles of syrup. He believes that today, in the aftermath of yesterday's blizzard, is snow cone weather. "The raw materials are here for the taking."

He set up shop at the intersection of Lithgow Street and Talbot Avenue, not the busiest place for automobile traffic but pedestrians travel back and forth between Codman and Peabody Squares, either to pick up sundries on Washington Street or to catch the T at Ashmont Station. Mr. Dibble unfolded his card table at 9:30 expecting to tuck a tidy profit into the pockets of his down parka. "Sure you can just bend down and scoop up a handful of snow," he said. "I add that little bit of tropical sweetness that makes you forget you're in New England. When you eat a cone, you're happy to have the snow."

Mr. Dibble has an array of bottles on his table: Pomegranate, Mango, Passion Fruit, Watermelon, Sour Cherry, Pina Colada, Banana-Raspberry, Guava, and Clementine. We happened upon him at 2:00 this afternoon while he was filling two paper cones with snow from the sidewalk and drizzling one with Passion Fruit syrup and the other with Guava. Minnie and Millie Blackstone were his customers and both said they would never have thought of enjoying a snow cone today until they saw Mr. Dibble's display. "He's very convincing," Minnie said. "I'm really looking forward to the rest of my walk to Walgreen's," Millie said.

Chauncy Dibble explained that he chose his location because the intersection of Lithgow and Talbot is protected from the splash of plows and passing trucks so the snow retains it virgin quality throughout the day. He is armed with an oversize serving spoon that he uses to pack the paper cones from a pile he keeps replenished from nearby lawns and walkways. He says, "The neighbors don't mind me harvesting their snow for profit. I promise to keep the paths to their front doors clear and they wish me well." How's business? Mr. Dibble is coy about the numbers but he did remark that he expects his children to have a happy X-mas this year.

The Guava cone tastes like real guava.

Lay that pistol down

They call her Pistol Packin' Mama and just plain 'Mama' for short. The only pistol she packs is a water pistol, but she loads it with lemon juice. She doesn't squeeze the juice herself, she uses prepared concentrate for maximum effect.

Mama rides a Chinese scooter. Something called the YY50QB. It's a sweet ride. She sports a holster to carry her sidearm and she keeps a few bottles of RealLemon under the seat. Some wags like to ask, after being introduced, if she is 'red hot.' She replies, laconically as is her nature, "Nah. I'm luke warm until you get me riled up. Cross me wrong and I burn like a welder's torch though, not regular fire. I'll make you go blind." She will too. Lemon juice stings.

Mama's got dead-on aim. She's a sure shot. She comes from an old, shady, Dorchester family that is known for not taking any guff. She has a hair trigger and a short fuse. It is no surprise that she was early on recruited to sign on to the Peppermint Squad's combat battalion. She has a cool head in the heat of battle but if the tide starts to turn to the squad's disadvantage she can rally the troops and mount a charge, shooting bitter invective with her pistol leading the way.