A is for Allston.
B is for Brighton.
C is for Charlestown.
D is for Dorchester.
You can stop now.
You've reached the best part of Boston.
Enjoy.
Balaenius Rex!
Showing posts with label society. Show all posts
Showing posts with label society. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Dot is a lady
Dorchester is a lady. She may be a little bit brawny and bloated, but she is yet elegant, like a ballerina in work boots, a debutante who made her debut in 1630 and married in 1870, a dowager still full of spunk and spitfire. Dorchester, Mass. isn't a widow and or a frustrated wife nor a divorcee, Dorchester is a part of Boston, Mass., the biggest and best part of the city,and any one will agree, and a willing helpmate. Though she's put on a few pounds and her conversation can seem a bit dotty and meandering at times, Dorchester still keeps her wits and her grit. You can't keep a good neighborhood down for long.
A voluptuous temptress, Dorchester, Mass. is skilled in the ways of love and adoration. Fecund and suspended off the body of Boston like a pregnant belly, Dorchester is plump with feminine wiles, emotional wisdom, intuition, and indirect communication skills. In polyglot Dorchester, body language is the lingua franca. Affirmative nods, handshakes, and friendly waves are the most common words spoken. Fourth most common is the knowing wink. After that, the sidelong glance that takes disapproving measure of bad behavior.
No drudge or charwoman, this Dorchester, she works hard nonetheless, thanklessly and thankful for her chance to add to the harlequin, parti-colored tapestry that is Boston, the Athens of America. If Boston is akin to Athens, Dorchester is a match to Thessaly. Scored knuckes, chapped hands, sore elbows, calloused knees and a splitting headache to match, Dorchester gives and gives its best. Enduring legends cut their teeth and make their mark in Dorchester's warren. There are no monsters, no minotaur, no centaurs. A senator was born here. Any monsters are those conjured by the overactive imaginations of people unfamiliar with Dorchester's civil manners. No one eats children in Dorchester, raising children to be responsible citizens is the neighborhood's mission.
Have you been to Dorchester much? Even if you've only been once it takes nerves of steel to resist its charms. Stronger men than you have been sucked into Dorchester's vortex and come out the other side better for it. If you are a woman, have you experienced Dorchester? If you have, you know what it is like to be in the company of supportive friends, a sorority of camaraderie, you and the Dot. Dorchester is the best friend you never had...until now. Nothing bad happens in Dorchester except bad decisions and then you have no one to blame but yourself. You can't blame Dorchester, a neighborhood of milk and cereal and meats cooked so thoroughly there's no chance of contracting salmonella.
Dorchester's enthusiasm is infectious. Once bitten, not a bit shy. Once bitten by the Dorchester bug, it gets under your skin. Though Dorchester is big it can lodge like a chigger producing an invisible itch that demands scratching. The only cure: a return visit. The permanent cure: becoming a Dorchesterite in deed as well as sympathy. Dorchester has experienced a rash of new home buyers descending on properties that a decade ago no one would give a second look. People look twice at Dorchester now. They do double takes and crane their necks as they pass her curves. Dorchester has a hamburger and fries to go with her shake.
A bicyclist passed me on Dot Ave this evening. He was whistling a familiar tune as he pedaled past the Blarney Stone. His phrasing mimicked Sinatra, justly so. The song was "I've Got You Under My Skin."
Come on you fool, you've got to give into the Dot. This lady is no tramp.
A voluptuous temptress, Dorchester, Mass. is skilled in the ways of love and adoration. Fecund and suspended off the body of Boston like a pregnant belly, Dorchester is plump with feminine wiles, emotional wisdom, intuition, and indirect communication skills. In polyglot Dorchester, body language is the lingua franca. Affirmative nods, handshakes, and friendly waves are the most common words spoken. Fourth most common is the knowing wink. After that, the sidelong glance that takes disapproving measure of bad behavior.
No drudge or charwoman, this Dorchester, she works hard nonetheless, thanklessly and thankful for her chance to add to the harlequin, parti-colored tapestry that is Boston, the Athens of America. If Boston is akin to Athens, Dorchester is a match to Thessaly. Scored knuckes, chapped hands, sore elbows, calloused knees and a splitting headache to match, Dorchester gives and gives its best. Enduring legends cut their teeth and make their mark in Dorchester's warren. There are no monsters, no minotaur, no centaurs. A senator was born here. Any monsters are those conjured by the overactive imaginations of people unfamiliar with Dorchester's civil manners. No one eats children in Dorchester, raising children to be responsible citizens is the neighborhood's mission.
Have you been to Dorchester much? Even if you've only been once it takes nerves of steel to resist its charms. Stronger men than you have been sucked into Dorchester's vortex and come out the other side better for it. If you are a woman, have you experienced Dorchester? If you have, you know what it is like to be in the company of supportive friends, a sorority of camaraderie, you and the Dot. Dorchester is the best friend you never had...until now. Nothing bad happens in Dorchester except bad decisions and then you have no one to blame but yourself. You can't blame Dorchester, a neighborhood of milk and cereal and meats cooked so thoroughly there's no chance of contracting salmonella.
Dorchester's enthusiasm is infectious. Once bitten, not a bit shy. Once bitten by the Dorchester bug, it gets under your skin. Though Dorchester is big it can lodge like a chigger producing an invisible itch that demands scratching. The only cure: a return visit. The permanent cure: becoming a Dorchesterite in deed as well as sympathy. Dorchester has experienced a rash of new home buyers descending on properties that a decade ago no one would give a second look. People look twice at Dorchester now. They do double takes and crane their necks as they pass her curves. Dorchester has a hamburger and fries to go with her shake.
A bicyclist passed me on Dot Ave this evening. He was whistling a familiar tune as he pedaled past the Blarney Stone. His phrasing mimicked Sinatra, justly so. The song was "I've Got You Under My Skin."
Come on you fool, you've got to give into the Dot. This lady is no tramp.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
A poetaster
We came across this less than lovely line of poetic commentary: "...Dot smells like urine, diesel, sour milk, and ass. But if you want to romanticize that, great." Needless to say, some would disagree.
I live in Dorchester and I enjoy it. My neighbors are friendly, the locale is convenient, affordable and, really, lovely. My street does not smell like urine, diesel fuel, sour milk, or any one's fundament. If these articles are romantic, so be it. I am a romantic along the lines of the moods depicted by my favorite painter, Caspar David Friedrich. He painted the picture at the top of this editorial and I like to think of it as a portrait of Whalehead King standing at the summit of Dorchester Heights, in South Boston, looking toward the Blue Hills out yonder but studying the lay of the land in between.
Dorchester smells of urine and diesel and sour milk and sour opinions in some alleyways. It also smells of blood, neglect, burnt gunpowder, overflowing dumpsters, rats' nests, and barrels of toxic chemicals. When the breeze blows off Dorchester Bay and rattles the leaves into a murmuring sussurus and garden flowers' full heads bob and weave their perfume through the air, that is also Dorchester's scent. There are more back gardens than there are back alleys.
When kitchen stoves are lit en masse, pots and pans exhale steam through fly screens and whole blocks smell like pasta fagiole or corned beef and cabbage or homemade pho or ginger or chili or basil or fennel. Is that romantic? No. That's dinner. As I travel from one three-decker lined canyon to the next, I am treated to an olfactory symphony that tickles my nose, my tastebuds, my appetite and my appreciation for my surroundings. That's Dorchester. I know. I experience it every day.
Poverty is relative. Money may not slosh around Dorchester, but people buy and sell as well as haggle. The typical Dorchesterite's lifestyle isn't that of the rich and famous but neither is it of the down and out. People get by. They make do. They earn their paychecks and they pay the rent on time. You won't find many fancy cars in Dorchester but you'll find serviceable vehicles. You won't find much trash. Parks and lawns tend to be well maintained and both types of property, public and private, are respected.
If you think you know Dorchester, you may know a part of it. It takes many hours over many weeks and many years to appreciate every aspect Dorchester offers and hides. Dorchester is uglier than you think in some spots but overall, Dorchester is more beautiful than you imagine.
I live in Dorchester and I enjoy it. My neighbors are friendly, the locale is convenient, affordable and, really, lovely. My street does not smell like urine, diesel fuel, sour milk, or any one's fundament. If these articles are romantic, so be it. I am a romantic along the lines of the moods depicted by my favorite painter, Caspar David Friedrich. He painted the picture at the top of this editorial and I like to think of it as a portrait of Whalehead King standing at the summit of Dorchester Heights, in South Boston, looking toward the Blue Hills out yonder but studying the lay of the land in between.
Dorchester smells of urine and diesel and sour milk and sour opinions in some alleyways. It also smells of blood, neglect, burnt gunpowder, overflowing dumpsters, rats' nests, and barrels of toxic chemicals. When the breeze blows off Dorchester Bay and rattles the leaves into a murmuring sussurus and garden flowers' full heads bob and weave their perfume through the air, that is also Dorchester's scent. There are more back gardens than there are back alleys.
When kitchen stoves are lit en masse, pots and pans exhale steam through fly screens and whole blocks smell like pasta fagiole or corned beef and cabbage or homemade pho or ginger or chili or basil or fennel. Is that romantic? No. That's dinner. As I travel from one three-decker lined canyon to the next, I am treated to an olfactory symphony that tickles my nose, my tastebuds, my appetite and my appreciation for my surroundings. That's Dorchester. I know. I experience it every day.
Poverty is relative. Money may not slosh around Dorchester, but people buy and sell as well as haggle. The typical Dorchesterite's lifestyle isn't that of the rich and famous but neither is it of the down and out. People get by. They make do. They earn their paychecks and they pay the rent on time. You won't find many fancy cars in Dorchester but you'll find serviceable vehicles. You won't find much trash. Parks and lawns tend to be well maintained and both types of property, public and private, are respected.
If you think you know Dorchester, you may know a part of it. It takes many hours over many weeks and many years to appreciate every aspect Dorchester offers and hides. Dorchester is uglier than you think in some spots but overall, Dorchester is more beautiful than you imagine.
Monday, September 07, 2009
Dorchester smells like sweat
Labor Day. Dorchester, Mass. is home to the headquarters of organized bricklayers, masons, carpenters, electricians, welders, ironworkers, sheetrockers, framers, subcontractors, pavers, stevedores, teamsters, railroad workers, teachers, firefighters, policemen, government janitors, postal carriers, and healthcare workers. Labor Day passes, a restful break for all the busy hands that keep Boston running on time and on budget.
Hot dogs on the grill, a bun in the oven, relish on the side, sweet potato salad...these are the things that make Labor Day in the Dot a holiday to be savored. It's not just the enjoyment of rest between routines that makes Labor Day Dorchester-specific. It is because Dorchester, like few other parts of Boston is a neighborhood where people have dirt under their nails and grease in their pores that a scrub brush can't erase after only one pass. Dorchester is a sweaty place, where garbage men retire to sleep the sleep of the exhausted and their wives and girlfriends get accustomed to the smell. Dorchester is a place where a worker earns a paycheck from the sweat of his or her brow and the ache of overextended muscles.
It isn't easy being a hod-carrier. It isn't a walk in the park to dig ditches, shovel to soil hour after hour. It isn't easy to maintain the skyscrapers and office parks that information workers take for granted. Someone has to tighten an elevator's cables and someone has to fine tune the escalators. Dorchester's working folk trudge up and down endless flights of stairs and ladders to get into and out of tight places, making sure everything transpires as it should, without a hitch. If a belt doesn't slip, if the gears turn as intended, if everything is well-oiled and all the parts fall into place, if a toilet flushes, chances are that a Dorchesterite has done the job to spec.
Dorchester smells like sweat: clean, honest sweat that pours out of a working person hard at a thankless chore. A wet forehead gets mopped by a wet hand swung cavalierly without any thought but to keep a hammer swinging without missing a beat. No candles or perfumes can disguise the scent of Dorchester. It is as natural as Adam and Eve being cast into the Garden of Dorchester and laboring to build a home for themselves. There is no shame in being ripe.
Dorchester, Mass., brawny and savvy Dorchester, Mass. Boston would be weaker without the good folk who inhabit the Dot. Boston wouldn't be Boston. It would be frozen without lubricant, without electricity, without workers, without hope, without anyone able to jerry-rig a broken part in a complicated, interlocked machine. Labor Day is Dorchester's day. Boston should observe a moment of silence in respect for the people who inhabit Dorchester's three-deckers while they stroll the Common and the Esplanade.
Hot dogs on the grill, a bun in the oven, relish on the side, sweet potato salad...these are the things that make Labor Day in the Dot a holiday to be savored. It's not just the enjoyment of rest between routines that makes Labor Day Dorchester-specific. It is because Dorchester, like few other parts of Boston is a neighborhood where people have dirt under their nails and grease in their pores that a scrub brush can't erase after only one pass. Dorchester is a sweaty place, where garbage men retire to sleep the sleep of the exhausted and their wives and girlfriends get accustomed to the smell. Dorchester is a place where a worker earns a paycheck from the sweat of his or her brow and the ache of overextended muscles.
It isn't easy being a hod-carrier. It isn't a walk in the park to dig ditches, shovel to soil hour after hour. It isn't easy to maintain the skyscrapers and office parks that information workers take for granted. Someone has to tighten an elevator's cables and someone has to fine tune the escalators. Dorchester's working folk trudge up and down endless flights of stairs and ladders to get into and out of tight places, making sure everything transpires as it should, without a hitch. If a belt doesn't slip, if the gears turn as intended, if everything is well-oiled and all the parts fall into place, if a toilet flushes, chances are that a Dorchesterite has done the job to spec.
Dorchester smells like sweat: clean, honest sweat that pours out of a working person hard at a thankless chore. A wet forehead gets mopped by a wet hand swung cavalierly without any thought but to keep a hammer swinging without missing a beat. No candles or perfumes can disguise the scent of Dorchester. It is as natural as Adam and Eve being cast into the Garden of Dorchester and laboring to build a home for themselves. There is no shame in being ripe.
Dorchester, Mass., brawny and savvy Dorchester, Mass. Boston would be weaker without the good folk who inhabit the Dot. Boston wouldn't be Boston. It would be frozen without lubricant, without electricity, without workers, without hope, without anyone able to jerry-rig a broken part in a complicated, interlocked machine. Labor Day is Dorchester's day. Boston should observe a moment of silence in respect for the people who inhabit Dorchester's three-deckers while they stroll the Common and the Esplanade.
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Yoon in Byzantium.
Sam Yoon is the thinking person's candidate for the position of Boston's Mayor. He graduated with a major in philosophy, so that qualifies him as an egghead. Yoon brings a lot of fresh ideas and out-of -the-usual-box thinking to how to run Boston. Not all of it is original and not all of it will play well in a place so entrenched in habits, but it is refreshing to see it out in the open, challenging the status quo.
Mr. Yoon has a good head on his shoulders. The proof: he lives in Dorchester. Though he's a brainiac, he sleeps in a neighborhood where people have dirt under thier nails. Though he's spent his time in an ivory tower and certainly more hours than I would want to in an office in City Hall, he is grounded in the world of the hoi polloi. He's no elitist and he has certainly experienced some of the inconveniences most regular Bostonians do, whether they live in the Dot or one of the outer neighborhoods. Most Bostonians live in the outer neighborhoods. It has been a long time since Southie had any rough and tumble street cred.
I was going to write about Boston's mayoral election today and, in a rare move I had written the editorial the day before. In another rare turn of events, I bought the Sunday Boston Globe (I read the weekday editions) and they published an article about this upstart candidate. Oh well, back to the drawing board to make everything up-to-date and relevant.
To extract a short quote from the Globe's article: “... to say that I don’t understand Boston politics means that basically half of the city doesn't understand Boston politics.’’ I'm with ya there, Yoon. I've only lived here two years and many Bostonians are DBC or another neighborhood By Choice. I can't make heads nor tails about how the city is run except that it is constipated. There's no shame in admitting it. Boston is the not just the Athens of America, it is the Constantinople of America also. The byzantine structure of city government and the cross currents and back stabbing boggles an observer's mind. I think the only person who understands how things work is the puppetmaster at the top of the hierarchy.
If voters are disinterested, they can hardly be blamed. It's like learning chess without being able to see the board.
I will take a moment to again disagree with Mr. Yoon about one thing, and that is his weak mayor platform. I invite Mr. Yoon, if elected, to bring more transparency to the process of government and to rely on proven processes while using his sharp mind to invent new ones. If I vote for him, however, I want him to use every tool in his kit to bring about our shared vision of what the future Boston can be. I do not want him to handicap himself by delegating responsibility to an already far too powerful web of interest groups and agencies. I think a city's mayor should hold the reins tightly and choose the course without caving to too many opposing voices which often shout at cross purposes. If I disagree with the mayor I'll voice my opposition, but I only get to vote for him once. After the election, he is free to choose his policy directions until the next cycle and come Hell or high water, he should stick to his vision. If it veers from what I initially believed, shame on me; not shame on him. I was the poor judge of the candidates character.
Like Mr. Yoon wants to fix what's broken in Boston, I'm going to change my brake pads tomorrow, Labor Day being a fitting day to engage in some minor mechanics. I'm not approaching the task by saying I won't use a wrench. I'm going to drag every crescent and socket and monkey wrench I have in my toolbox into handy reaching distance, and many other things besides, in order to make sure I have what I need to get the job done. A mayor should likewise have everything available at this disposal to make things work as snag-free as possible.
I don't think anyone has misjudged Sam Yoon's character so far. The candidate has garnered almost universal respect as someone who brings a lot of book smarts and earnest charisma to the election.
Here is Sam Yoon's website so you can get his viewpoint straight from the horse's mouth.
Here is the incumbent's website, so you can see what the challenger is up against.
You'll have to look up Flaherty's website yourself. This candidate doesn't interest me as an agent of progress. I intend no offense to the man himself, but he seems more business as usual. As he says in his posters, Menino was good in 1996 and Flaherty is better in 2008. So what? I don't want a new model. I want a new machine. Yes, I used the word machine intentionally when discussing Candidate Flaherty. The Firefighter's Union endorsement doesn't help him in my eyes, though it probably ensures him a predictable number of votes.
You'll also have to look up McCrea's website yourself. Though I have nothing but respect for Kevin McCrea and I think he is a valuable piece of the puzzle that shines light into dark cracks of the current administration, I feel a full term of McCrea as mayor would be too much of a good thing. I think he belongs more on a soapbox rather than behind the center desk in the mayoral suite. I may be wrong and he may be just what Boston needs at the top, but I tend to think not, my respect for his opinions and due diligence notwithstanding.
In the spirit of fairness, I will be pondering the pros and cons of the incumbent and reporting them next Sunday. I don't think the incumbent is a bad mayor. I think, as he likes to allude to himself, he is an able urban mechanic and he has served Boston well during his tenure. Five terms though, seems like two too many.
Until then, read the papers, watch the candidates and come Election Day, vote for whom you think is best suited to lead Boston into the future.
Mr. Yoon has a good head on his shoulders. The proof: he lives in Dorchester. Though he's a brainiac, he sleeps in a neighborhood where people have dirt under thier nails. Though he's spent his time in an ivory tower and certainly more hours than I would want to in an office in City Hall, he is grounded in the world of the hoi polloi. He's no elitist and he has certainly experienced some of the inconveniences most regular Bostonians do, whether they live in the Dot or one of the outer neighborhoods. Most Bostonians live in the outer neighborhoods. It has been a long time since Southie had any rough and tumble street cred.
I was going to write about Boston's mayoral election today and, in a rare move I had written the editorial the day before. In another rare turn of events, I bought the Sunday Boston Globe (I read the weekday editions) and they published an article about this upstart candidate. Oh well, back to the drawing board to make everything up-to-date and relevant.
To extract a short quote from the Globe's article: “... to say that I don’t understand Boston politics means that basically half of the city doesn't understand Boston politics.’’ I'm with ya there, Yoon. I've only lived here two years and many Bostonians are DBC or another neighborhood By Choice. I can't make heads nor tails about how the city is run except that it is constipated. There's no shame in admitting it. Boston is the not just the Athens of America, it is the Constantinople of America also. The byzantine structure of city government and the cross currents and back stabbing boggles an observer's mind. I think the only person who understands how things work is the puppetmaster at the top of the hierarchy.
If voters are disinterested, they can hardly be blamed. It's like learning chess without being able to see the board.
I will take a moment to again disagree with Mr. Yoon about one thing, and that is his weak mayor platform. I invite Mr. Yoon, if elected, to bring more transparency to the process of government and to rely on proven processes while using his sharp mind to invent new ones. If I vote for him, however, I want him to use every tool in his kit to bring about our shared vision of what the future Boston can be. I do not want him to handicap himself by delegating responsibility to an already far too powerful web of interest groups and agencies. I think a city's mayor should hold the reins tightly and choose the course without caving to too many opposing voices which often shout at cross purposes. If I disagree with the mayor I'll voice my opposition, but I only get to vote for him once. After the election, he is free to choose his policy directions until the next cycle and come Hell or high water, he should stick to his vision. If it veers from what I initially believed, shame on me; not shame on him. I was the poor judge of the candidates character.
Like Mr. Yoon wants to fix what's broken in Boston, I'm going to change my brake pads tomorrow, Labor Day being a fitting day to engage in some minor mechanics. I'm not approaching the task by saying I won't use a wrench. I'm going to drag every crescent and socket and monkey wrench I have in my toolbox into handy reaching distance, and many other things besides, in order to make sure I have what I need to get the job done. A mayor should likewise have everything available at this disposal to make things work as snag-free as possible.
I don't think anyone has misjudged Sam Yoon's character so far. The candidate has garnered almost universal respect as someone who brings a lot of book smarts and earnest charisma to the election.
Here is Sam Yoon's website so you can get his viewpoint straight from the horse's mouth.
Here is the incumbent's website, so you can see what the challenger is up against.
You'll have to look up Flaherty's website yourself. This candidate doesn't interest me as an agent of progress. I intend no offense to the man himself, but he seems more business as usual. As he says in his posters, Menino was good in 1996 and Flaherty is better in 2008. So what? I don't want a new model. I want a new machine. Yes, I used the word machine intentionally when discussing Candidate Flaherty. The Firefighter's Union endorsement doesn't help him in my eyes, though it probably ensures him a predictable number of votes.
You'll also have to look up McCrea's website yourself. Though I have nothing but respect for Kevin McCrea and I think he is a valuable piece of the puzzle that shines light into dark cracks of the current administration, I feel a full term of McCrea as mayor would be too much of a good thing. I think he belongs more on a soapbox rather than behind the center desk in the mayoral suite. I may be wrong and he may be just what Boston needs at the top, but I tend to think not, my respect for his opinions and due diligence notwithstanding.
In the spirit of fairness, I will be pondering the pros and cons of the incumbent and reporting them next Sunday. I don't think the incumbent is a bad mayor. I think, as he likes to allude to himself, he is an able urban mechanic and he has served Boston well during his tenure. Five terms though, seems like two too many.
Until then, read the papers, watch the candidates and come Election Day, vote for whom you think is best suited to lead Boston into the future.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Bowling after midnight
Boston Bowl was hopping at 3:30 AM this morning. It's no wonder since this is the only place in Dorchester, indeed in much of Boston, that is open at this hour that isn't selling gasoline or potato chips (though you can buy potato chips at Boston Bowl). As the website says, this is "Boston's best 24-hour bowling." No argument. This is, however, the kind of ad hoc claim impossible to disprove when you are Boston's only round the clock bowling venue.
If not gasoline and convenience foods, what is Boston Bowl selling? The chance to meet in a lit public place indoors, which is a rare commodity in Bean Town. Naturally, Dorchester offers the most unexpected option for after-midnight diversion. In Boston, after 2:00 AM if you want public lighting, there are always the streets. If you want to go to a public place, there are the parks, though most of them are closed after sunset or 9PM or 10PM, or some other Puritan curfew hour. Boston Common is technically open, but don't loiter. It is open for passing through to get from end to the other by means of a shortcut.
We didn't count how many lanes are available for late night/early morning bowling, but the place is impressively vast, tidy and inviting. About ten lanes were being used and maybe an estimated twenty-five were vacant. This includes both regulation lanes and the regional favorite, candle pin lanes. Prices per game range between $4 and change to $5 and change, candle pin being the best bargain.
The most popular part of Boston Bowl during our visit, besides the outdoor smoking area conveniently located at the entrance, was the extensive and crowded pool room. Apparently, people like to engage in a round of billiards late in the wee hours of the morning. The clientele's demographics skewed young, but everyone was congenial and seemed sober. This isn't a place to work off the effects of a bender. It is a place to gather and socialize because there are few other options. Two on-duty policemen occupied a table near the foyer, chatting with each other, keeping an eye on the peaceable proceedings.
Largely invisible except from the southbound lanes of I-93, Boston Bowl is tucked off to the side of lot number 820 Morrisey Boulevard. You can only access the parking lot from the inbound side of Morrisey and you have to know to tuck a quick turn after the hotel but before the candy shop. There aren't any public transportation options during the MBTA's normal operating hours that I am aware of and, obviously, there aren't any public transportation options when the T shuts down sometime after 12:30 each night. There weren't any cabs in the parking lot during our visit.
With this less than ideal location, how does Boston Bowl stay in business year after year? That's an easy question to answer. It's the only game in town.
If not gasoline and convenience foods, what is Boston Bowl selling? The chance to meet in a lit public place indoors, which is a rare commodity in Bean Town. Naturally, Dorchester offers the most unexpected option for after-midnight diversion. In Boston, after 2:00 AM if you want public lighting, there are always the streets. If you want to go to a public place, there are the parks, though most of them are closed after sunset or 9PM or 10PM, or some other Puritan curfew hour. Boston Common is technically open, but don't loiter. It is open for passing through to get from end to the other by means of a shortcut.
We didn't count how many lanes are available for late night/early morning bowling, but the place is impressively vast, tidy and inviting. About ten lanes were being used and maybe an estimated twenty-five were vacant. This includes both regulation lanes and the regional favorite, candle pin lanes. Prices per game range between $4 and change to $5 and change, candle pin being the best bargain.
The most popular part of Boston Bowl during our visit, besides the outdoor smoking area conveniently located at the entrance, was the extensive and crowded pool room. Apparently, people like to engage in a round of billiards late in the wee hours of the morning. The clientele's demographics skewed young, but everyone was congenial and seemed sober. This isn't a place to work off the effects of a bender. It is a place to gather and socialize because there are few other options. Two on-duty policemen occupied a table near the foyer, chatting with each other, keeping an eye on the peaceable proceedings.
Largely invisible except from the southbound lanes of I-93, Boston Bowl is tucked off to the side of lot number 820 Morrisey Boulevard. You can only access the parking lot from the inbound side of Morrisey and you have to know to tuck a quick turn after the hotel but before the candy shop. There aren't any public transportation options during the MBTA's normal operating hours that I am aware of and, obviously, there aren't any public transportation options when the T shuts down sometime after 12:30 each night. There weren't any cabs in the parking lot during our visit.
With this less than ideal location, how does Boston Bowl stay in business year after year? That's an easy question to answer. It's the only game in town.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
We were privileged to attend the showing of Vox Lumiere's Hunchback of Notre Dame last night at the Cutler Majestic Theater, where the cantilevered balconies are held up by plaster angels. It's a busy show with a lot to pay attention to. This is an attempt to make a silent movie more palatable to a modern audience by adding rock music, live synchronized dancing, interpretive lyrics and parenthetical video displays to the iconic 1923 silent film of the same name starring Lon Chaney. When this show is good, it is very good. When it's not very good you can always watch the movie, which never disappoints. It is considered a classic for a reason.
A caveat: I am a silent film buff. Not a fanatic, but I do seek them out and enjoy them as they were intended. I recently saw DJ Spooky's "Rebirth of a Nation," which attempts much of what Vox Lumiere is trying to do, at the Beehive, but without the live stagecraft. I enjoyed both attempts at trying to make the silent medium attractive to a modern audience. Both attempts had their pros and cons. The pro at the Beehive was dinner and drinks. The con at the Cutler Majestic was a lot happening at the same time.
Toward the end of Act One of Vox Lumiere's show, the kineticism of the dancers and singers subsides a bit and they and the band act more as a soundtrack foil to what is happening on screen. The intent of the show starts to gel around the Court of Miracles depicted in the film: the intent of all these electric guitar riffs is to bring people to appreciate what was crafted in 1923.
Before Act Two begins there an entr' acte performance during which the crew performs without the distraction of the movie playing behind them. This was rousing and cemented the idea that there are layers going on in this show that both have to do with the film and don't. Had there been a similar introduction, the audience would have been better prepared. There was a bit of debate during intermission about what exactly the audience was supposed to be taking away from this spectacle.
Act Two brings everything together in a unique way that shouldn't be missed. Whether the live performance is needed or not as a complement to the film is an open question. The film isn't considered a classic without reasons. It is full of iconic scenes that are more than just wallpaper for music video dance moves. Quasimodo clambering or rappelling down the facade of Notre Dame cathedral, his public whipping, his riding the bells for the sheer joy of it, his bittersweet death, are all worth the price of admission. The star of this show, 80-something years after its filming, is still Lon Chaney, the Man of a Thousand Faces. He is peerless.
I didn't run into anyone disappointed afterwards. If you've never been tempted to see a silent movie this a good introduction. If you want to show a date a good time you will find it here. You'll certainly have enough to talk about afterwards. The show runs until March 29. You can see a short video and purchase tickets here.
A caveat: I am a silent film buff. Not a fanatic, but I do seek them out and enjoy them as they were intended. I recently saw DJ Spooky's "Rebirth of a Nation," which attempts much of what Vox Lumiere is trying to do, at the Beehive, but without the live stagecraft. I enjoyed both attempts at trying to make the silent medium attractive to a modern audience. Both attempts had their pros and cons. The pro at the Beehive was dinner and drinks. The con at the Cutler Majestic was a lot happening at the same time.
Toward the end of Act One of Vox Lumiere's show, the kineticism of the dancers and singers subsides a bit and they and the band act more as a soundtrack foil to what is happening on screen. The intent of the show starts to gel around the Court of Miracles depicted in the film: the intent of all these electric guitar riffs is to bring people to appreciate what was crafted in 1923.
Before Act Two begins there an entr' acte performance during which the crew performs without the distraction of the movie playing behind them. This was rousing and cemented the idea that there are layers going on in this show that both have to do with the film and don't. Had there been a similar introduction, the audience would have been better prepared. There was a bit of debate during intermission about what exactly the audience was supposed to be taking away from this spectacle.
Act Two brings everything together in a unique way that shouldn't be missed. Whether the live performance is needed or not as a complement to the film is an open question. The film isn't considered a classic without reasons. It is full of iconic scenes that are more than just wallpaper for music video dance moves. Quasimodo clambering or rappelling down the facade of Notre Dame cathedral, his public whipping, his riding the bells for the sheer joy of it, his bittersweet death, are all worth the price of admission. The star of this show, 80-something years after its filming, is still Lon Chaney, the Man of a Thousand Faces. He is peerless.
I didn't run into anyone disappointed afterwards. If you've never been tempted to see a silent movie this a good introduction. If you want to show a date a good time you will find it here. You'll certainly have enough to talk about afterwards. The show runs until March 29. You can see a short video and purchase tickets here.
Monday, March 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
An American werewolf in Dorchester
Tonight's happy hour led me to the Dot Tavern where I was sitting next to a bearded chap with a Southie accent. We didn't talk at first which suited me fine. I was finishing up the horse racing news in the Herald and preferred not to be interrupted from my studies. After I put my paper down, the 'gentleman' gradually engaged me in conversation.
He saw what I had been studying in the newspaper so the talk started with palaver about the ponies. While he regaled me with tales of his well chosen trifectas I noticed that his eyes always wandered when a lady walked past. The woman in question could be young or old, attractive or not, blond, brunette, redhead, bluehair, cross-eyed, snaggle-toothed or super-model. If they belonged to the fairer sex, which naturally they did, his eyes would follow them from behind my left shoulder to the hairy edge of his left ear.
He saw what I had been studying in the newspaper so the talk started with palaver about the ponies. While he regaled me with tales of his well chosen trifectas I noticed that his eyes always wandered when a lady walked past. The woman in question could be young or old, attractive or not, blond, brunette, redhead, bluehair, cross-eyed, snaggle-toothed or super-model. If they belonged to the fairer sex, which naturally they did, his eyes would follow them from behind my left shoulder to the hairy edge of his left ear.
"I've been drinking beer all day. I could use me a nice goose right about now," he told me. I suggested he visit Gene and Paul's Meats just down the road. This grocery has the freshest meats of all varieties from any flesh-bearing, land bound animal one might wish to consume.
He said, "Naw, I don't cook. I just want me a little tickle." Then he pointed with a crooked finger at a spiky-haired, crew cut brunette lass sitting in a booth. "That's the goose I want to pluck," he said, extending his finger out then pulling it back a few times. I excused myself.
I introduced myself to the ladies in the booth. It was all, "Hello, I'm Whalehead King...it's a nice night compared to yesterday...what do you do for a living?... uh huh, uh huh...do you live close by?...do you know that the creep who keeps looking over his shoulder at us and licking his lips isn't watching me but you?"
It turned out to be last call for the ladies though the evening was still early, hours before cutoff time. I offered to escort them home but they refused. I said I was leaving anyway, and we left together, parting company at Columbia Road. The goose hunter didn't follow, which is just as well.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Cyrano d'Andrew
Children can be so cruel. Jan Kowalka is forty-three years old, a member of the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, a good provider for his family, and he is a devoted father to his daughter and son. He lives off Boston Street in a third floor apartment he rents from his parents, who live on the ground floor. His sister and her husband live on the second story.
Jan Kowalka has a big nose, what Jimmy Durante would call a schnozzola. It's a honker. It doesn't look out of place on his face, but if it were on mine it would stand out like the monument at Dorchester Heights. It would be as prominent as the Hancock Tower in Boston's skyline viewed from Columbia Point. He has been called "Buzzard" since he started attending school. So many years later, on job sites and at the Dot Tavern, people around the neighborhood still call him "Buzz." He's gotten used to it. After all, a man is born with a face and then he learns to live with it.
Buzz Kowalka was walking down Washburn Street this morning, trudging through the snow with his lunchpail, when he was accosted by a gang of children. Though they would normally be in school at this hour but a few inches of snow had fallen in Dorchester overnight and the kids were free to have the run of the streets. "Hey mister," one of the rapscallions called, "Your nose is so big I bet I can peg it with a snowball with my eyes closed." Then he attempted to do just that.
The missle hit its mark and Mr. Kowalka's hat was knocked of his head. He couldn't see for a moment and he tripped on the uneven sidewalk that was buried under the eight inches of snow that came up over his ankles. Mr. Kowalka hit his head on a plastic trash barrel and his lunchpail fell into a snowdrift. The perpetrators scattered. Who knows where? Mr. Kowalka's nose was bleeding.
He headed back home and his wife applied a styptic pencil to to his left nostril to stanch the red stream that was dripping over his lips. After receiving first aid, Mr. Kowalka re-fit his hat, re-wrapped his scarf and trudged down Washburn Street again to retrieve his lunch and get to work, hopefully on time
Jan Kowalka has a big nose, what Jimmy Durante would call a schnozzola. It's a honker. It doesn't look out of place on his face, but if it were on mine it would stand out like the monument at Dorchester Heights. It would be as prominent as the Hancock Tower in Boston's skyline viewed from Columbia Point. He has been called "Buzzard" since he started attending school. So many years later, on job sites and at the Dot Tavern, people around the neighborhood still call him "Buzz." He's gotten used to it. After all, a man is born with a face and then he learns to live with it.
Buzz Kowalka was walking down Washburn Street this morning, trudging through the snow with his lunchpail, when he was accosted by a gang of children. Though they would normally be in school at this hour but a few inches of snow had fallen in Dorchester overnight and the kids were free to have the run of the streets. "Hey mister," one of the rapscallions called, "Your nose is so big I bet I can peg it with a snowball with my eyes closed." Then he attempted to do just that.
The missle hit its mark and Mr. Kowalka's hat was knocked of his head. He couldn't see for a moment and he tripped on the uneven sidewalk that was buried under the eight inches of snow that came up over his ankles. Mr. Kowalka hit his head on a plastic trash barrel and his lunchpail fell into a snowdrift. The perpetrators scattered. Who knows where? Mr. Kowalka's nose was bleeding.
He headed back home and his wife applied a styptic pencil to to his left nostril to stanch the red stream that was dripping over his lips. After receiving first aid, Mr. Kowalka re-fit his hat, re-wrapped his scarf and trudged down Washburn Street again to retrieve his lunch and get to work, hopefully on time
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Smooth Sounds of the New Dorchester
Top forty and hip-hop have their places in Dorchester. This is a neighborhood of middle-aged, middle class, working folks out to dance like it's 1999. It is also a neighborhood that pulses with the fresh and angry sounds of disaffected, disenfranchised, urban youth. Between these two extremes there is another demographic that is a little more suave, a little more laid back, a little more je ne c'est quoi, if you know what I mean. They're cocktail people.
D Bar caters to these clientele. So does C.F. Donovan's. So does the Blarney Stone and the Ashmont Grill. Other joints have upped their sophistication to lesser degrees but there's a new beat in Dorchester and it's measured in 3:4 time. To be or not to be? I would tell you after last call, but by then I've forgotten the question. There's no such thing as too much lounging. It is good for the soul, if a little soggy on the gray matter.
We were in the Twelve Bens on Adams Street when some joker played Herb Alpert and His Tijuana Brass's classic "A Taste of Honey" on the jukebox. The patrons were a bit riled as this album has never been played in the Twelve Bens and they didn't know what to make of it. There was a vote to pull the juke box's plug and it was done unceremoniously.
A younger guy sitting in the corner stood up and said, "Hold on a minute. If you don't like that, I think you'll like this. It's the same thing, only better." He pulled out his ipod and plugged it into the house stereo. The John King and Dust Bros. remix of "A Taste of Honey" came through the overhead speakers and peace settled over the bar. It wasn't an Irish lullaby but everyone got swept up with the refrain and the back beats. Everyone agreed this is the sound of the new Dot.
This is your father's Herb Alpert:
This is the new, re-whipped cream:
D Bar caters to these clientele. So does C.F. Donovan's. So does the Blarney Stone and the Ashmont Grill. Other joints have upped their sophistication to lesser degrees but there's a new beat in Dorchester and it's measured in 3:4 time. To be or not to be? I would tell you after last call, but by then I've forgotten the question. There's no such thing as too much lounging. It is good for the soul, if a little soggy on the gray matter.
We were in the Twelve Bens on Adams Street when some joker played Herb Alpert and His Tijuana Brass's classic "A Taste of Honey" on the jukebox. The patrons were a bit riled as this album has never been played in the Twelve Bens and they didn't know what to make of it. There was a vote to pull the juke box's plug and it was done unceremoniously.
A younger guy sitting in the corner stood up and said, "Hold on a minute. If you don't like that, I think you'll like this. It's the same thing, only better." He pulled out his ipod and plugged it into the house stereo. The John King and Dust Bros. remix of "A Taste of Honey" came through the overhead speakers and peace settled over the bar. It wasn't an Irish lullaby but everyone got swept up with the refrain and the back beats. Everyone agreed this is the sound of the new Dot.
This is your father's Herb Alpert:
This is the new, re-whipped cream:
Monday, December 08, 2008
Toilet Water Sold in Dorchester?
I was having lunch with Esmelda Perez at Liriano Restuarant at Bakersfield Corner (112 Stoughton Street). I had beans and rice while she tucked into a roast chicken platter. The meal was satisfactory but the conversation was more interesting. Ms. Perez pitched a business idea that got me thinking. Her idea is a humdinger.
We were about midway through our meal when she hatched her plan to me while biting the skin off the wing of her half chicken, "I was on Newbury Street a few weeks ago," she said, "And I noticed all the specialty shops. They have stores that only sell a few things. It's not like up the road at Upham's Corner. Here it's all dollar stores except Foot Locker and CVS, and even CVS sells more than medications. There isn't any place that specializes in one thing I think people need. Like I say, I've been thinking, and I think I've found a niche that will succeed in this neighborhood. I've been doing some research. Even if we're in a recession, there is one thing people always want."
The suspense was killing me. "What is it?" I asked.
She took a sip of Diet Coke to wet her whistle. "People want to smell good," she answered. She elaborated, "They want to smell like a million even if they don't have a million bucks. Ladies always want to smell good but they want their boyfriends to smell good too. They'll spend the extra money if it's worth it." It sounded plausible.
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"There's an empty storefront across the street from New York Fried Chicken. I've looked into it and the rent's not too bad. I want to stock it with fancy soaps and deodorants and perfumes. I can call it 'Esmelda's Smell Good Shop.' That's what it will be: a smell-good shop. I was originally going to call it 'Cool Water' after the cologne I buy for my boyfriend. I love the smell of that, I think it's sexy, but I figured people wouldn't get it so I settled on 'Smell Good Shop.' What do you think?"
I like it. People do want to smell good and why should all the perfume emporia be located on Boston streets more chi-chi than Columbia Road? I told this to Ms. Perez and she asked if I would co-sign a loan for her to get into business. I deferred, referring her to the Small Business Administration for entrepreneurial advice. I did pick up the tab for lunch in appreciation for this scoop on a new business developing in Upham's Corner.
Here is what Esmelda Perez likes her boyfriend to wear: For the ladies, there's this ...
We were about midway through our meal when she hatched her plan to me while biting the skin off the wing of her half chicken, "I was on Newbury Street a few weeks ago," she said, "And I noticed all the specialty shops. They have stores that only sell a few things. It's not like up the road at Upham's Corner. Here it's all dollar stores except Foot Locker and CVS, and even CVS sells more than medications. There isn't any place that specializes in one thing I think people need. Like I say, I've been thinking, and I think I've found a niche that will succeed in this neighborhood. I've been doing some research. Even if we're in a recession, there is one thing people always want."
The suspense was killing me. "What is it?" I asked.
She took a sip of Diet Coke to wet her whistle. "People want to smell good," she answered. She elaborated, "They want to smell like a million even if they don't have a million bucks. Ladies always want to smell good but they want their boyfriends to smell good too. They'll spend the extra money if it's worth it." It sounded plausible.
"What do you have in mind?" I asked.
"There's an empty storefront across the street from New York Fried Chicken. I've looked into it and the rent's not too bad. I want to stock it with fancy soaps and deodorants and perfumes. I can call it 'Esmelda's Smell Good Shop.' That's what it will be: a smell-good shop. I was originally going to call it 'Cool Water' after the cologne I buy for my boyfriend. I love the smell of that, I think it's sexy, but I figured people wouldn't get it so I settled on 'Smell Good Shop.' What do you think?"
I like it. People do want to smell good and why should all the perfume emporia be located on Boston streets more chi-chi than Columbia Road? I told this to Ms. Perez and she asked if I would co-sign a loan for her to get into business. I deferred, referring her to the Small Business Administration for entrepreneurial advice. I did pick up the tab for lunch in appreciation for this scoop on a new business developing in Upham's Corner.
Here is what Esmelda Perez likes her boyfriend to wear: For the ladies, there's this ...
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Little Chicken
Poultry husbandry is illegal in Boston, as is any other kind of livestock-raising beyond dogs, cats, guinea pigs, lab mice, goldfish, homing pigeons or budgies. Urban animals are encouraged but rural animals are dissuaded from entering Boston's city limits unless they are dead, cut to order, and ready for the frying pan or the oven.
Tonawanda Street in Lower Roxbury, just north of Newmarket and west of Upham's Corner, has been awakened recently by the sounds of a rooster before sunrise. Many cocks crow in the dark in this part of the city, but few bestir the neighbors before alarm clocks are set to go off. Though animal enforcement have been called in, no one has been able to pinpoint the source of the every-AM disturbance. Cock-a-doodle-doo rings out over the rooftops as the sky to the east tinges pink. An insomniac can't even buy a newspaper or a chocolate bar at that hour of the morning. The neighborhood isn't pleased by having its beauty rest disturbed.
Talk around the Ideal Sub Shop, on Dudley Street, most mornings indicates that a brood of "pocket chickens" has been smuggled into upper Dorchester and lower Roxbury from Cuba. It has long been a scheme of the Castro regime to breed miniature farm animals since at least the 1990s and the sound of the mysterious rooster cries on Tonawanda Avenue have been attributed to a communist plot. The goal behind this wrinkle in the Cuban Scientific-Agrarian Plan was to bring the bounty of rural self-sufficience into the apartments of urban barrios. Slogans included: "A Dairy in Every Closet!" and "A Pocketful of Grape-Sized Eggs!" Boston may be a better city in which to explore the ramifications than Havana.
The Massachusetts ASPCA has been briefed to be on the lookout for miniature poultry, most probably chicken but perhaps turkey, duck or goose. Birds are expected to be able to nest in the span of a human hand, but there haven't been any conclusive sitings or measurements. Who knows what mutations have been spawned in sub-topical, jungle, genetic, abandoned sugar plantation laboratories? Who knows what principals of science and nature have been bungled? There may be a new breed of chicken in Boston, a bird fit for a pocket. If true, it will still be illeageal to bread or keep as a pet, if not illegal to eat. Every good citizen around Tonawanda Street is encouraged to turn in information on the source of the mysterious avian crowing. Boston's mayor has offered a $3.oo reward for valuable tips that lead to the discovery and incarceration of alien pocket-chickens.
Tonawanda Street in Lower Roxbury, just north of Newmarket and west of Upham's Corner, has been awakened recently by the sounds of a rooster before sunrise. Many cocks crow in the dark in this part of the city, but few bestir the neighbors before alarm clocks are set to go off. Though animal enforcement have been called in, no one has been able to pinpoint the source of the every-AM disturbance. Cock-a-doodle-doo rings out over the rooftops as the sky to the east tinges pink. An insomniac can't even buy a newspaper or a chocolate bar at that hour of the morning. The neighborhood isn't pleased by having its beauty rest disturbed.
Talk around the Ideal Sub Shop, on Dudley Street, most mornings indicates that a brood of "pocket chickens" has been smuggled into upper Dorchester and lower Roxbury from Cuba. It has long been a scheme of the Castro regime to breed miniature farm animals since at least the 1990s and the sound of the mysterious rooster cries on Tonawanda Avenue have been attributed to a communist plot. The goal behind this wrinkle in the Cuban Scientific-Agrarian Plan was to bring the bounty of rural self-sufficience into the apartments of urban barrios. Slogans included: "A Dairy in Every Closet!" and "A Pocketful of Grape-Sized Eggs!" Boston may be a better city in which to explore the ramifications than Havana.
The Massachusetts ASPCA has been briefed to be on the lookout for miniature poultry, most probably chicken but perhaps turkey, duck or goose. Birds are expected to be able to nest in the span of a human hand, but there haven't been any conclusive sitings or measurements. Who knows what mutations have been spawned in sub-topical, jungle, genetic, abandoned sugar plantation laboratories? Who knows what principals of science and nature have been bungled? There may be a new breed of chicken in Boston, a bird fit for a pocket. If true, it will still be illeageal to bread or keep as a pet, if not illegal to eat. Every good citizen around Tonawanda Street is encouraged to turn in information on the source of the mysterious avian crowing. Boston's mayor has offered a $3.oo reward for valuable tips that lead to the discovery and incarceration of alien pocket-chickens.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Between The Gutter and The Stars
New London sits between the gutter and the stars. When some people walk they jangle with their pockets full of spare change. Some people play by their own rules and shuffle and skylark about. Some people look as it pleases them, without a knot of consideration for what anyone thinks. New London sits squarely on the globe between the gutter and the stars.
Seen delineated on a surveyor’s map, New London balls itself into a fist downtown and punches a cheap, feeble uppercut into the soft gut of the State of Connecticut. Seen from a street map, New London is a bundle of nerves downtown trailing a spinal ganglion down to the ocean. Seen at eye level, walking about one’s internal map and tracing the tracks of muscle memory, New London is a dream.
Bottle rockets burst in New London’s atmosphere during Sailfest. Other, more intimate, still howling, explosions happen every New London night. This is a city built on lust and love and all the measures in between. Once the genie is out of its flask, she refuses to be put back in. New London is full of pretty women with light brown hair. On some weekends, you will find one or two who are strawberry blonde or blond streaked with gray.
Sometimes a relic is wrapped in a bejeweled reliquary. More often, talismans are found in the people we meet. We all have something in common. Some have more in common with our selves than others. All pigs are not created equal. I have found a pearl. I found her in New London.
If a person is good, New London will reward him or her with his or hers heart’s desire. New London is like that. It exists halfway between the gutter and the stars. People are halfway between Heaven and Hell. Better to meet an angel in Hell than a devil in Heaven. New London has provided many introductions over the years. All of them have been good.
Whalehead King has arm-wrestled many demons in New London and he has thumb-wrestled many angels between bouts. If Whalehead King is good, it is because New London taught him how to be.
Seen delineated on a surveyor’s map, New London balls itself into a fist downtown and punches a cheap, feeble uppercut into the soft gut of the State of Connecticut. Seen from a street map, New London is a bundle of nerves downtown trailing a spinal ganglion down to the ocean. Seen at eye level, walking about one’s internal map and tracing the tracks of muscle memory, New London is a dream.
Bottle rockets burst in New London’s atmosphere during Sailfest. Other, more intimate, still howling, explosions happen every New London night. This is a city built on lust and love and all the measures in between. Once the genie is out of its flask, she refuses to be put back in. New London is full of pretty women with light brown hair. On some weekends, you will find one or two who are strawberry blonde or blond streaked with gray.
Sometimes a relic is wrapped in a bejeweled reliquary. More often, talismans are found in the people we meet. We all have something in common. Some have more in common with our selves than others. All pigs are not created equal. I have found a pearl. I found her in New London.
If a person is good, New London will reward him or her with his or hers heart’s desire. New London is like that. It exists halfway between the gutter and the stars. People are halfway between Heaven and Hell. Better to meet an angel in Hell than a devil in Heaven. New London has provided many introductions over the years. All of them have been good.
Whalehead King has arm-wrestled many demons in New London and he has thumb-wrestled many angels between bouts. If Whalehead King is good, it is because New London taught him how to be.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Where's the Sperm??
Connecticut has a Whaling City, a city that saw its fortunes rise by the barrel as whale oil (For the uninitiated: spermacetti is the best grade.) poured into the best deepwater port on the Eastern seaboard. More than a century after the trade has become an illegal pastime pursued only by Norwegians, Icelanders and the Japanese, New London is still affectionately, known as the Whaling City.
You won't find any whale products, not even scrimshaw or rubber whales that squeek when you squeeze them in New London. You will see paintings of whales and pictures of whales, and even whale cartoons drawn in chalk on downtown sidewalks, but you will not find a trace of a part of a real whale. One would imagine that a new, more relevent nickname would have appeared and stuck after the whaling trade's demise. You also won't find any one industry that replaced whaling as the city's defining attribute. So why is New London still the Whaling City?
Many names have been proposed. Few of them were flattering enough to be promoted by the Chamber of Commerce. In fact, there is so little industry left in New London, the city no longer has its own. The field is wide open for someone to come up with a name that will stick, a name that will promote and define the New London of today.
Of course, Whaling City isn't so bad. It still fits.
You won't find any whale products, not even scrimshaw or rubber whales that squeek when you squeeze them in New London. You will see paintings of whales and pictures of whales, and even whale cartoons drawn in chalk on downtown sidewalks, but you will not find a trace of a part of a real whale. One would imagine that a new, more relevent nickname would have appeared and stuck after the whaling trade's demise. You also won't find any one industry that replaced whaling as the city's defining attribute. So why is New London still the Whaling City?
Many names have been proposed. Few of them were flattering enough to be promoted by the Chamber of Commerce. In fact, there is so little industry left in New London, the city no longer has its own. The field is wide open for someone to come up with a name that will stick, a name that will promote and define the New London of today.
Of course, Whaling City isn't so bad. It still fits.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
No Needs Unmet
There are more than bricks in a city. There are hungry souls and libidos. Most needs can be met in New London, if not with the real thing then at least with a fantasy. The latest shipment of pornographic magazines arrived today at Parade News and the shelves in the back were freshly stocked by 2:00 this afternoon. Your correspondent is not familiar with the titles on offer, but the selection seems extensive enough that any connosieur will be sure to find something to suit thier tastes.
The grounds around St. Mary Star of the Sea Roman Catholic Church show all the green shades of spring grass. The Church is beautiful to begin with, and the statue of St. Mary Star of the Sea is a benevolent prescence for those driving on Huntington Street. The rectory and the nunnery are equally handsome and reassuring features on the west side of Huntington Street. The school is as dignified in its architechture as everything else on the property, including the parking lot/playground in back.
St. Mary Star of the Sea Church sits north of the intersection of Huntington and Tilley Streets and Washington Avenue. The corner of the rectory abuts the old SNET Building which has been converted to apartments. There is a triangular lawn between the rectory and the corner of Hutnington and Washington. It is well tended and kept manicured. A stainless, white statue of The Christ stands blessing Tilley Street. On one of side of the old SNET Building is the church's lawn. The other side fronts a narrow alley between the SNET Building and the Elks Lodge. Most of the windows on this side of the Elks Lodge are boarded up and were painted forest green seven years ago.
Some of the apartment windows in the old SNET Building overlook the back of the blessing Christ. Others look right at the Elks Lodge twelve feet away, others offer a view of the St Mary's School's parking lot. In the front, the apartments face the Federal style homes across Washington Avenue and a bit of Brewer Street's panorama. No one apartment or view is more coveted than any other. This is New London, after all, and every view is beautiful. This humble narrator prefers the Huntington side himself, especially the apartments from which I can see the back of the blessing Christ.
The grounds around St. Mary Star of the Sea Roman Catholic Church show all the green shades of spring grass. The Church is beautiful to begin with, and the statue of St. Mary Star of the Sea is a benevolent prescence for those driving on Huntington Street. The rectory and the nunnery are equally handsome and reassuring features on the west side of Huntington Street. The school is as dignified in its architechture as everything else on the property, including the parking lot/playground in back.
St. Mary Star of the Sea Church sits north of the intersection of Huntington and Tilley Streets and Washington Avenue. The corner of the rectory abuts the old SNET Building which has been converted to apartments. There is a triangular lawn between the rectory and the corner of Hutnington and Washington. It is well tended and kept manicured. A stainless, white statue of The Christ stands blessing Tilley Street. On one of side of the old SNET Building is the church's lawn. The other side fronts a narrow alley between the SNET Building and the Elks Lodge. Most of the windows on this side of the Elks Lodge are boarded up and were painted forest green seven years ago.
Some of the apartment windows in the old SNET Building overlook the back of the blessing Christ. Others look right at the Elks Lodge twelve feet away, others offer a view of the St Mary's School's parking lot. In the front, the apartments face the Federal style homes across Washington Avenue and a bit of Brewer Street's panorama. No one apartment or view is more coveted than any other. This is New London, after all, and every view is beautiful. This humble narrator prefers the Huntington side himself, especially the apartments from which I can see the back of the blessing Christ.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Amy Hannum for President!!
Mark your calendar, social activism and the prospect for change are in the air. March 31st, at the Oasis Cafe, 14 Bank Street, I beleive, will host an event to promote New London's most promising presidential candidate. Show your support and hobnob with the possible next leader of the free world.
Amy Hannum, locally known as Paintdragon, is running for president. That's right: Commander in Chief, Head of the Administrative Branch of our Constitutional government, a breath of fresh air more full of energy, younger and more charming than Ralph Nader. Ms. Hannum is a fountainhead of ideas as powerful and as personable as a character out an an Ayn Rand novel. If you want to see a woman in the White House, cast a vote for Amy Hannum. She deserves it more than many, many other candidates.
March 31st at the Oasis. What a perfect place to launch a leader in the desert of hackworn ideas that have dominated the debates thus far.
Amy Hannum, locally known as Paintdragon, is running for president. That's right: Commander in Chief, Head of the Administrative Branch of our Constitutional government, a breath of fresh air more full of energy, younger and more charming than Ralph Nader. Ms. Hannum is a fountainhead of ideas as powerful and as personable as a character out an an Ayn Rand novel. If you want to see a woman in the White House, cast a vote for Amy Hannum. She deserves it more than many, many other candidates.
March 31st at the Oasis. What a perfect place to launch a leader in the desert of hackworn ideas that have dominated the debates thus far.
Woonsocket, Rhode Island
Your intrepid correspondent travelled far afield today, to the romantic city of Woonsocket, Rhode Island. Foreign territory indeed, it is a city with a beautiful name, built by Canucks and now home to a large Cambodian population. While the city of Woonsocket will never compete with our beloved New London, it has much to commend it.
It is a friendly city and one in which it is easy to lose one's way. It is home to a lovely Thai/Cambodian/Laotion restaurant where the hostess is lovely and professional and discreet. She is also the cook and she accomodates special orders. The food is delicious, especially when enjoyed with delicious company.
My companion and I landed in Woonsocket by happy accident, the way most accidents should be. I would never have consciously chosen Woonsocket as a destination, but now I can recommend it wholeheartedly, should anyone, for whatever reason, want to replace New London's excitement with the thrills to be found in an old industrial city along the Blackstone River.
We started our jaunt in Providence, that queen of Rhode Island cities. No, I did not take the motor scooter to Providence. I took Amtrak, which was very convenient and very pleasant. It took an hour to get to downtown Providence and 50 minutes back to New London. Round trip cost: $45.00. The staff was pleasant and professional, as if they had been running trains for more than a century. Since Providence's train station is located right downtown, I would recommend this as a means of travel to the Ocean State's capitol. It helps especially if you have a pleasant friend to meet you when you arrive.
It is a friendly city and one in which it is easy to lose one's way. It is home to a lovely Thai/Cambodian/Laotion restaurant where the hostess is lovely and professional and discreet. She is also the cook and she accomodates special orders. The food is delicious, especially when enjoyed with delicious company.
My companion and I landed in Woonsocket by happy accident, the way most accidents should be. I would never have consciously chosen Woonsocket as a destination, but now I can recommend it wholeheartedly, should anyone, for whatever reason, want to replace New London's excitement with the thrills to be found in an old industrial city along the Blackstone River.
We started our jaunt in Providence, that queen of Rhode Island cities. No, I did not take the motor scooter to Providence. I took Amtrak, which was very convenient and very pleasant. It took an hour to get to downtown Providence and 50 minutes back to New London. Round trip cost: $45.00. The staff was pleasant and professional, as if they had been running trains for more than a century. Since Providence's train station is located right downtown, I would recommend this as a means of travel to the Ocean State's capitol. It helps especially if you have a pleasant friend to meet you when you arrive.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Hooray for the Status Quo
Well the vote on New London's charter has come and gone. A nineteen percent turnout. Apathy and government irrelevance remain the order of the day. Eighty-one percent of voters couldn't muster the effort to flip a lever. Ah, New London, a city preserved in ambergris that smells like low tide. One would imagine a city of perennial complainers would want to voice thier opinion. Apparently not when it matters.
Do not mistake me. I fell in love with Connecticut's Whaling City twelve years ago. I love it dysfunctional and inert. I love it crumbling at the foundations and full of plucky entrepreneurs doomed to failure. I am one of them after all. This is a city that seperates the adults from the children, even if it is hard to tell the difference sometimes.
If I sound heartbroken and full of bile and venom, it is because I am. I live in a city and I beleive New London is as real a city as one can find anywhere. When I imagine New London's peers, I think of Beijing, Shanghai, Singapore, Dubai, Vienna, Naples, Frankfurt, New York and Los Angeles. All these cities have mayors who make decisions and make things happen. If I wanted to live in a place run by selectmen, I would move to Pomfret, or Sprague, or Griswold, or North Stongington, all nowhere, municipal destinations located in Connecticut. I look at New Haven and Hartford, and Stamford and West Hartford, and Danbury and Bridgeport and even dysfunctionally corrupt Waterbury (also all in Connecticut). I look at cities where things are happening that also happen to have mayors who are in charge.
I am in New London and my heart belongs here. It is a love/hate relationship, the way the most passionate relationships are. New London and I have no conjugal dealings, but we do have a mutual understanding. I will stay out of the government's way if it stays out of mine. We are at cross purposes. I celebrate my city. New London's government stifles its assets the way a crack-addled mother smothers her baby. Strong words, but true ones none the less. We have no one to blame but ourselves.
I apologize for not being as light-hearted as usual.
My condolences to Gil Torres and Angelica Torres Peck. Hortencia was a wonderful woman and a wonderful cook. She was an asset to this city who will be missed. Her passing deserves more than a footnote at the end of a diatribe about the state of the Whaling City. I regret that I haven't seen her for so long, but I have only the fondest memories of chatting with her in her kitchen at el Sombrero while she worked at her big cast-iron skillet conjuring marvels our of ingredients she bought the morning before at Shop Rite. She was one of a kind. I doubt I will meet her Heaven, but I know I won't see her where I will end up.
-Matthew Whalehead King
Do not mistake me. I fell in love with Connecticut's Whaling City twelve years ago. I love it dysfunctional and inert. I love it crumbling at the foundations and full of plucky entrepreneurs doomed to failure. I am one of them after all. This is a city that seperates the adults from the children, even if it is hard to tell the difference sometimes.
If I sound heartbroken and full of bile and venom, it is because I am. I live in a city and I beleive New London is as real a city as one can find anywhere. When I imagine New London's peers, I think of Beijing, Shanghai, Singapore, Dubai, Vienna, Naples, Frankfurt, New York and Los Angeles. All these cities have mayors who make decisions and make things happen. If I wanted to live in a place run by selectmen, I would move to Pomfret, or Sprague, or Griswold, or North Stongington, all nowhere, municipal destinations located in Connecticut. I look at New Haven and Hartford, and Stamford and West Hartford, and Danbury and Bridgeport and even dysfunctionally corrupt Waterbury (also all in Connecticut). I look at cities where things are happening that also happen to have mayors who are in charge.
I am in New London and my heart belongs here. It is a love/hate relationship, the way the most passionate relationships are. New London and I have no conjugal dealings, but we do have a mutual understanding. I will stay out of the government's way if it stays out of mine. We are at cross purposes. I celebrate my city. New London's government stifles its assets the way a crack-addled mother smothers her baby. Strong words, but true ones none the less. We have no one to blame but ourselves.
I apologize for not being as light-hearted as usual.
My condolences to Gil Torres and Angelica Torres Peck. Hortencia was a wonderful woman and a wonderful cook. She was an asset to this city who will be missed. Her passing deserves more than a footnote at the end of a diatribe about the state of the Whaling City. I regret that I haven't seen her for so long, but I have only the fondest memories of chatting with her in her kitchen at el Sombrero while she worked at her big cast-iron skillet conjuring marvels our of ingredients she bought the morning before at Shop Rite. She was one of a kind. I doubt I will meet her Heaven, but I know I won't see her where I will end up.
-Matthew Whalehead King
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