There's new scooter in town

A drive through the airport.

As much as I enjoy my motorcycle, it has too much power to be cruising around the city's streets.  The Ninja yearns to be set free in a landscape without traffic lights and stop signs.  For inner city travel, nothing beats a motor scooter, as I've long believed.  I'm a scooter man from way back, using one to criss cross the beautiful state of Connecticut at 35 mph for ten years from my home base in scenic, downtown New London.

In New Orleans, a motorscooter makes sesnse:

At the Mid-City post office.  That's the Central Business District in the background.

The new scooter is a joy to ride in traffic, whisper-quiet as it zips hither and yon.  I took it to Ye Olde College Inn for an oyster loaf to celebrate...

Carrollton Avenue, across from the seminary.

Let's get a closer look at that scene..

Ye Olde College Inn, home of the justly famous oyster loaf.

What does that sign say, exactly?

Only in New Orleans.

The fine print reads "Almost actual size."  The sign doesn't lie.

More New Orleans street names

Some of the streets downtown (downriver) of Saint Bernard Avenue had different names more in keeping with the poetic ones found in the neighborhood.  Since these streets met with streets already named by the New Orleans when the Faubourg New Marigny was incorporated in the city, the more humdrum names had precedence.  These streets now have names of Spanish governors, when, if the naming had gone in the other direction, we would have:

Magistrate Street instead of Dorgenois Street.  That's not too bad.  People have a hard time figuring out how to say Dorgenois.

Virtue Street instead of Rochenblave Street.  Again, not a bad switch.  I like the idea of saying, "Meet me on Virtue Street," but Rochenblave offers a pleasing mouthful of sounds.

Force Street instead of Tonti Street.  This seems like an even swap to me.  Everyone asks me to spell Tonti to make sure I don't mean Conti, though I am well aware by now that they are pronounced differently (ton-TEE vs con-TIE).  I'm kind of fond of Tonti Street for this reason: it gives me a chance to show off my mastery of local pronunciation.  Aside from that, it's got a lot of potholes and I avoid it.

Liberal Street instead of Miro Street.  Nothing against Gov. Miro, but I like the idea of having a Liberal Street.

Lastly, Genius Street instead of Galvez Street.  The name alone would increase property values.  The character of some of the neighborhoods this street passes through would be very different.  Imagine if you had to say you live on Genius Street but couldn't live up to your address.  You may as well move to another disappeared street from the same part of town, Madman Street.

New Orleans is a blessing

You may have noticed that the past few day's I haven't been writing up any lengthy reports.  I'm too busy living in New Orleans.  Words can't capture the experiences.  Greater writers than I have tried to describe what it is like to  be alive in this wonderful city and they've failed.  What dram of insight can I add?

I'm not despairing at my lack of ability.  Rather, I am reveling in it.  Bombarded with so many sights, smells, sounds, tastes, changes in air pressure and temperature... Blinkered by sudden shocks and delights and mysteries around every corner...  Besotted by kaleidoscopes and cornucopia and cacophony in the light of day and the dead of night...  I am rendered dumb by the mixture of joy, beauty and resilience that courses through New Orleans' neighborhoods, main streets, side streets, alleys and concourses.  The tap rooms and living rooms, the shops, the libraries, the front porches, the riverfront, the parks, the markets, the offices and their lobbies...all of New Orleans is soaked through with the sustaining ether that pervades every action and every moment.

Rather than write, I live for the moment in the moment.  I am delirious, dizzy and devil-may-care.  If a city can be a sinful place, New Orleans is a blessing.  I am not debauching or pursuing hedonistic, libertine delights.  I am going about my business, running errands and sharing conversations with my fellow citizens in this most delightful metropolis in the whole, wide world, a place where the mundane is magical and the miraculous is more common than pennies on the sidewalk.

If you've never been to New Orleans, everything you've heard, positive or negative, is true but bigger, better, more robust and vibrant.  If you've spent an hour here, you know what I'm talking about.  If you were sitting next to me we'd nudge each other and wink in agreement.

'Nuff said.
WK

Monday haircut

It seems impossible to get a haircut in New Orleans on a Monday.  It's probably not impossible to find a barber open for business but, as a newcomer to this fair city of inscrutable ways, it is improbable.

I have a job interview tomorrow morning so I figured a touch up was advisable to show I'm as neat about my appearance as I am about my work.  I did find one shop that was open on Magazine Street.  I walked in and nodded to the chap who was in the chair.  The barber came from out back and asked if I had an appointment.  An appointment for a ten-minute haircut (ideally)?  I said No. "Can you come back at 2:00?"  I said No, could he tell me where there's a barber shop I could walk into?  "Not on a Monday."

He didn't lie.  I drove around town in search of a barber shop.  Every one I found was closed Sundays and Mondays.  I went home and trimmed over my ears.  It's a good thing I wear glasses.  That, and I'll wear an eye-catching tie and pocket square to distract from my shaggy coiffure.

You can find a bar in New Orleans any hour of any day to enjoy a smoke and a beer over a little conversation.  You'll be hard pressed to get a haircut on a Monday though.

To be fair, it took me a while to identify a network of acceptable barber shops in Boston that were open when I was ready for a trim and had minimal waits.  I don't like to linger in the barber shop.  I like to get the job done and get on with my day.  Small talk and old magazines don't add any luster to my haircut experience.

Old Italian gentlemen have always been my preference.  Nothing fancy, get out the clippers, flourish the scissors, finish up with a straight razor and I'll see you again in two or three weeks.  I haven't done my relevant research in the twelve days since I've arrived.  There's a lesson here, one of marginal importance but, in a pinch, a man needs a decent haircut when he needs it.

As has been the case since arrival in New Orleans, I need to temper my expectations.  I'm not in New England anymore.  In many ways, I'm glad of that.  The other night I watched some drunken couples dance and sing along to a jukebox playing the Rolling Stones.  I wasn't particularly interested at the time but I now realize they were mouthing something very profound.  You really don't always get what you want, but you do get what you need.  Looking in the mirror, I suppose I didn't really need a professional haircut after all.

Today's illustration is courtesy of Lint.

Breakfast at Bickfords

I don't watch a lot of TV.  In fact, the last time I watched an entire program, it was probably BJ and the Bear.  I couldn't tell you what episode it was.  All I remember is Sheriff Lobo hassling Billie Joe McKay over a legitimate contract hauling job.  It was a big misunderstanding.

There are actually two things better than watching a rerun of BJ and the Bear, if you can imagine that.  One of them is building a model of BJ's Kenworth K-100 semi truck and living out your own, pretend, trucker adventures.

The other thing is pulling whatever you're driving into the Bickford's at 77 Gallivan Blvd in Dorchester.  There's ample parking.  Indeed, you can pull an eighteen wheeler into the lot and many hungry road warriors do.  Why is breakfast at this Bickford's better than reviewing your beta tape BJ and the Bear archives?  Because, for the majority of the people reading this, breakfast at this Bickford's will make you feel young.

When I eat at this Bickford's, I am the youngest person in the building by twenty years at least.  Usually more, much more.  I don't mean my fellow diners only.  I mean the waitresses, the manager, the assistant manager, the fry cook, the prep cook, and the dishwasher.  This may not seem like much if you're ten, but I'm forty-five.  It's not many places anymore that I can say that I'm the youngest person in the room by far.  I can say it any morning of the week at 77 Gallivan Boulevard.  If you're feeling a tad over the hill, a trip to Dorchester may be the psychological cure you need.  Especially first thing in the day.

 A nod to Slay, Monstrobot of the Deep!! for the 80s flashback graphic.

Motorcyclists unite

I don't like the Dot Matrix to serve as a collection of links pointing the reader elsewhere, but sometimes, something is so good, it should be shared.    An article on motorcycles that appears at The Selvage Yard, is just that kind of thing.    It's a nice piece, just two paragraphs of text and then a long selection of photographs of celebrities on their bikes.

One of those photos is the one above.  That's not Whalehead King, but WK recognizes that look on Steve McQueen's face.  Anyone who has eyeballed the road up ahead, taken its measure, and decided to proceed anyway with full confidence even if there's a bit of butterfly hidden in the belly.

Go to the Selvage Yard, read the brief commentary, and enjoy the pictures.  A nice essay.  It's just the thing for a February day in Boston.

Schrodinger's Dorchester

Bright boys live in Dorchester.  You can read by the light of their dreams.

Your street address won't predict your destiny, but your zip code will.  If you reside in Dorchester, good things wait while you catch up to what your future holds.

Sharp sisters live in Dorchester.  There is the teenager just becoming giddily aware of the power that resides in her body and brain.  There is the middle-aged matron whose experience has made her patient and smart as well as strong and sturdily, solidly, stolidly, unmistakably beautiful.  There is the wrinkled seer who has seen everything that has come before and still welcomes tomorrow, knowing that tomorrow, while similar, will be better than every day that came before.  Life pulses in Dorchester, Mass.

It takes a keen intellect familiar with the surroundings to cut through bull feathers and poppycock.  The people of Dorchester know how to do that.  They aren't fooled by politicians' promises.  They aren't fooled by bait or switch.  The people of Dorchester know their neighborhood like Einstein knew physics.  It's instinctive.  Like Schrodinger's cat, Dorchesterites purr in front of their hearths, contented to say the least.

Smart Boys Live in Dorchester by whaleheadking
Many tee shirt designs available at Zazzle

A new pizzeria is born

If you live in Boston you are used to pizzeria flyers tucked into your front door. They all seem to use the same format from the same printer with the same layout, the same fonts and the same clip art. I found one of these today in my front door but the front fold was a little different. It wasn't enough to separate it from the pack that arrives over the course of a month, but I tend to read these from front to back closely because I have little else to do. My mail arrives in the afternoon and I've already spent an hour in the morning reading the Wall Street Journal and ten minutes in the morning reading the Boston Globe, so by day's end I'm ready to use my reading skills again and the mail is about all I have.

The logo on this flyer was a bit different. It wasn't set in white space floating above a picture of a choice pizza pie. It was cemented over a photo of a hamburger bun, some wraps full of indistinguishable filling, two disks that looked like pizzas, and assorted whole vegetables. The shop's address is at 856 Dorchester Avenue.

The shop's name is Avenue Grille & Pizza. I looked over the literature and I wondered, "Do I know this place? It's close by judging from the address." Click...click...click...the pieces fell into place: Avenue Grille... Great Ceasar's ghost!...and Pizzeria?

The Avenue Grille was a sit-down restaurant where locals gathered, that offered sandwiches as well as some dishes that required more preparation served on white china plates with a glass of wine or a cocktail. The Avenue Grille didn't have the best food but it did have a restaurant feel when you sat in its dark wood dining room. I knew it was under new management, but not that they were turning a bistro into a pizza joint. Maybe Dorchester does need more pizza joints. Maybe the hunger for pizza cannot be satisfied with pizzerias every half mile or so. 856 Dot Ave is almost equidistant between Pantry Pizza and Andrew Pizza. Maybe some people don't like to walk.

We hadn't been to the old Avenue Grille for a while. It is on the opposite side of Columbia Road from where we live. It's not a wide road, but it is a boundary where, those of us to the south like to think. separates the men from the boys. Maybe we should have crossed that boundary more often. Maybe we will now that there's a new pizzeria open for business. I'll have to give it a try.

Hazardous flower petals

My usual route entails taking Howes Street off Dot Ave to Pleasant and then a quick right onto Willis Street, to Bakersfield, which runs to Stoughton and then Dudley Street and a straight, if congested, shot to points beyond. I avoid a lot of traffic-related headaches this way.

While there is little traffic on Willis Street, there are other hazards. I tend to look up at one of the houses to see the bowling pins in the second story window when I pass. They are a kind of landmark that lets me know I am so far on my journey. Willis Street is a tree-lined one, with the kind of trees that have arching branches obscuring the sky. This time of year they are all abloom and they have turned the dull, gray, pockmarked pavement found most everywhere in Boston, into a carpet of flower petals and pollen. It is one of the prettiest streets in Dorchester this time of year, a paean to Spring's perennial fertility. I worry that this beauty may have its dark side.

While it is seductive to take Willis Street, for the above mentioned reasons, the threat of rain makes me think twice. While I am gawking about looking for bowling pins, someone may pull out of their parking space while it's raining. In that case, the flower petals which are so soothing to the eye during dry weather may in fact turn into that nemesis haunts every motorcyclist. Remember: wet leaves are like ice! I would hate to be zipping along in my usual reverie and have to pull tightly on the front brake, thus landing on my head. The EMTs would say, "It was the fall that broke his neck, but the cherry blossoms made it possible."

Sharing wealth

Dorchester is a warren of streets, a labyrinth, a maze in which rats seek cheese and innocent pedestrians lose thier way. The tangled streets of Dorchester, Mass. lead out into the rest of greater Boston in one direction and into a horn of plenty in the other. Dorchester is shaped like a tortured gall bladder but its stones are not calcifications cemented with hardened bile. They are not pyrite either. They are the real thing, nuggets of pocket change to be spread around willy-nilly, for good cause.

I was at the Fields Corner Shopping Center this afternoon, picking up carrots and a bottle of hot sauce. A well dressed man approached me in the parking lot. "Excuse me sir, I have a flat tire and Auto Zone up the road charges $13.95 for a plug kit. My son is sleeping in the car, you can see him, can you help me out?"

I am usually dubious of such things, but this was a well dressed man, one gentleman to another, with a plausible story. I was admiring his outfit of light pants, navy jacket, woven leather loafers, crisp, white shirt and red tie sporting a tasteful green seahorse motif, as he walked from Dot Ave to my position. I thought it was a little early in the season for such an ensemble but he wore it well. As a person who travels on two wheels and doesn't carry a spare, I felt his pain. He said, "I work for Verizon, across from South Station. I pass people every day asking for money and now I'm one of them. I guess sometimes bad things happen to good people." I wasn't about to pass judgement on his goodness but I was inclined to help someone with a flat tire, having been in the same straits more than once.

The man had a Carribean accent. When I handed him fourteen dollars he said, "I'm sorry. You misheard me. A plug kit costs $30.95. That sounded more believable since the plug kit for my motorcyle cost $45. I emptied my wallet. He said, "You can take my cell phone number. I work for Verizon." I said I didn't want to be bothered with a lot of follow-up. I gave him my address and told him to mail me what he owed me. "I will," he said, "You'll have faith that there are honest people in the world,"

Perhaps I will. I'm out thirty-five bucks and while I'll miss them, I won't miss them overly much. It is better to waste money with good intentions on a confidence scheme than to squander it on loose women and booze.

I don't go to church. If I did, I would be making donations to give help the needy. I figure I'm cutting out the middleman by giving it to those who have the nerve and need to ask directly. I won't be fishing in my mailbox for reimbursement, but I will be contentedly surprised to find my trust in humankind rewarded with a payback plus an extra five-spot tacked on for my troubles.

Two shots of happy, one shot of sad

The way dropped toast lands in Dorchester is always buttered-side down. Luckily the floors are spotless, spic-and-span. We were at the Sugar Bowl this morning at 857 Dot Ave. You know the place, across from the New Store On The Block, though how new that store is, I don't know. I was enjoying a slug of java and a scone, watching the foot traffic outside the curved, plate glass window. It was Sunday. Parishioners were filing toward the Blessed Mother Theresa of Calcutta Church for mass. We felt we should be following, but other obligations intruded. I checked my watch and looked at my companion. She was finishing up a blueberry muffin. She said, "Is it time?"

It was.

Donning our helmets we rocketed out of Dorchester on the Littlest Ninja this side of the Charles River, one stoplight at a time. She hugged me tightly down Columbia Road and then down American Legion Highway. The engine screamed in fifth gear. We navigated through Roslindale to Center Street, heading into West Roxbury. Today's mission: to get from the West Roxbury line, where Boston abuts Dedham, to the Charlestown Bridge with as few turns as possible. Sunday morning seemed the best time to accomplish this endeavor.

We pulled a tight U-turn at the Dedham border and headed north. Center Street was no problem, a reasonably straight shot with no traffic and no interference. We hit the Jamaicaway, then the Riverway, then Fenway. Things started to get dicey. We figured Boylston Street was the best bet and it was for awhile. After the Common, our plans all went to hell as we turned and swung around and back again in Chinatown.

Determined not to take the Surface Road, we wove through downtown. It was magnificent to wend through the canyons of old buildings mixed with new with no congestion. Sunday is the day to take a motorcycle through downtown Boston. Though a temperature of fifty degrees is nothing to crow about, it's nothing to complain about either, especially when both parties are wearing polypropylene long johns and wind-proof jackets.

After speeding in circles through back alleys and along one-way lanes, we sighted the Charlestown bridge. Would we cross it? No. We didn't want to go too far afield. Charlestown's delights would wait another day. We headed to Charles Street, found enough room to park the bike and wandered Beacon Hill with our day's second cups of coffee in our hands. Charles Street is picturesque, but it's no Dot Ave.

Dropping our empty cups into the trash barrel in front of Seven-Eleven, we mounted the Little Ninja again for the sweetest ride of all: the ride back to Dorchester. Hurtling through Newmarket, we felt a pull on the front tire that matched the push of the rear. The bike, like its passengers, knew it was headed home and couldn't wait to get there.

January motorcycling

In early December, 35 degrees seems too cold and treacherous to take the motorcycle to work. In late January, three degrees above freezing seems warm enough to go on a criss-crossing jaunt through Dorchester and a little farther beyond. Cabin fever leads a man to do things that would have been unpleasant seven weeks before. Now they are refreshing.

I've been noticing that since the last snowstorm the streets seem to be hazard-free and, having been acclimated to sub-zero temperatures, the thermometer told me I might be able to enjoy myself. I didn't don my summer gear. I wore fleece long underwear and two windproof layers around my torso. Most of my outfit was courtesy of Aerostitch, a company that seeks to outfit the motorcyclist with the best, if not the least expensive, kit he or she can sport. You get what you pay for. Had I outfitted myself at Family Dollar, I would have resembled the Michelin Man. I put all the armored padding into the appropriate places and started up my little Ninja motorcycle.

The engine wasn't happy and I kept the choke out for the first ten minutes until both the bike and I agreed there was no turning back. After that point we were both as content as playful kittens happy to exercise our muscles.

In warmer weather, I carp about traffic congestion and kvetch about the sorry state of the roads. Not in January, though. I was happy to be out and about. With extra attention to the roads' surfaces for stray patches of ice and slush, and extra attention to cars who probably don't expect to see a little Ninja speeding down Dot Ave, let alone side streets, I made my way hither and yon. I wove from Savin Hill to Fields Corner, then up Park Street to Codman Square. I gamboled on Codman Hill which is a neighborhood that is usually as dull and repetative as West Roxbury or the high, terraced hills behind Roslindale, or the flatlands of Hyde Park. No matter. I was out and about on my motorcycle. It was good to be free.

When I left the house, my companion said she would see me in a half hour. I pulled back into my berth three hours later. "Where did you go?" she asked.

"Everywhere," I answered. "I was in Lower Mills. I was in Mattapan. I was at Norfolk Point. I was in Codman and Adams Village and Morton Village. I took Blue Hill Avenue all the way from the tail end of Boston to Magazine Street and after that I circled around and around in Newmarket Square, just enjoying be able to go around and around."

More frigid weather is projected for tomorrow. At least I got one day to live like it is summer again. It's all what you make it.

Portugese not required

Restaurant Laura is a Cape Verdean eatery that hasn't been covered by Boston's newspaper of record for a few years. Maybe it should be. It came to our attention recently and scouts were sent out to reconnoiter the prospect. Reports came back positive and affirmative that this is a hot spot worth checking out.

Word on the street is that Restaurant Laura offers live music more nights than not and that the food is good, the atmosphere is good and the music is superb. Last Saturday, we dispatched some agents on bivouac to Columbia Road between Upham's Corner and Everett Square, to number 688 Columbia Road, Dorchester, MA 02125 to be specific. They got their maps out and triangulated the location before they embarked on the mission. Unfortunately they had already had thier dinner so they weren't in the mood to eat again. This dispatch has a few holes in its information, but we expect it has enough to entice. What is an adventure without unconfirmed expectations awaiting proof?

Agents 11 and 76 report that Restaurant Laura occupies an expansive, nondesript, brickface storefront on Columbia Road. The location is clearly marked with gold embossed letters over the facade. Our agents didn't enter the premises but they did press thier noses against the plate glass windows. The interior is decorous and spotlessly clean: white table cloths and glasswear without lip prints. The staff seemed attentive and there weren't any frowns on the diners' faces. A woman was playing guitar and singing. The man perched on a stool next to her was playing a drum cradled in his lap. All faces were paying attention to the musicians and rocking to and fo or clapping as appropriate. The plates were piled high with food that looked delicious and everyone was eating with gusto while they listened to the music.

We are encouraged by this report and intend to visit Restaurant Laura very soon. You should too.

Motor Scooters Set People Free

Scooters are everywhere in Boston. Not just stylish Vespas, though there are plenty of those, but all makes and models from the well known to the obscure. Gas prices being what they are, small engines balanced over the rear wheel have become more and more popular. Scoots are for sale on sidewalks in the most improbable neighborhoods.

Some members of the Peppermint Squad have been long-time scooteristas. Others are new to the machines, and they wing thier way down the streets with the zeal of converts. Motor scooters set people free. There is something about the wind in one's face and the fact that you are basically sitting on a chair in traffic that tingles the sense's.

The Boston Stranglers are a long established motor scooter outfit whose membership is mostly made up of vesperadoes. The Peppermint Squad doesn't distinguish between models. Their doors are open to all who love two wheels, even small motorcycles (but not pocket bikes!).

We point out that small motrcycles are those that are street legal. The miniature replicas of real motorcycles known as pocket bikes lack usual safety features, including mirrors and the members of the Peppermint Squad feels they do not belong on public roadways with their low profiles. Despite that, they bear those riders no ill will if they are respectful of everyone else's right to public thoroughfares and use thier machines with caution. Most of the Squad's meetings end with the cheer, "Cars are coffins!" Anyone who doesn't take up more space than they need on the pavement is saluted.