Loving the Dot Life.

Birds do it. Bees do it. People in Eastie and in West Roxbury do it. People in Dorchester do it too: they fall in love.

A city is a school of hard knocks and Boston is no exception. There is a reason that MIT and Harvard are located across the Charles River in Cambridge. Painful lessons get taught and learned in a metropolis where the spoons are not cast in sterling silver but in zinc and lead, pig iron and trace molybdenum, a curry of slag and mercury tailings mixed into a slurry of ferrous sulfate, ferrous oxate and feral habits. Some intellectual meals are consumed with dainty silverware, while others are served up on the blades of snow shovels and forced down an unwilling student's throat with a boot heel and a blackjack that is more bitter than any supermarket or convenience store brand of licorice.

It takes a neighborhood to raise a child, and anyone who can recognize that fact can be the Secretary of State or, maybe, even President of all 50 United States. There is no rule that someone born and raised in Dorchester, Mass., the biggest and best part of Boston, cannot reach past the limits of her or his potential. Comets never stop. Dorchester hasn't stopped moving or evolving since Time began. There is no evidence to suggest that Dorchester itself doesn't set the standard toward which other places should aim. Some places lead. Eventually, other places will follow the sweet, sweet smell of success. For the moment, at least, Dorchester stands alone.

Dorchester is unique. Spend a few hours on Bowdoin Street or on Columbia Road or on the mid-southerly stretches of Columbia Road. You learn quickly enough that you're not in Roxbury anymore. You learn quickly enough that while you are in Boston, you are in a different kind of Boston. You are in Dorchester. You're in the Dot, and the Dot is not a pot of jam, a pot of mustard, or a cannabis market. It is a place in which generations follow one anther trying to do well for everyone involved, personally, familiarly and communally. Each party pulling ever upward at the sails with all hands on deck.

Children are raised in Dorchester to become responsible adults, productive citizens, vertebrae in Boston's semi-rigid, semi-flexible, ramrod backbone. Adults spend their whole lives in Dorchester, mixing their good will and collected energy, minute-by-passing minute, into the concrete that will cement a better tomorrow. Love makes a community and love blossoms in Dorchester. Sometines that love is passionate. Most often that love is resigned and contented that good work is being done.

Birds do it and bees do it. Dorchesterites do it too. There is plenty of room and time in Dorchester for love. Office workers downtown watch the clock ready to punch out and get on with thier real lives, their Dot lives. They leave Boston proper and head home on the bus or the Fairmont Line or the Red Line. You can love your job in Boston but if you live in Dorchester, that's where you really love your life.

Some different ways to think about the facts of Dorchester.....

...secrets, situations, comedies, decadence....Dorchester...100% on the Dot.

Poor-chester

Some wags about Boston call it Poor-chester but I don't cotton to that nickname. It's Dorchester, by gum, and if you can't say it right you don't deserve to visit. However much cash you have in your bank account, you are rich in spirit if you pass most of your time within the boundaries of Dorchester, Mass. If you want to employ some witty, conversational shorthand, call Dorchester The Dot, the way most people do. It is a dot, the center of a target at which many people aim and they feel lucky if they hit it. If you can make good in Dorchester, you are home free. It isn't a jail. It is Park Place. Dot Ave is a broad way that leads to fulfilled dreams.

The Dot is a hotspot for rich, poor or whatnot. There is little snob appeal in a neighborhood that encompasses varied square miles and almost a hundred thousand souls from all walks of life, possessing all skill sets, with a host of ambitions, and all wanting to be better tomorrow. Everyone is welcome and everyone has a home. There are differences, but few of them matter at the coffee shop counter. There are no reserved bar stools in Dorchester. It is first arrived, first served, and friendly banter and local gossip make up the menu and the entertainment. You can be lonely in Dorchester, but if you are it is a self-imposed exile. Dorchester if full of people looking to make connections and get along with one another to mutual advantage. This is what makes Dorchester anything but poor. You can't put a price tag on community.

A zephyr blows through Dorchester

March 18th.

The day after St. Patrick's Day, one would think the breeze off the Atlantic would be carrying scents carried from the Emerald Isle, clover and barley. Nope. Green wine, virgin olive oil and fresh fish filled the air of Dorchester's streets, the smell of Cabo Verde. The trees still lacked leaves, but when their bare branches rubbed each other in the wind, they clacked with an accent that had Portuguese roots.

Corned beef and cabbage still hung heavily in the atmosphere, especially around the dumpsters behind old bars and restaurants. Then the wind changed and it blew from the West. From over long distances, the aroma of pho filled people's nostrils and they salivated. Beef is the stuff that builds sturdy bones in Dorchester. Beef, fresh fish, and a sense of community.

A neighborhood of transplants, Dorchesterites don't pigeon hole strangers by their ethnicity but by the strength of a handshake. Being invited home for a meal is an act of acceptance. You have a good idea what you'll be eating from the host's background, but it may as often be a variety bucket from the KFC at Everett Square which has zero grams of trans fat but plenty of other, savory kinds.

Hospitality blows through Dorchester. It is a hallmark, a benchmark, a symptom that you have hit a bull's eye's center dot. Good company isn't a disease. It is what makes Dorchester hum and thrive. The wind off the bay sweeps away preconceptions and ushers new flavors. So many different people with different tastes so close together build a community that contains a rainbow of scents that can satisfy any and every nose.

Dorchester, Mass., the biggest and best part of Boston, passes the smell test.

Lobster vs. Submarine

“Lobster vs. Submarine” is more than a good name for a painting. It is a street phrase used when discussing New London development. It is shorthand for saying, “This is a question of relying on tried and true tradition or embracing new, expert-drawn, potentially dangerous, modern means.” Every time something new develops in New London, Conn. the city debates whether to let it take root. It is always a question of Lobster vs. Submarine.

Blackie is a crow that smokes cigars while he struts back and forth along Green’s Harbor Beach like a plutocrat pacing his boardroom. Blackie has plenty of people to supply him with stogies. This is an old fashioned city that favors the many flavors of tobacco, be traditional or whacky. The city is a natural humidor, keeping everything fresh with its air. Many people stop to watch Blackie from their cars, but few stop to approach him and ask him a question.

Whalehead King, the obvious hero of these stories, parked his motor scooter and spoke to Blackie a few years ago during the big eminent domain legal brouhaha. Both had already been long-term residents of New London. Both had a different perspective on the city. Whalehead King asked Blackie what he thought of the Fort Trumbull plans. Blackie said, “It is a question of Lobster vs. Submarine.” Not only is Blackie a cigar-smoking crow, he is The Oracle of Green’s Harbor Beach.
Whalehead King visited the Fort Trumbull Neighborhood today. It is a moonscape dotted with abandoned homes ready for demolition. It is barren of anything but weeds. It is a question of Lobster vs. Submarine. In New London, things rarely change. The city opted for the open, untrammeled space that existed here when the Nameaug Indians were the original residents. Rather than have inhabited land, the city chose to return to nature. It is a question of Lobster vs. Submarine.

To learn a little about Dr. Otto Zugzwang, visit http://blog.myspace/whaleheadking

A Long Walk

If you walk the length of every New London street, that walk will be longer than the Wall in China. At least you will get your exercise and your dose of history. The crime rate in New London is low as it officially is in China. You are just as likely to get mugged along the Great Wall as you are on Elm Street.

Whalehead King walked Elm Street the other day. It is a street, like many in New London, with a name that makes no sense. You won't find an elm tree on Elm Street. In fact you won't find any spot of shade. New London is a city indisposed to trees and foliage. New Londoners like the sun to beat down on them like a hot hammer in the summer against the anvil of the sidewalk. They appreciate the rooflines of the city's many homes so much that they do not like dead trees obscuring the view during the winter.

You can walk the length of the Great Wall of China and even eat Chinese takeout along the way. When you walk the length and breadth of New London, you will see many exotic delights, both oriental and puritan. There are views full of gimcrackery and vinyl siding.

To learn more about New London, see www.whaleheadking.com or www.myspace.com/whaleheadking.

What Makes A Wallflower?

Sometimes the most timid maid in the room can contain a bestial zoo inside her head. Just because someone lingers by the punch bowl and looks comfortable in a folding chair, doesn't mean there is a lack of lust in that person's libido. You cannot judge a book by its cover, not even a Bible.

Human beings are many sided things, New Londoners more than most. They are aristorcrats of the gutter, they are Morlocks among the Eloi. Who is who and which is which is a matter of circumstance and situation. The most demure damsel can be a tiger in the boudoir, but you will never know. If New Londoners appear angelic, they can also be devlish. We are all human after all, containing the divine and the demonic, the pure and the purulent, perfection and perversion.

Beware the wallflower. She will eat you alive like a carnivorous plant if given the chance. "Come into my web," said the spider to the fly. Just don't get caught like an ant under a magnifying glass. You will regret it more than being brave enough to chat up the wallflower at the ball rather than the belle. Be careful what to expect.

You Have a Friend.

Agent 11 was having lunch at Bangkok City. He was sitting in the window since he was chilled and he wanted to bask in the sun. His back was to the dining room so that he could see the bustle on State Street.

Two young women were seated in the booth to his back. He had noticed them when he was seated by Jennie, who is one of the most pleasant waitresses in the city. The young ladies looked to be Connecticut College students. One had a thick head of blond hair tied into a tangled french braid. The other was a petite, oriental lady with a sleek bob. Over the course of lunch, Agent 11 was treated to the tragic tale of one of the ladies lack of friends. She honestly believed she had no friends and returned to this subject again and again in the course of twenty-five minutes.

Agent 11 couldn't tell which of the young ladies was so lonely. He was too busy tucking into his spicy squid with string beans (6 stars) and talking to his lunchtime companion to smoothly and discretly turn his head like an owl. When he had finished his meal, he fished in his pockets for the antidote to this unknown woman's dilemma. Drat the luck! His pockets were empty.

Agent 11, usually on top of his game, failed one of his repsonsiblities. He was fishing in his pocket for a bumper sticker to drop on the table. This sticker is one of Whalehead King's calling cards. It reads: You Have a Friend in New London, Conn. Under those bold words is the tagline 'www.whaleheadking.com." That is the kind of news a lonely person needs when they are alone in New London. One demerit for Agent 11.