It isn't too many people who can complain they are gypped out of a free lunch, or is it? The easiest and best thing anyone can do is just show up and everything falls in to place after that. Your Man on the Dot, in Dorchester, Mass., which happens to be the biggest and best of Boston's subdivisions, has taken a free ride to nowhere and reaped the rewards. As one of BostonNOW's unpaid filler providers, Whalehead King had a good run. The paper went belly up unceremoniously and our hero finds himself without an outlet to vent his spleen. You now know the reason for this posting from a point that, while not unfamiliar, is unknown.
Adrift on Boston's web of convoluted and tangled street grid, Whalehead King will resume his semi-daily musings and reportage on this page. This will last until another venue takes up more of his time. The devil, as always, lies in the details and books still need to be written and edited and there are only so many hours in a day as our Man on the Dot holds down a forty-hour-a-week paying job. This is a tough economy.
We welcome regular readers back to a familiar clime and we welcome newcomers as well. Cheers,........Whalehead King
Balaenius Rex!
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Restaurant Review
This doesn't take place in Dorchester, but it is a Boston experience all the same.
JAMAICA PLAIN. Here is a nice date to experience with someone special. Take the Orange Line to Stony Brook Station. When you exit the station doors, take a right and head towards the well-lit and attractive package store that is located at one of the sweetest spots to sell liquor in Boston. This date doesn’t involve narrow brown bags though. Keep walking up the street which is lined with a variety of large houses that provide plenty of conversational fodder for you and your escort.
You’ll walk a few blocks through a residential neighborhood. The other people who disembarked from the train will be headed the same way, some branching off along well-lit, tidy side streets while others tack straight ahead. The variety of homes allows two people to judge each other’s tastes in living situations and style. Even in the cold, people sit on their front porches and the stained glass around front doors and in stairwells glows with ambient light. The quarter mile to Center Street flies by under meandering footsteps.
The vista that greets a couple on Center Street can be disconcerting. A brightly-lit, rounded beige façade sporting a neon CVS logo glows in the dark. You step out into a proper square where streets converge. A restaurant/lounge called Alchemist glows ambiently with an air of mystery, but this isn’t a date meant to impress. It is a rendezvous to get to know each other better and spend time where the company isn’t overwhelmed by the surroundings. Rather than turn right down toward Jackson Square or cross the intersection to Alchemist, turn left past the pizzeria and try out Acapulco.
This is a Mexican restaurant in the best low-rent, high-class tradition, proud of its ethnicity. Sparkly, embroidered sombreros are mounted on the white stuccoed walls over draped colorful, wool scarves. A faux, red tile, cantina roof is mounted over the bar. The double-wide dining room is separated by arches that both open and partition the space. The arches are accented with glued on fake, quarter-inch thick bricks. Music plays low and almost every song contains the refrain, “Ai-yi-yi-yi,” over gently caressed guitar strings and accordion notes.
The menu runs the gamut of price ranges, but none are too far out of reach. A page dedicated to Tex-Mex staples, tacos, enchiladas, and such, goes no higher than $12.oo for a combination plate and the portions are generous. The other five pages of menu are reserved for more specialized Mexican fare, what they don’t serve to tourists and what they don’t serve in at Taco Bell. The top price is $16.00 should one want to stray to authentic fare. The mood is relaxed, grounded South of the Border ambience punctuated by the natural boisterousness regular clientele bring to a well-liked dining hall.
One wall is dominated by an oil painting of a bull fight approximately ten feet long by six feet high. This will never land in the Museum of Fine Arts, but it is art nonetheless. The view of the Spanish ladies, copied from Goya reproductions, that frame the left edge of the picture are worth the price of the meal. My companion commented, “The ladies look so pretty.” I was struck by the crowd depicted in the background of the ring. Numerous personalities are painted with a masterful brevity of brushstrokes producing a swirl of individual expressions captured at the height of excitement. The matador and the bull are somewhat less expertly rendered. They are a little stiff and out of proportion, but the artist’s shortcomings in technical skill in no way diminish the impact of what he tried to portray.
Some recommendations: We started with the cactus salad, which was a nice mixture of fresh and pickled ingredients. The cactus slices over thinly shredded iceberg lettuce and tomato wedges were flavored with the lightest brine. There was no need to open the two packets of Kraft Creamy Italian Dressing that were provided on the side of the salad bowl. I had a Burro Grande with spicy green sauce. My companion had a Chicken Quesadilla. Neither of us had any cause for complaint.
What sets Acapulco apart from the run-of-the-mill Mexican restaurant was the pitcher of sangria we drank. It arrived in a liter carafe and was served in an ice-filled wine glass with a squeezed slice of lime. The carafe is called a full pitcher on the menu and costs $20.00. They are twenty dollars well spent. The first sip is ambrosia and every following sip is a perfect accompaniment to the food and the atmosphere. We didn’t finish the carafe, but we left Acapulco with full, satisfied stomachs and in a good mood.
The sangria recipe is a secret but you can ask anyway. All you will learn is that the ingredient that makes this red wine and fruit concoction special is also a product of the venerated cactus family. As the staff will tell you, “People like it.” We tasted orange and saw evidence of muddled grapes, but never learned what definitively made this sangria something so special. The sangria alone is worth a return visit.
After leaving the restaurant, retrace your steps back to Stony Brook Station. The walk passes by even more quickly than before. On feet full of the fruit of Acapulco’s kitchen and bar, the neighborhood is a blur of sights familiar from an hour ago seen in new light. Luckily, the Orange Line is rarely crowded, so there is always a seat. Not that it matters. A trip to the Acapulco restaurant is worth twenty minutes of strap-hanging, especially in good company.
JAMAICA PLAIN. Here is a nice date to experience with someone special. Take the Orange Line to Stony Brook Station. When you exit the station doors, take a right and head towards the well-lit and attractive package store that is located at one of the sweetest spots to sell liquor in Boston. This date doesn’t involve narrow brown bags though. Keep walking up the street which is lined with a variety of large houses that provide plenty of conversational fodder for you and your escort.
You’ll walk a few blocks through a residential neighborhood. The other people who disembarked from the train will be headed the same way, some branching off along well-lit, tidy side streets while others tack straight ahead. The variety of homes allows two people to judge each other’s tastes in living situations and style. Even in the cold, people sit on their front porches and the stained glass around front doors and in stairwells glows with ambient light. The quarter mile to Center Street flies by under meandering footsteps.
The vista that greets a couple on Center Street can be disconcerting. A brightly-lit, rounded beige façade sporting a neon CVS logo glows in the dark. You step out into a proper square where streets converge. A restaurant/lounge called Alchemist glows ambiently with an air of mystery, but this isn’t a date meant to impress. It is a rendezvous to get to know each other better and spend time where the company isn’t overwhelmed by the surroundings. Rather than turn right down toward Jackson Square or cross the intersection to Alchemist, turn left past the pizzeria and try out Acapulco.
This is a Mexican restaurant in the best low-rent, high-class tradition, proud of its ethnicity. Sparkly, embroidered sombreros are mounted on the white stuccoed walls over draped colorful, wool scarves. A faux, red tile, cantina roof is mounted over the bar. The double-wide dining room is separated by arches that both open and partition the space. The arches are accented with glued on fake, quarter-inch thick bricks. Music plays low and almost every song contains the refrain, “Ai-yi-yi-yi,” over gently caressed guitar strings and accordion notes.
The menu runs the gamut of price ranges, but none are too far out of reach. A page dedicated to Tex-Mex staples, tacos, enchiladas, and such, goes no higher than $12.oo for a combination plate and the portions are generous. The other five pages of menu are reserved for more specialized Mexican fare, what they don’t serve to tourists and what they don’t serve in at Taco Bell. The top price is $16.00 should one want to stray to authentic fare. The mood is relaxed, grounded South of the Border ambience punctuated by the natural boisterousness regular clientele bring to a well-liked dining hall.
One wall is dominated by an oil painting of a bull fight approximately ten feet long by six feet high. This will never land in the Museum of Fine Arts, but it is art nonetheless. The view of the Spanish ladies, copied from Goya reproductions, that frame the left edge of the picture are worth the price of the meal. My companion commented, “The ladies look so pretty.” I was struck by the crowd depicted in the background of the ring. Numerous personalities are painted with a masterful brevity of brushstrokes producing a swirl of individual expressions captured at the height of excitement. The matador and the bull are somewhat less expertly rendered. They are a little stiff and out of proportion, but the artist’s shortcomings in technical skill in no way diminish the impact of what he tried to portray.
Some recommendations: We started with the cactus salad, which was a nice mixture of fresh and pickled ingredients. The cactus slices over thinly shredded iceberg lettuce and tomato wedges were flavored with the lightest brine. There was no need to open the two packets of Kraft Creamy Italian Dressing that were provided on the side of the salad bowl. I had a Burro Grande with spicy green sauce. My companion had a Chicken Quesadilla. Neither of us had any cause for complaint.
What sets Acapulco apart from the run-of-the-mill Mexican restaurant was the pitcher of sangria we drank. It arrived in a liter carafe and was served in an ice-filled wine glass with a squeezed slice of lime. The carafe is called a full pitcher on the menu and costs $20.00. They are twenty dollars well spent. The first sip is ambrosia and every following sip is a perfect accompaniment to the food and the atmosphere. We didn’t finish the carafe, but we left Acapulco with full, satisfied stomachs and in a good mood.
The sangria recipe is a secret but you can ask anyway. All you will learn is that the ingredient that makes this red wine and fruit concoction special is also a product of the venerated cactus family. As the staff will tell you, “People like it.” We tasted orange and saw evidence of muddled grapes, but never learned what definitively made this sangria something so special. The sangria alone is worth a return visit.
After leaving the restaurant, retrace your steps back to Stony Brook Station. The walk passes by even more quickly than before. On feet full of the fruit of Acapulco’s kitchen and bar, the neighborhood is a blur of sights familiar from an hour ago seen in new light. Luckily, the Orange Line is rarely crowded, so there is always a seat. Not that it matters. A trip to the Acapulco restaurant is worth twenty minutes of strap-hanging, especially in good company.
Monday, March 24, 2008
A Report From Somerville
Somerville is that town just north of Boston where the hopes run high and the living is easy. A passel of red-blooded, pure-hearted, true-blue American anarchists and communists live the good life in Somerville, Mass. and we cannot say enough good things about them. Things are happening in Somerville, freindships are being forged and a community is being rebuilt along harmonious lines. We all have our collective part to play. Some are lone wolves and others work in tandem to usher in the future.
Mount Pleasant Street doesn't run uphill and it doesn't run downhill. It is paved along an even, if eccentric, keel. It is pleasant nonetheless. Nice people make thier homes on Mount Pleasant Street. They open their front door to visitors providing shelter from an unfriendly world and they serve top-notch, vegetarian chow to the hungry. Conversations flow, ideas are exchanged and connections are made. No one hates an idealist and a house full of them is a breath of pleasant surprise.
Whenever and wherever you can find good people congregating, there is hope for the human race. Somerville is such a place. There is a group of dreamers living in the real world, making it more real and more humane. If you follow your bliss, you may end up with an invitation to a basement stage where likeminded souls celebrate sharing each others' company. Sign your name to the wall.
Mount Pleasant Street doesn't run uphill and it doesn't run downhill. It is paved along an even, if eccentric, keel. It is pleasant nonetheless. Nice people make thier homes on Mount Pleasant Street. They open their front door to visitors providing shelter from an unfriendly world and they serve top-notch, vegetarian chow to the hungry. Conversations flow, ideas are exchanged and connections are made. No one hates an idealist and a house full of them is a breath of pleasant surprise.
Whenever and wherever you can find good people congregating, there is hope for the human race. Somerville is such a place. There is a group of dreamers living in the real world, making it more real and more humane. If you follow your bliss, you may end up with an invitation to a basement stage where likeminded souls celebrate sharing each others' company. Sign your name to the wall.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Keep Your Eye on the Dot
You’ll keep your eye on the Dot if you’re wise. You’ll keep your eyes peeled and your senses honed sharp, open to opportunities. Plenty strike it rich in Dorchester, Mass. and plenty more get by without complaint or hardship. Yes, Dorchester, the biggest borough in Boston, the place where boys become men and girls become women. This is an adult neighborhood, brawny and beautiful, where neighbors work together to overcome obstacles. This is the thick of the city. It is dense with webs woven in convoluted patterns that overlap the streets’ twists and turns.
Tightly knit in a many-colored fabric of clapboards and accents and values and styles that transcend familial backgrounds, Dorchester is where life gets lived to its fullest potential with more bangs than whimpers. From Upham’s Corner to Fields Corner, from Lower Mills to Andrew Square, from Mattapan to Peabody Square to Neponset Circle to Meetinghouse Hill to Savin Hill; Dorchester’s weft morphs its pattern while keeping true to its underpinning. Stitched together, linked one block to the next, one kitchen per purl, embroidered knots perfectly placed by whim and design, Dorchester is a tapestry best felt with fingertips and seen with one’s own sight rather than described. It is a figure of more than eight and more than eight thousand.
I shared coffee and chocolate with a woman in Adams Village and she walked me to the bus stop to make sure I would get to Columbia Point in one piece. I passed up Dot Avenue past Caritas Christi and check cashing parlors, though Ashmont, through Codman Square then up Mount Bowdoin along Geneva Street. The American flag hung suspended over the shore of Dorchester Bay where Boston fronts its harbor and the wider Atlantic beyond. Everything was still but the wind and the traffic on the streets.
I make my home in Dorchester. I am one of the toughs, made of sinew, muscle and nerve. I am one of the many who make up the whole.
It takes more than a village to raise a grown person to the heights of greatness. It takes a whole, living city. Dorchester is the most robust organ in one of the most vibrant municipal bodies on the face of the globe. Boston births the American spirit. It is the cradle of liberty. It is a beacon that attracts by dint of historical gravitas and by the open-ended promises of its progressive schematic.
In an anatomical atlas of Boston proper, Dorchester occupies the place of spleen and gut and bladders. There is room for waste in Dorchester and there is room for gall, but most of all there is room to work to get things done and make a good life for oneself, one’s family and one’s fellow travelers.
Dorchester is the Dot, the bull’s eye, the sweet spot, the G spot, the soft spot, the tender trap, the hole in the net, the X on the treasure map, the end of many journeys, the ellipsis that ends an unfinished sentence. If you can’t be happy in Dorchester, you can’t be happy in Boston. If you can’t be happy in Boston, you can’t be happy anywhere. You had better aim lower if you can’t keep your eye on the prize.
Tightly knit in a many-colored fabric of clapboards and accents and values and styles that transcend familial backgrounds, Dorchester is where life gets lived to its fullest potential with more bangs than whimpers. From Upham’s Corner to Fields Corner, from Lower Mills to Andrew Square, from Mattapan to Peabody Square to Neponset Circle to Meetinghouse Hill to Savin Hill; Dorchester’s weft morphs its pattern while keeping true to its underpinning. Stitched together, linked one block to the next, one kitchen per purl, embroidered knots perfectly placed by whim and design, Dorchester is a tapestry best felt with fingertips and seen with one’s own sight rather than described. It is a figure of more than eight and more than eight thousand.
I shared coffee and chocolate with a woman in Adams Village and she walked me to the bus stop to make sure I would get to Columbia Point in one piece. I passed up Dot Avenue past Caritas Christi and check cashing parlors, though Ashmont, through Codman Square then up Mount Bowdoin along Geneva Street. The American flag hung suspended over the shore of Dorchester Bay where Boston fronts its harbor and the wider Atlantic beyond. Everything was still but the wind and the traffic on the streets.
I make my home in Dorchester. I am one of the toughs, made of sinew, muscle and nerve. I am one of the many who make up the whole.
It takes more than a village to raise a grown person to the heights of greatness. It takes a whole, living city. Dorchester is the most robust organ in one of the most vibrant municipal bodies on the face of the globe. Boston births the American spirit. It is the cradle of liberty. It is a beacon that attracts by dint of historical gravitas and by the open-ended promises of its progressive schematic.
In an anatomical atlas of Boston proper, Dorchester occupies the place of spleen and gut and bladders. There is room for waste in Dorchester and there is room for gall, but most of all there is room to work to get things done and make a good life for oneself, one’s family and one’s fellow travelers.
Dorchester is the Dot, the bull’s eye, the sweet spot, the G spot, the soft spot, the tender trap, the hole in the net, the X on the treasure map, the end of many journeys, the ellipsis that ends an unfinished sentence. If you can’t be happy in Dorchester, you can’t be happy in Boston. If you can’t be happy in Boston, you can’t be happy anywhere. You had better aim lower if you can’t keep your eye on the prize.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
The Ninja 250
If you don’t ride a motorcycle and have never been tempted to, you will probably think this is boring. If you do ride a motorcycle, you will dismiss what follows as the work of a neophyte, a newcomer, a beginning rider. You are mistaken. If you don’t ride a motorcycle, I will clue you in: in riders’ circles, the bigger the bike: the better. Little bikes don’t get much respect. If you don’t ride a motorcycle, I trust you have enough spirit in yourself to thrill to the idea of what it is like to ride unencumbered, free as a bird, alone on the open road. If you do ride a motorcycle, I ask you to read closely and feel the same sensations this author does on the road. Anyone on a bike is better than everyone in a car.
A Poet Reviews Riding the 2007 Ninja 250.
Kawasaki is rolling out a new and supposedly improved model of its cultish Ninja 250. No technical details are discussed below and neither is the new bike. This is about the thrill and contentment that comes from riding a compact and power-packed motorcycle. We trust the engineers haven’t fiddled too much with the past models’ details. The small engine size categorizes the Little Ninja as an entry-level bike, but it is a bike that will carry you throughout your riding career. It is kind. It has pep. It has style. It is reliable. It is the best deal for the money, and it is a steady companion for those who choose to make its acquaintance….
When Life lets you down, your best friend is the Little Ninja. 250cc of comfortable power between your legs makes for a smooth ride able to handle whatever comes your way. The wind blows away cares and the hum of the engine drowns out complaints. The Little Ninja won’t force you to smile. You’ll do that naturally. Cares float away on any ride that unrolls under the Little Ninja’s wheels. In a pinch, the light Little Ninja will whisk you to safety and peace.
The Little Ninja loves to rev. The more revolutions per minute: the better. The faster and longer the twinned tires turn: the better. The more miles traveled, the longer the hours, the more sights passed, the higher the whine: the less the complaints. Life is good on the Little Ninja. Rider and machine are perfectly matched. No motorcycle compares to the Little Ninja. It welcomes all riders and it exceeds all expectations. The Little Ninja never disappoints. It thrills and it comforts in equal degrees.
Name your poison: straight, boring stretches of smoothly featureless highway, tight turns followed by tighter turns, city traffic, suburban rush hour, potholes, broken pavement, rutted, sun-baked mud, farm vehicles in the road, farm animals in the road, wild animals darting across the road, or distracted drivers on cell phones in SUVs. The Little Ninja has the strength of just enough horses that have been eating their vitamins and turning their octane into energy. These horses are sturdy and stalwart as Clydesdales but much more nimble. The Little Ninja purrs like a kitten even at full throttle. Whatever the situation, the Little Ninja is happy to deliver on spec and on time and under budget at around 70 miles per gallon. It performs as it is supposed to and then it does a little bit more.
Do you want comfort with just enough speed? Do you want just enough power and just enough torque? Do you want to look good and feel good? If you have something to prove, the Little Ninja won’t sit well between your thighs. If you have somewhere to go, the Little Ninja will take you there and back again, and back again, and back again.
The Little Ninja doesn’t recognize limits. The Little Ninja enjoys extremes and pushing past where other people think it should stop. Its engine revs like it should have an ejector seat, while it swallows obstacles like an old gentleman sipping smooth, old scotch. When you meet the Little Ninja, you make friends quickly. Master and servant accommodate each other like sides of a coin or a card. There are no gambles, only controlled chances and choices. When you ride a Ninja of any size you expect a sporting chance. When you ride the Little Ninja, you make your own fate while you sail closer to journey’s end.
Some people supplement their testosterone levels with added, irrelevant horsepower. Other people are content being in control, just getting by. The Little Ninja puts you in charge of the tachometer needle. It isn’t what you own that matters. It is how you deploy your talents for the biggest return that counts in a crunch come Doomsday. The Little Ninja’s engine hums the perfect soundtrack for any adventure. The road unravels, the miles slip by, the cloudscapes unfurl overhead, and the gas tank rarely needs to be topped off. The Little Ninja starts and idles until called into service; then it responds like a soldier. There is a job to be done. The Little Ninja answers the call of the mission at hand and the call of the open road.
When the open road beckons, the Little Ninja will take you over the horizon.
A Poet Reviews Riding the 2007 Ninja 250.
Kawasaki is rolling out a new and supposedly improved model of its cultish Ninja 250. No technical details are discussed below and neither is the new bike. This is about the thrill and contentment that comes from riding a compact and power-packed motorcycle. We trust the engineers haven’t fiddled too much with the past models’ details. The small engine size categorizes the Little Ninja as an entry-level bike, but it is a bike that will carry you throughout your riding career. It is kind. It has pep. It has style. It is reliable. It is the best deal for the money, and it is a steady companion for those who choose to make its acquaintance….
When Life lets you down, your best friend is the Little Ninja. 250cc of comfortable power between your legs makes for a smooth ride able to handle whatever comes your way. The wind blows away cares and the hum of the engine drowns out complaints. The Little Ninja won’t force you to smile. You’ll do that naturally. Cares float away on any ride that unrolls under the Little Ninja’s wheels. In a pinch, the light Little Ninja will whisk you to safety and peace.
The Little Ninja loves to rev. The more revolutions per minute: the better. The faster and longer the twinned tires turn: the better. The more miles traveled, the longer the hours, the more sights passed, the higher the whine: the less the complaints. Life is good on the Little Ninja. Rider and machine are perfectly matched. No motorcycle compares to the Little Ninja. It welcomes all riders and it exceeds all expectations. The Little Ninja never disappoints. It thrills and it comforts in equal degrees.
Name your poison: straight, boring stretches of smoothly featureless highway, tight turns followed by tighter turns, city traffic, suburban rush hour, potholes, broken pavement, rutted, sun-baked mud, farm vehicles in the road, farm animals in the road, wild animals darting across the road, or distracted drivers on cell phones in SUVs. The Little Ninja has the strength of just enough horses that have been eating their vitamins and turning their octane into energy. These horses are sturdy and stalwart as Clydesdales but much more nimble. The Little Ninja purrs like a kitten even at full throttle. Whatever the situation, the Little Ninja is happy to deliver on spec and on time and under budget at around 70 miles per gallon. It performs as it is supposed to and then it does a little bit more.
Do you want comfort with just enough speed? Do you want just enough power and just enough torque? Do you want to look good and feel good? If you have something to prove, the Little Ninja won’t sit well between your thighs. If you have somewhere to go, the Little Ninja will take you there and back again, and back again, and back again.
The Little Ninja doesn’t recognize limits. The Little Ninja enjoys extremes and pushing past where other people think it should stop. Its engine revs like it should have an ejector seat, while it swallows obstacles like an old gentleman sipping smooth, old scotch. When you meet the Little Ninja, you make friends quickly. Master and servant accommodate each other like sides of a coin or a card. There are no gambles, only controlled chances and choices. When you ride a Ninja of any size you expect a sporting chance. When you ride the Little Ninja, you make your own fate while you sail closer to journey’s end.
Some people supplement their testosterone levels with added, irrelevant horsepower. Other people are content being in control, just getting by. The Little Ninja puts you in charge of the tachometer needle. It isn’t what you own that matters. It is how you deploy your talents for the biggest return that counts in a crunch come Doomsday. The Little Ninja’s engine hums the perfect soundtrack for any adventure. The road unravels, the miles slip by, the cloudscapes unfurl overhead, and the gas tank rarely needs to be topped off. The Little Ninja starts and idles until called into service; then it responds like a soldier. There is a job to be done. The Little Ninja answers the call of the mission at hand and the call of the open road.
When the open road beckons, the Little Ninja will take you over the horizon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
LinkWithin
