All Soul's Day, New Orleans, LA

New Orleans is very, very good.

Dwight White was down and out, asleep under the highway overpass that runs over Calliope Street.  His royalties had run out for the foreseeable future, and he had nowhere to go but up.  Some people say that New Orleans is a devils‘ playground.  Others claim that it is a paradise.  In need of some basic hygiene, and wearing the tattered costume from last month’s gig, Dwight White looked like the commanding statue of Saint John the Baptist towering in white marble on the front of Saint John the Baptist Church on Oretha Castle Haley Boulevard, formerly Dryades Street, except Dwight White was lying down wrapped in scuffed corrugated cardboard stamped with the logo of Zapp’s potato chips.  He was wearing a red, porkpie hat pulled down over his eyes.

Someone brought a full-bodied, fully cooked turkey under the overpass for a communal supper.  All of a sudden, all of Calliope Street smelled like deep-fried Thanksgiving, dark meat and light, anointed in baptismal peanut oil, crisp outside while yielding succulent under the crust for a communal repast under the overpass.  It smelled so good that Dwight White couldn’t nap without his gut waking him up.  He had to follow his nose.  He inhaled deeply.  He gave thanks.  He took a piece of turkey for his supper.

Squatted on the neutral ground, against a pillar, as passing cars made the shaded transition between O’Keefe Avenue and Oretha Castle Haley Boulevard, Dwight White noticed everyone was staring at him.  He was holding his portion of turkey over a paper plate, just about to take a bite  Everyone else under the overpass that shades Calliope Street who was eating a piece of that deeply fried, crispy-skinned, succulent turkey, stopped what they were doing.  They paused to watch Dwight White take a bite.

The passing cars slowed their commute.  Rubbernecking drivers watched, with time stood still, to see if Dwight White was going to do what he seemed to be doing.  

He did it.

He took a bite of crispy fried turkey from the piece he was given.  He bit the savory, crispy appendage that jutted most closely to his mouth.  As he chewed the skin and fat, traffic stopped moving from the East Bank to the West Bank, and vice versa.  The Crescent City was connected in a pregnant pause, a virile crescent, all for one and one for all, spontaneously, simultaneously, instantaneously, perilously ripe and ready to spring.

“He has the Pope’s nose,” people whispered, once the sound of booming eighteen-wheelers again reached Dwight White’s ears.  “He has the Pope’s nose!‘  

G-8: Unsung hero of WWI

G-8 and his Battle Aces vs. the Reich's purple aces.

I've read this book.  I don't know why the events it describes were not covered in my "History of Warfare" class in college, or any formal education I've ever taken.  This is why I am an autodidact.

If this isn't true, it should be.  How many times have I said this in my life?  I live in a Fortean world.

A New Orleans Painter's Lament and Hope.

President Martin Van Buren.

Why Martin Van Buren?  Because I am fond of the Little Magician from Kinderhook, NY.

I have all sorts of photos to upload onto the blog, but I can't find the little device to connect the card to the computer.  It used to be much easier when I just had a shoebox full of snapshots.  Of course, I couldn't share them all with an uncaring world with a short attention span then.

I started painting again in February, after a five-year hiatus.  When I turned 40, I decided I did not enjoy attending gallery openings, I didn't enjoy discussing my work, I didn't enjoy hobnobbing.  I love to paint.  Since February, I have 23 good paintings in my portfolio.  I counted last night and decided to go for 24.  I now have 24 good paintings in my portfolio.  Some are better than others, but all of the good ones meet my semi-exacting standards.  I am not counting the duds that I have produced during the same time period.

It is nice to be painting again.  I gave it up because I don't like to talk about the work, but I live to make it.  Time drops by the wayside when I am painting, and the clock cannot measure the moments spent dabbing colors.  I am surprised by how easily I slip into that other, creative dimension where just the doing is all that matters.  The results matter afterward.  Luckily they are mostly good, but when engaged in the act, all that matters is the complex internal equations that I formulate as I go along to make a picture work and express what I want it to say.  Will the viewer take the same thing away?  Probably not, but that is not my concern.  My job is to paint like my life depends on it.

Don't play with firecrackers!

WPA poster

I am briefly out of commission due to a mishap.  I should have read that poster more carefully.

Balaenius Rex!

I don't miss Dunkin' Donuts

A New Orleans Sleigh Ride

New Orleans is a world unto itself.  Things happen here, unimaginable things, but few people outside a hundred mile radius knows about it.  Likewise, what happens in wider America, often goes unreported in the Crescent City.

I haven't seen a Dunkin' Donuts since I moved here a year ago.  I also don't own a television.  Who needs TV when you live in New Orleans, where entertainment is active, not passive?  So, I don't know how long these commercials have been airing, but I cannot say I miss Dunkin' Donuts.


I also haven't read a Marvel comic book since they killed Captain America a few years ago.  Yes, he is back alive and selling more comic books for the Marvel Universe.  There are some things that should not be done.  Killing Cap is one thing.  Making this commercial is another.

I hate when this happens

The Shadow reading his own magazine.

I was waylaid during a thrilling adventure.  This has limited the recent volume of my posts.  My headache is clearing up, and things will be back on an even keel shortly.

WK

Another movie I'll be avoiding - John Carter of Mars.

Ugh.  Work is going on to make a movie about John Carter, the Warlord of Mars.  While I wouldn't mind seeing my hero on the big screen, this will probably be a skip for me.  There is no doubt in my mind that I will tempted to see it if it isn't in 3-D.  Will I succumb to the temptation, knowing full well beforehand that I expect this to be a stinkeroo?  Disney is behind it, which bodes well.  I loved That Darn Cat.  Listen to the swinging opening music below, sung by Bobby Darin at the end, as you read along... Take time to watch; the visuals are nice too.  He is a darned cat, and Disney knows how to tell a story.


All of that said, I don't have any high hopes for a John Carter movie.  I don't think it will translate well.  People said that about the Lord of the Rings, too, so I may be wrong.

Pixar may be involved, I don't know, I lost interest reading about it.  I was crestfallen to know that I will be tempted to spend my money to see, yet again, a rehash of the adventures of one of my adolescent, fictional role models.  There is no doubt in my mind that it will be sexed up, updated, and the story's premise made irrelevant, something on which to hang special effects.  Do I sound bitter?  I've sat through too many super hero movies, none recently, and none filmed in New Orleans (Green Lantern), but I'm the kind of cat who, if burned once, is twice shy.

I'm not saying there isn't room for more than one interpretation.

The good news is that many people are not familiar with Edgar Rice Burroughs' literary output besides Tarzan, so this will be an opportunity, if done correctly, to introduce his oeuvre to a new generation.  The good news is also that Disney is involved, so at least the film will be entertaining.  The bad news is also that Disney is involved; they did make a Tarzan movie, television show, plush tows, etc. that bore scant resemblance to Burroughs' creation.  I doubt there was a run on Tarzan's original printed adventures.  Kids would find them dull.

A little Frazetta to end this essay:

That's John Carter and Deja Thoris.  There is nothing dull about them if they aren't watered down and made accessible for movie-goers with short attention spans.  The story is not about explosions.

Cheers,
See you at the theater in 2012,
WK



Image of the Gods of Mars and the second illustration ("John Carter of Mars) copyright resides with the artist, Michael Whalen, and, presumably, Del-Rey Publications.  They are used here to show what John Carter and Barsoom should look like.  The third illustration is probably copyright Argosy Publications, or whatever conglomerate owns this defunct fiction house now.  Likewise, it is included to illustrate a complementary vision of life on the Red Planet.  The final illustration is copyright Frank Frazetta.  'nuff said about that.

Father's Day - A Photographic Essay

No commentary, only a glimpse into my world...

It is Father's Day.  No commentary today.  I'm busy talking to my son, who is a fine young man.

Gretna's Native Son - Mel Ott

Who's that statue in the middle of the old train depot in downtown Gretna, LA?

That is Gretna's native son, the Major League Baseball legend, Mel Ott, the Gentle Giant.

Using my new power.

So, based on the epiphany I had yesterday, I tried out my new attitude and show of strength.  I took the motorcycle up to City Park this morning where I careened along the pathways.  On approaching one of the lagoons, I saw my opportunity.  I parked the Littlest Ninja and approached a group of ducks who were sleeping in the shade of one of the oak trees.  They sensed my presence and awoke, stirring to their feet and then waddling to the safety of the nearby lagoon where they assumed I would not follow.

It isn't that I couldn't follow them.  I chose not to.  Instead, I stood on the shore and declared "Baleana Rex!" to the ducks and any other bird within earshot.

I felt rather proud of myself.

Now I am off to a dental appointment.  "I'm here for a cleaning.  Baleana Rex!"

This is not me:

(photo courtesy of this site)

New England hot dogs and New Orleans hot dogs

I don't follow a lot of sports.  While I haven't been able to escape the recent World Cup coverage, it's mostly out of the corner of my eye.  Even when I was dragged to watch the recent Uruguay vs. Germany match, I read the newspaper and took along some clerical work to keep me occupied between goals.

There is one sport I do follow every year however and one athlete I particularly admire.  I salute Joey Chestnut and his fourth consecutive victory, earning him the right to wear the coveted Mustard Yellow Belt.  I am almost ashamed to admit that I am fascinated by competitive eating.  I've never been to Coney Island myself and it's probably not in my future anytime soon, but I sometimes daydream that I will one day go heat-to-head against Joey Chestnut.

The lady of the house scoffs at my ambitions and shuts off the conversation as soon as I start discussing my aspirations.  We used to go to Spike's Junkyard Dogs where you can get a free tee shirt and your picture on the wall if you can eat six dogs.  My record is two dogs in a half hour. I have some training to do before I can match Joey Chestnut's accomplishment of this year's 54 in ten minutes, and this isn't even his career best.

When I lived in Boston, I would stop at Downtown Crossing and grab a hot dog from one of the Boston's Best carts.  It was a cheap meal on the run.  In New Orleans, I can get into condition by visiting the various Lucky Dogs carts scattered around the French Quarter.  The fact is though that I don't like Lucky's dogs.  I tried one once and I didn't finish it.  Not because it was too much for my frail stomach, it just didn't taste good.

Boston has plenty of good hot dogs.  Speed's of course is in a class by itself (scroll down their page a bit to read the Wall Street Journal review).  I can't even finish one of Speed's creations though the condiments set the culinary standard for what best complements hot dog flavor.

There seems to be a shortage of hot dog carts in New Orleans.  I understand that Lucky Dogs has an exclusive franchise in the French Quarter, but what about anywhere else?  The CBD (Central Business District to our non-New Orleanian readers) and Audubon Park can certainly sustain a cart.  These are just the two most obvious locales aching for a hot dog cart.  It will take a trip to City Hall to discover the answer to this burning question.

As shiny as today

  

It's as new as tomorrow and just a little bit older than Boston itself.  It's Dorchester, as wide as a mother's love and as deep as Socrates.  Dorchester, Mass., Boston's biggest neighborhood, is so big that three or four old Bostons could fit in it.

If at first you don't succeed, try and try again.  This could be Dorchester's motto and I would submit it so the City Council if someone translates it into Latin for me.  Dorchester already has an unofficial motto, which used to take precedence over all others.  Nowadays, its motto is the same as Boston's.  Something about being founded in 1630 if you look at the city seal.  This is probably best, Dorchester is part of Boston now, lending its geography and multitudes to the greater city to handily deliver votes and secure federal grants.

There is something nice about Dorchester's old motto: Piety, Literacy, Industry.  None of these go out of style.  As new as tomorrow and as shiny as today.

Dot heroes don't wear spandex

Dorchester is the dark heart of a wider metropolis. The weed of crime bears bitter fruit in Dorchester, Mass. Hard men and their molls get beaten to pulps in Dorcheser but there are good men too, and good women. Dorchester isn't a cesspool that catches only society's detritus. Dorchester is a garden in which strong oaks grow out of soil fertilized by yards and yards of turned over, overturned shit. Some people think it stinks in Dorchester, and it does. It smells good.

You won't only find heroes in comic books. You can find them in Dorchester. Dorchester's heroes don't wear spandex. They wear Dickies, they wear coveralls, they wear uniforms; they may not dress to impress but they dress appropriately for the job they fulfill. Dot heroes don't just wear a symbol on their chests. Nobody is named S. They have their first names embroidered over their hearts: Al,Tom, Mickey, John. Dorchester heroes don't wear their hearts on their sleeves; they wear their names over their hearts.

Dorchester is home to heroinnes too. They don't flaunt thier cleavage and they aren't necessarily sexy, unless accomplishments are as sexy as oversized breasts (they are!). Dot heroines wear their names over their hearts as well, printed on tags under corporate logos all over this city. Dunkin Donuts, Au Bon Pain, Best Buy, Marriot, Sheraton...these are but a few of the corporate sponsors who support Dot heroism.

It takes a tough community to make a tender neighborhood. Dorchesterites are a sharp as flint and they succeed day after day against steep odds. Dorchester itself is a good place in which to raise a family. Truth and justice are the Dorchester way. Delivery trucks, sidewalks, the Red Line, buses, bicycles, jalopies...they all carry Dorchester heroes and heroines.

To the Dot-mobile, Al! There's an oil delivery to make and an example to be set!

A salute to Paul Ward

I've always heard it said that the smartest Bostonians are the ones in Roslindale. Though I haven't been in Boston as long as some people, I did stumble across a nugget of proof that this factoid has been true since at least 1962.

I was reading a less-than-mint condition copy of Fantastic Four #6, "The World's Greatest Comic Magazine!" cover dated Sept. 1962. While poring over the letters column on page 14, I noticed an item about a contest that appeared in Issue #4 asking readers to explain a plot point in that story that occurred all the way back in Issue #2. A $5.00 prize was offered to the reader who came up with the most logical explanation.

The winner was Jonathan Latham of Raleigh, SC, but as the editor noted, there were so many plausibly correct answers that the prize was given to the first one received. Everyone else got their names printed on that very page.

Out of all the logical answers, only two were from Bay Staters. One chap was from Milford and the other was one Mr. Paul Ward of Roslindale, Mass. The name fairly leaps off the page, being the second name in the left hand column. Nice work Paul Ward! His answer is lost to posterity but, knowing the ingenuity of Roslindale folk, you can bet it was spot-on.

In one of those quirks of old comics, though the cover date is September, the editor notes that the winners' list was compiled on March 14, 1962. Even allowing for usual deadlines, this issue probably hit the stands in late June or July. Yes, the stands. Those were the days when a kid could buy a comic book at any corner store. Perhaps Mr. Ward, older and presumably wiser, can answer why a kid can't buy a comic in his neighborhood nowadays.

The Boston performance drug

DATELINE: 11/27/09. DORCHESTER, MASS. Heh. The day after Thanksgiving and everybody in Dorchester seems a little logey. No one will go on record saying this is business as usual. Though Dorchester has a reputation as being the most relaxed of Bostons neighborhoods (as well as the biggest and the best!), this year's Black Friday seems to find people a bit more like somnambulists on the sidewalks marching to Morpheus' drumbeat. If none of this article makes sense yet, you must not have attended one of Dorchester's public elementary schools.

People like to nap after a Thanksgiving meal. They blame it on the tryptophan in the turkey. People in Dorchester like to nap every day of the year and they don't devour any more turkey than anyone else in Boston. People in Dorchester are relaxed though and they count their blessings. Everyday in Dorchester is Thanksgiving. If that fact is true, so is this: every day is also the day after Thanksgiving.

Can you feel a burst of thankfulness for living in Dorchester coming on about now? I do.

Is it tryptophan that makes Dorchester so easy-going and easy-to-get-along-in? No. It's Dotamine, a drug native to Dorchester's air and society. It's a phermone that builds patience and muscle and animal magnetism. If someone could figure out how to bottle it, it would change your life. As it is, the only way to benefit from Dotamine is to move to Dorchester. In a week's time you won't suffer from ulcers, migraines or a spastic colon. You will be like a Chinese sage sipping tea beside a mountain stream listening to the song of cicadas and the wing beats of a lone heron overhead.

I was talking to someone at Ashmont Station this morning waiting for the Mattapan High Speed. He was nodding off as we discussed the rain but all of a sudden he snapped to attention. Ten feet away, an umbrella dropped to the pavement. This man swooped over like a hawk, caught the umbrella's handle and cradled it into the woman's hand from which it had been shaken loose. She thanked him for his intervention. She didn't get a drop of spatter either from above or below on her hairdo.
When I feel sleepy but swagger-y and Dorchester-y, I like to listen to a little Montefiore Cocktail.

Son of Codman Square

Positive media should never be hard to find!

I don't think any Dorchesterite would disagree with that statment. No offense to the Dorchester Reporter, which presents the most well-balanced and fair description of Dorchester affairs as they unfold, but other hide-bound media venues don't always paint the many positive nuances of Dorchester with the same sharp focus as they do the negative.

We understand that blood draws sales but there is more to human interest than misery. Dorchester is home to more than murder or despair. In fact, this part of Boston harbors and nurtures more than its share of hope. More people float than sink in Dorchester and quite a few of them rise.

The sons and daughters of Codman Square and Peabody Square, of Ronin Park and Meeting House Hill, of Savin Hill and Pope's Hill, of Field's Corner and Upham's Corner, of Four Corners, of Lower Mills, of Talbot Ave and of Harbor Point...the sons and daughters of Dorchester will build tomorrow better than today. Dorchester Excelsior!

Postive news about Dorchester shouldn't be hard to find. For those who can't get out to the coffee shops, the barber shops, the grocery shops, the bakeries, the florists, the gas stations, the fraternity halls every day, the internet brings good news to your door if you know where to look.

Set a Google alert for Dorchester, MA and you never know what good news will drop into your virtual mailbox.

Smokey and the Bandit

Breaker! Breaker! The second highest grossing movie in 1977 is playing at the Brattle on December 9th. Not Star Wars; that was the number one. If any film respectably fills the number 2 slot, it's Smooooookey and the Bandit!

I'm not a snob when it comes to most things but I am snobbish when it comes to movies. I think I saw this one once on TV when I was younger and the language was dubbed. For some reason I think I saw Smokey and the Bandit II in the movies, but I don't have any sound memories of that. I rented it recently to give the lady of the house (who spent her youth out-of-country) to offer a taste of 1970s Americana. This movie has got that in spades.

It's not a great movie but I have to say it is a classic. It pains me to remember Jackie Gleason in this role. It isn't that he's bad, it's just that he's capable of much more finer performances: Minnesota Fats, any Honeymooners episode, conducting his own small orchestra... see the snob effect is creeping in?

There is a chemistry to this film though. It's just good fun. Everyone who made it obviously had fun. It ushered in a genre of Southern flavored, drawling, fast-car-based, comedic dramas. There couldn't have been any Dukes of Hazzard without Smokey and the Bandit and the world would be a poorer place for that. It popularized CB radios, a kind of internet in their day. It made heroes out of truck drivers, something that has, sadly, been neglected over the passing decades.

What does this have to do with Dorchester, Mass? Nothing. I wish it did. I wish Dorchester had a movie theater. I've been to stand alone cities smaller than Dorchester that can support their own theater. Even boroughs and burgs that are subsections of small cities can support a kind of theater that serves food and drinks while playing DVDs on big screens. They aren't movie theaters per se, but they provide a simulacrum of the theater experience.

Whenever people gather to share a common experience, community is built. Dorchester is big. It is a collection of neighborhoods coagulated into the biggest neighborhood in Boston, which itself is the biggest city in New England. Small beer? Yes, and small beans too. How hard can it be for Dot pubs to rent a DVD and put on a show other than a Red Sox game? I know dbar has a large screen suitable for movies. Maybe they could show Smokey and the Bandit and other films in the genre. They have Show Tune Tuesdays. Why not Southern Fried Sunday Afternoons? Dukes of Dorchester?

G-8 memorabilia for sale

Tiffany Peabody reports falling on hard times. "Mr. King," she writes, "Like many people who have suffered during what's being dubbed as The Great Recession, I find myself with credit overextended and the wolf at my door. Though my 401(k) is of little use to me and my investments have gone sour, I still have my great-great-grandfather's legacy in my possession. I hope to sell off some artifacts to interested collectors of World War I memorabilia and I was hoping you could help in publicizing my need and my earnestness to do business."

G-8 and his Battle Aces aren't well remembered today. They were certainly as daring as Audie Murphy, but G-8 never became an actor. After the war he retired to Dorchester to live out his days quietly, out of the limelight. He had seen enough excitement in the skies over the European trenches and he was never one to look for glory. He did have some glorious adventures however.

The Nazis are accused of all sorts of outlandish, occult exploits. Young people today who have learned all their history from video games and films can be excused for thinking that the Nazis mastered evil. While Nazis dabbled in occult and pseudo-science their success (in the sense that they achieved their goals) happened through rather mundane and pedestrian, brutal foot pad and cut throat means. In fact, it was the Reich that fought the First World War that really pulled out the stops when it came to over the top battle tactics, enlisting dragons and cavemen and monsters as well as invisible, poison gas. The Nazis industrialized thuggery. Their predecessors were more esoteric. G-8 foiled the Germans in WWI. He was too old to enlist in WWII, though he was a special adviser to the Army Air Corps' Division of Paranormal Combat.

G-8, as one of the Allies' top aces, confronted a bat staffel, a vampire staffel. and invisible staffel, a spider staffel, a blizzard staffel, a gorilla staffel, a sword staffel, a headless staffel, a staffel of floating heads, and a blood bat staffel, not to mention the aces of the damned, the flying coffins of the damned and the red fangs of the Sky Emperor. Needless to say he triumphed over these adversaries and many, many others in 110 chronicled adventures and many, many more that weren't reported since to this day they are still classified as 'Top Secret.'

I had to inform Ms. Peabody that I'm not in the estate liquidation business, nor is the Dot Matrix particularly set up to handle inquiries about what she has for sale. G-8's legacy is located in Dorchester, however and his spirit and courage are part of the weft and woof of Dorchester's matrix. For that reason, I include this report. G-8's exploits aren't well remembered and that is a shame. The beginning of the 21st century needs heroic exemplars beyond politicians. Great men have done great things in the past. Against all odds, Good has trumped Evil. The lines may have been more clearly drawn in the past, but I think G-8 sets an example that some young Dorchester men could learn something from in these ambiguous days.

While I wish Ms. Peabody all the luck in the world raising enough money to pay off her bills by selling her great-great-grandfather's souvenirs, I hope she can see it in her conscience to donate some memorabilia to the local schools or the public library for an inspiring display of what courage and clean living can accomplish against fearsome foes.

A little more G-8 history.

The Illumadotti

Outsiders wonder why Dorchester thrives despite being one of Boston's most disrespected and seemingly neglected neighborhoods. It is true that Dorchester looks a bit down on its luck at first inspection. Yet people continue to move in, businesses make profits and no one who lives here has an unkind word to say about their situation. It's very different from other parts of Boston. Despite seeming to have cause for a litany of complaints, Dorchester is complacent. What unseen benefits do Dorchesterites enjoy?

Boston has a mayor and Dorchester is represented on the City Council. I believe we have Marty Walsh as our elected representative, though I may be mistaken. That's how relevant the chartered government is: a paper tiger. Boston's official, municipal government cleans the streets and staffs the fire stations, but whatever policies get set at City Hall have few tangible effects in Dorchester. There is a shadow government afoot in the Dot, one that spreads Dorchester's wealth and polices the mores and morals of its citizens more effectively than the Health Department or the BPD. Dorchestester's gears are greased, but no elected official has much to do with how things are run.

A cabal of unelected leaders meets fortnightly at a secret headquarters rumored to be at the summit of Mount Bowdoin. They sometimes gather in quorums at other locales according to a rotating schedule set by tradition to ensure they experience all of Dorchester in the round, keeping in touch with their surroundings, leaving no sidewalk untravelled.

No one knows for sure who the Illumadotti are, though anyone who spends time in Dorchester comes under their influence and experiences their effects. It isn't only Dorchester's street plan that is a tangled web, it is its social relationships and its commercial interactions. Some Illuminadotti are prominent businessmen, some are the American Legion adjutants. One heads a branch of the PTA, one is the vice chairman of a neighborhood crime watch, one is a pimp managing a bevy of employees. One hawks newspapers at a traffic intersection in the morning, one approves mortgages, another maps sewers and monitors their maintenance schedules. One is a local historian. One is a midget who has never graduated second grade, year after year, despite attending night classes and earning an associate's degree at Roxbury Community College.

Dorchester is woven through with invisible filaments and no one knows for sure who pulls the strings. The strings get pulled though and Dorchester dances. Good things happen in Dorchester for a reason. The Illuminadotti make sure of it.

I can't say that I know anything about this secret society. I am not a member and even if I were privy to all of its secrets, I wouldn't be the one to blow the lid off this benevolent conspiracy. Let me go on record: I know nothing. Good things happen in Dorchester without official explanation. They happen seamlessly to everyone's benefit. Few homes go without a Thanksgiving turkey and few households are destitute for long. How this happens is a mystery under the radar. Only the Illuminadotti know why what happens as it does.

There are few complaints, if any, in Dorchester, Mass.

Little is wasted

I don't know about your neighborhood but where I live, Friday is trash day. The sidewalks are lined with trash cans and recycling boxes. Somethings are too big to fit in receptacles, so they are neatly stacked wherever will fit.

Little is wasted. The can and bottle collectors make thier early morning rounds, scooping up whatever deposits they can find. Before the garbage trucks arrive, men in pickups and vans make loop through the nieghborhood, scoping out the scenery, searching for anything with potential resale value.

Lumber and fixtures get removed before the paid garbage men arrive. So does furniture, tools, mirrors, picture frames, clothing. By late morning all that's left are things with no future use, things that really are ready to be discarded.