I awoke to the sunrise without an alarm and knew that today would bring me something special. After checking my daily computer crap while grabbing a bowl of cereal and a banana, I took the Netflix down to the mailbox and saw that there were a couple of pairs of women's shoes at my door.
Before we get too excited, I'll inform you that my roommate Sam had his friends and their dog over last night, all of whom found a way to occupy his bedroom. If you try to stay with me, there's no such abundance of space where I sleep. Both pair of shoes belong to a married woman who was here with her husband. NEXT.
After some personal deliberation and an episode of Entourage, I set out for Trader Joe's and the Puma store to get wine, cashews, sneakers, and a work bag. What I found when I got there blew my mind.
First off, I arrived in the Back Bay area around 9:45am and realized I'd beaten most of the store openings. Enter Starbucks. After waiting in line a few minutes, a girl poked her head above the baked goods counter and asked if she could help me. "I have a very complicated order for you," was my response. I could see in worry in her face and that of the barista next to her. "I need a small decaf coffee."
After drinking about half the coffee outside where it was about 50 degrees and gloriously sunny, I set off on my shopping expedition down the marvelous Newbury Street. I really had no idea what to expect, but found everything that I thought Downtown Crossing should have been. Every kind of awesome, elitist shop I could think of was nestled into two blocks of brick buildings with small uniform signs hanging all the way down. This led me to the Army/Navy store, and after about 15 minutes contemplating bags I settled on a perfect gray paratrooper bag with a red star on it.
Across the street to Puma, I found a matching pair of gray and red sneakers that were the sort of thing I had been dreaming of. Anyone who knows me knows I don't just go 2-for-2 shopping like this. Usually I don't find anything I like, which is why I hate shopping. The sneakers were also cheaper than I thought they'd be, which made the purchase easy.
There was a Best Buy on the corner. Being recently single, my DVD player is still in Syracuse at someone else's house. I'm not about to quabble over $30, so I bought a new one and can now watch my Netflix on Osei's killer television. Sold. 3-for-2, batting 1.500 for those of you keeping score at home.
What the heck, there's an Urban Outfitters across the street. Might as well stop in and see if they have any cool t-shirts on the sale rack.
G.I.JOE
I now own a shirt featuring Flint, Lady Jaye, and Roadblock. Go home. I win.
At Trader Joe's, which was actually my first stop, I got the cashews but not the wine, as that particular store doesn't have a license to sell it. Looks like I'll have to make a special trip for 3-buck-Chuck on Tuesday. Oh well, 5 items ain't a bad haul any day.
Wow, now that you're sleeping and the boring details of my shopping excursion have come to a close, maybe I shouldn't bother you with the details of the crazy Bostonian who sat across from me on the bus and proceeded to talk to me about land rents and good old boy networks for the entire 15-minute ride home. Or the drum troop that was wailing away and parading down Centre Street mere blocks from my house as I was walking home from the bus. Or the pile of people waiting for breakfast outside Sorella's. That's pretty common. Heh. We've reached noon, which means your day may just be starting. Good luck.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Would you do this to your parents?
My parents came into town this weekend. Normally, I guess you'd play it safe. Easy travel from here to there and nice little tourist sorts of things and nice safe meals. Didn't happen this time. Mom and Dad got a Boo Guy Show experience.
Friday night, after they braved the horrors of driving into Boston, I took them to the Cuban restaurant on the corner. It took over a half an hour to get a table, and then another 15 minutes after that until we even had water. They were out of the Friday pork plate special #1, so my dad and I wound up with a crazy pork roll instead. Congris, fried plantains, yuca, Asian vegetables, juice smoothies instead of wine and manhattans...
By the time we got all the loot from home up to my 3rd story apartment, they were ready to head back to the hotel. Fast-forward to 11:20am Saturday:
Mom and Dad are waiting at the T stop when I roll up on the 39 bus. We head to the heart of Boston on a trolley filled with friendly college students, one of whom is wearing a t-shirt with a hammer and sickle and Karl Marx with a lampshade on his head. Another one gives my mom an eyeglass case as he hops off. When we finally get to Park Street, we are greeted by the unmistakable Subway Smell and then pass a couple of senior citizens hobbling up the stairs to street level. Ouch. I thought my knees were bad.
I proceed to hike them through Downtown Crossing, over the bridge into Southie where I work, back to South Station for a pizza lunch, up Atlantic Avenue to the harbor where we see plenty of ocean water and Chris Pfohl, through some more of the monstrously tall financial district, to the old state house for roasted cashews and buskers, Faneiul Hall and Quincy Market where we see a living statue and a man who folds himself into a pretzel, and grab a beer. After that, it's back down to Boston Common and the Public Garden, where we spend an hour and a half. By this point, I think I've hobbled about 3 miles on a bum knee.
What else can you do with a day in Boston but hop a bus whose destination is Roxbury? Of course, the bus drops us off a block past where the map says it will, so we take our weary legs an extra circuitous 4 blocks through some low-income territory, but eventually end up at Gaslight Brasserie, where we attempt to order food from French menus we can't read. We wind up with excellent pasta and pizza and really expensive drinks.
After that, I nab my first Boston Cab ride, which is considerably cheaper than I thought a Boston cab would be. I leave Mom and Dad to the hotel around 8:00PM and retire to my abode in JP where I am dead asleep by 10:00PM. You know that if a young guy like me is out that early, it's been a day. They left for home this morning. Rock and roll.
In short, your parents can take it. Give 'em the works when they come to visit.
Friday night, after they braved the horrors of driving into Boston, I took them to the Cuban restaurant on the corner. It took over a half an hour to get a table, and then another 15 minutes after that until we even had water. They were out of the Friday pork plate special #1, so my dad and I wound up with a crazy pork roll instead. Congris, fried plantains, yuca, Asian vegetables, juice smoothies instead of wine and manhattans...
By the time we got all the loot from home up to my 3rd story apartment, they were ready to head back to the hotel. Fast-forward to 11:20am Saturday:
Mom and Dad are waiting at the T stop when I roll up on the 39 bus. We head to the heart of Boston on a trolley filled with friendly college students, one of whom is wearing a t-shirt with a hammer and sickle and Karl Marx with a lampshade on his head. Another one gives my mom an eyeglass case as he hops off. When we finally get to Park Street, we are greeted by the unmistakable Subway Smell and then pass a couple of senior citizens hobbling up the stairs to street level. Ouch. I thought my knees were bad.
I proceed to hike them through Downtown Crossing, over the bridge into Southie where I work, back to South Station for a pizza lunch, up Atlantic Avenue to the harbor where we see plenty of ocean water and Chris Pfohl, through some more of the monstrously tall financial district, to the old state house for roasted cashews and buskers, Faneiul Hall and Quincy Market where we see a living statue and a man who folds himself into a pretzel, and grab a beer. After that, it's back down to Boston Common and the Public Garden, where we spend an hour and a half. By this point, I think I've hobbled about 3 miles on a bum knee.
What else can you do with a day in Boston but hop a bus whose destination is Roxbury? Of course, the bus drops us off a block past where the map says it will, so we take our weary legs an extra circuitous 4 blocks through some low-income territory, but eventually end up at Gaslight Brasserie, where we attempt to order food from French menus we can't read. We wind up with excellent pasta and pizza and really expensive drinks.
After that, I nab my first Boston Cab ride, which is considerably cheaper than I thought a Boston cab would be. I leave Mom and Dad to the hotel around 8:00PM and retire to my abode in JP where I am dead asleep by 10:00PM. You know that if a young guy like me is out that early, it's been a day. They left for home this morning. Rock and roll.
In short, your parents can take it. Give 'em the works when they come to visit.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The Day After
There exists a power that only arises the day after a house party. It brings to bear all of the oddities of life that movies are made of. Perhaps it emerges from an abandonment of constructive activities in favor of lethargy. Maybe it only comes to me because I've had the requisite amount of strong drink the night before so that my brain becomes aligned with the Universe for a day. Best guess is that it's both of these and then a little more of God's razzle dazzle.
I woke up, grabbed some breakfast, and flipped on the television. I didn't even have to change the channel. It was the last 20 minutes of the movie Three Kings. George Clooney, Mark Wahlberg, and Ice Cube trying to hustle some Iraqis over the border toward the end of the 1991 Gulf War. I was glued.
I didn't do a whole lot for most of the day. Picked up beer bottles, washed some party platters, the usual day-after fare. That act by itself always brings a sort of peace that can't be had anywhere else.
I watched a 13-minute Wes Anderson short film in preparation for his new movie, something I had been alerted to by a previously unknown party guest who happened to bring as his wife a girl who I had known 11 years prior while working at a summer camp. The film was a strange attempt at romance by the usually benign Anderson. It included Natalie Portman. This is a good moment. Any day.
Some time later, I noticed I'd received a call from Elliot, one of the last guests to leave the night before. My phone was still muted from the night, as well. I think it was last night I dreamed that an Asian man was threatening to kill me and pulled out a green water pistol. Concerned that he might have a real gun in his pocket, I shot him in the stomach and then in the head as he fell forward. I've never been that good of a shot in my dreams. It was a little surprising. Probably more surprising than the idea that I had shot an obviously confused individual who wasn't going to bring harm to me.
Elliot left a message about attending the Jazzfest, or some other festival. I looked to see what's going on in Boston today and noticed it's also the annual "What the Fluff?" festival in honor of the invention of marshmallow fluff in Somerville. I considered going for a bit. After some discussion on the call-back with Elliot, we decided to lay low here and finish off some beers that are still lingering in the fridge. I shaved, trimmed my nose hairs, and set off for the Hi-Lo Foods to pick up some peanut butter, jelly, bread, and paper towels. Turns out, people who don't speak English as a first language may or may not be familiar with sandwich bread. Either way, no sandwich bread, no bulk paper towels. This means I have to call Elliot and tell him I'm headed up on the 39 bus to that old standby, Stop & Shop.
I buy the stuff. Fine. I also grab a couple of bottles of low sodium V8 because it has 860mg of Potassium per glass. I need the Potassium. Then, I sit to wait for the bus.
An old African-American man with strange eyes and a number of bags wanders across the street and asks me how long I've been waiting. I told him I just got there, but I've been sitting because I have bad knees. He then launched us into a marvelous conversation about appreciating life. I told him about some of the things I've experienced and he told me I was unusual for a young white man. We were both wearing plain white t-shirts and carrying on, him the 81-year-old leaning against the post and me the 28-year-old sitting on the curb, both with a number of bags. I always wind up with a lot of bags when I take the bus.
I discovered that John is a veteran of World War II who fell in love with and almost married a German woman while overseas. Prior to that, he hated white people. He still has a picture of her next to a picture of his mother on his nightstand. He was raised by women without a father in the picture. He told me he once saw a blind man get on the bus with his dog. He watched intently because "There's nothing new under the sun, you just ain't seen it yet." He saw the dog stand up one block before they were to get off, as if to say "This is our stop." That made him cry.
When the bus finally came about 20 minutes later, John hopped on and tried to get to the back but was temporarily thwarted by the dense population of standees in his way. He and his bags, one of which looked like a garbage bag full of cans, were left standing for a half mile. He took that opportunity to strike up a conversation with a 61-year-old white woman who had been placing her hand on his for a bit by the time the sea of standing riders finally parted for him.
Around that same time, I saw a seat open near the front, which is polite to leave open for the aged and decrepit. With my bags and my knees as they are, I felt no burden on my soul as I took full advantage of the opening. At some point, I glanced over and saw that the man next to me was carrying a composition book that was simply titled "CANADA" in sharpie on its cover. My imagination ran for a moment as to what sort of a man this was. Then my stop came and the bulk of the adventure was over. I'm not making guesses right now as to what will happen tonight. It has faded from day to twilight as I have sat here on my porch writing and looking out over my kingdom. I am prepared for anything, but would always prefer...to be surprised.
I woke up, grabbed some breakfast, and flipped on the television. I didn't even have to change the channel. It was the last 20 minutes of the movie Three Kings. George Clooney, Mark Wahlberg, and Ice Cube trying to hustle some Iraqis over the border toward the end of the 1991 Gulf War. I was glued.
I didn't do a whole lot for most of the day. Picked up beer bottles, washed some party platters, the usual day-after fare. That act by itself always brings a sort of peace that can't be had anywhere else.
I watched a 13-minute Wes Anderson short film in preparation for his new movie, something I had been alerted to by a previously unknown party guest who happened to bring as his wife a girl who I had known 11 years prior while working at a summer camp. The film was a strange attempt at romance by the usually benign Anderson. It included Natalie Portman. This is a good moment. Any day.
Some time later, I noticed I'd received a call from Elliot, one of the last guests to leave the night before. My phone was still muted from the night, as well. I think it was last night I dreamed that an Asian man was threatening to kill me and pulled out a green water pistol. Concerned that he might have a real gun in his pocket, I shot him in the stomach and then in the head as he fell forward. I've never been that good of a shot in my dreams. It was a little surprising. Probably more surprising than the idea that I had shot an obviously confused individual who wasn't going to bring harm to me.
Elliot left a message about attending the Jazzfest, or some other festival. I looked to see what's going on in Boston today and noticed it's also the annual "What the Fluff?" festival in honor of the invention of marshmallow fluff in Somerville. I considered going for a bit. After some discussion on the call-back with Elliot, we decided to lay low here and finish off some beers that are still lingering in the fridge. I shaved, trimmed my nose hairs, and set off for the Hi-Lo Foods to pick up some peanut butter, jelly, bread, and paper towels. Turns out, people who don't speak English as a first language may or may not be familiar with sandwich bread. Either way, no sandwich bread, no bulk paper towels. This means I have to call Elliot and tell him I'm headed up on the 39 bus to that old standby, Stop & Shop.
I buy the stuff. Fine. I also grab a couple of bottles of low sodium V8 because it has 860mg of Potassium per glass. I need the Potassium. Then, I sit to wait for the bus.
An old African-American man with strange eyes and a number of bags wanders across the street and asks me how long I've been waiting. I told him I just got there, but I've been sitting because I have bad knees. He then launched us into a marvelous conversation about appreciating life. I told him about some of the things I've experienced and he told me I was unusual for a young white man. We were both wearing plain white t-shirts and carrying on, him the 81-year-old leaning against the post and me the 28-year-old sitting on the curb, both with a number of bags. I always wind up with a lot of bags when I take the bus.
I discovered that John is a veteran of World War II who fell in love with and almost married a German woman while overseas. Prior to that, he hated white people. He still has a picture of her next to a picture of his mother on his nightstand. He was raised by women without a father in the picture. He told me he once saw a blind man get on the bus with his dog. He watched intently because "There's nothing new under the sun, you just ain't seen it yet." He saw the dog stand up one block before they were to get off, as if to say "This is our stop." That made him cry.
When the bus finally came about 20 minutes later, John hopped on and tried to get to the back but was temporarily thwarted by the dense population of standees in his way. He and his bags, one of which looked like a garbage bag full of cans, were left standing for a half mile. He took that opportunity to strike up a conversation with a 61-year-old white woman who had been placing her hand on his for a bit by the time the sea of standing riders finally parted for him.
Around that same time, I saw a seat open near the front, which is polite to leave open for the aged and decrepit. With my bags and my knees as they are, I felt no burden on my soul as I took full advantage of the opening. At some point, I glanced over and saw that the man next to me was carrying a composition book that was simply titled "CANADA" in sharpie on its cover. My imagination ran for a moment as to what sort of a man this was. Then my stop came and the bulk of the adventure was over. I'm not making guesses right now as to what will happen tonight. It has faded from day to twilight as I have sat here on my porch writing and looking out over my kingdom. I am prepared for anything, but would always prefer...to be surprised.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Jena 6
Everybody and their grandmother is now standing up in the defense of six teenagers who beat another kid within an inch of his life. If I were of the same mindset and likely to commit acts of violence in the near future, I might get pretty heated about this. However, I have a tendency not to get into fights. Most of the time, I'm willing to step in and attempt to cool people down. Sometimes, I verbally send people home. I don't act violently, even if I have been offended religiously, racially, or otherwise.
I let it slide.
I'm not going to get worked up over a bunch of teenagers who deal with their problems by beating the shit out of someone. If they don't retaliate, they're not in this mess. Not my fault, not my course of action, not my concern.
Next inane sensationalized uproar, please. What's Paris Hilton up to these days?
I let it slide.
I'm not going to get worked up over a bunch of teenagers who deal with their problems by beating the shit out of someone. If they don't retaliate, they're not in this mess. Not my fault, not my course of action, not my concern.
Next inane sensationalized uproar, please. What's Paris Hilton up to these days?
Saturday, September 22, 2007
The Lazy Weekend
A lot of people balk at the idea of having a split weekend, something akin to the Saturday/Tuesday that I get off every week. Here are some reasons it's a pretty sweet deal:
1) TWO Fridays! (Monday is also Friday)
2) Sunday is slow at work, which makes it a good day to be there.
3) If you're feeling lazy, which I am today, you never have to look back at 2 consecutive wasted days.
4) Trades are possible if I ever need the whole weekend off.
5) Weekdays off are good for personal productivity
How does all this play out for this weekend?
Friday night, I got home and began picking music for my party mix. Then I went out and bought cleaning supplies. Then I came home and porked around some more. I slept 8 hours, got up, read some of my book, ate a little, and then went to the pond and down to Downtown Jamaica Plain, which is not incredibly different from where I am now except instead of old Hispanic guys hanging out on the corner, there are street vendors. I ate a burrito and a smoothie at The Purple Cactus, then caught the bus back here, where I will read, pick music, and possibly nap if all goes well.
Completely wasted from a productivity standpoint, but what does it matter? I get another weekend again in a couple of days!
1) TWO Fridays! (Monday is also Friday)
2) Sunday is slow at work, which makes it a good day to be there.
3) If you're feeling lazy, which I am today, you never have to look back at 2 consecutive wasted days.
4) Trades are possible if I ever need the whole weekend off.
5) Weekdays off are good for personal productivity
How does all this play out for this weekend?
Friday night, I got home and began picking music for my party mix. Then I went out and bought cleaning supplies. Then I came home and porked around some more. I slept 8 hours, got up, read some of my book, ate a little, and then went to the pond and down to Downtown Jamaica Plain, which is not incredibly different from where I am now except instead of old Hispanic guys hanging out on the corner, there are street vendors. I ate a burrito and a smoothie at The Purple Cactus, then caught the bus back here, where I will read, pick music, and possibly nap if all goes well.
Completely wasted from a productivity standpoint, but what does it matter? I get another weekend again in a couple of days!
Saturday, September 15, 2007
FUNK. PROSE. ROCK. BANANAS.
It's about time for me to drop some more sweet prose on you cats.
Bananas. Things are bananas here. To illustrate that point, I had one as a part of this incomplete breakfast today. I graduated from my training class at work, which slaps me into the real deal phone bays after spending a week taking live calls with a host of experienced people waiting to help me. Here's to hoping I don't push the panic button tomorrow, in 19.5 hours, when the stuff gets real in the Martin Lawrence/Bad Boys II sense.
Wow, not a personal benefit to think of your day off in terms of how many hours are left until you return to work the following day. Don't ever do what I just did.
So, of course the training class partied yesterday afternoon because we got out early. Then, after a brief stop home, I jumped on the party wagon again and went to a birthday pub crawl. FUNK. After coming home to see that the Yanks had put a hurt on the Sox in the late innings to the horror of this whole town, I found a way over to my bed and called it a night.
This morning, I've managed to catch up with new facebook friends, do a laundry, eat breakfast, shave my head, and shower. In the afternoon, I intend to read some more of my book and eat some lunch. Exciting day off, this. Thus begins the newly career-oriented life of The Boo Guy.
ROCK.
Bananas. Things are bananas here. To illustrate that point, I had one as a part of this incomplete breakfast today. I graduated from my training class at work, which slaps me into the real deal phone bays after spending a week taking live calls with a host of experienced people waiting to help me. Here's to hoping I don't push the panic button tomorrow, in 19.5 hours, when the stuff gets real in the Martin Lawrence/Bad Boys II sense.
Wow, not a personal benefit to think of your day off in terms of how many hours are left until you return to work the following day. Don't ever do what I just did.
So, of course the training class partied yesterday afternoon because we got out early. Then, after a brief stop home, I jumped on the party wagon again and went to a birthday pub crawl. FUNK. After coming home to see that the Yanks had put a hurt on the Sox in the late innings to the horror of this whole town, I found a way over to my bed and called it a night.
This morning, I've managed to catch up with new facebook friends, do a laundry, eat breakfast, shave my head, and shower. In the afternoon, I intend to read some more of my book and eat some lunch. Exciting day off, this. Thus begins the newly career-oriented life of The Boo Guy.
ROCK.
Monday, September 3, 2007
IKEA
Now that I live in a big urban area, I just had to go to the ultimate home furnishings store. IKEA. From Sweden or something. It's rubbish. First thing you do is get whisked up two different elevators to the "showroom". It's basically the same thing as you see in the home department of a JC Penney's, only the stuff is less comfortable and there's more of it. Then, if you like something you see, you don't tell a sales rep who can assist you. No, you write it down on a pad so you can retrieve it on a pallet yourself later. Exciting.
Once you get done milling about the upper area with your mesmerized friends, you should go to the cafeteria. There, they give you such elegant dishes as mac 'n' cheese and salad. If you're feeling particularly rich that day, you might even get some Swedish meatballs. Once you've forced down your Plate O' Crap, you are reminded to bus your own table because it helps them keep the prices down. What? It's a cafeteria, like the food court or Taco Bell or the campus dining hall. What makes their policy of taking care of your own tray so special?
Then, excitement of all excitements, you get to go downstairs to the kitchen & bath area. There are towels and wine racks and...I don't know...endless miles of crap. In a basement without windows. Like a casino, they keep you there as long as they can and eliminate the distinction between night and day. You get to waste your whole life deciding on whether to buy square or round plates.
Eventually, I bought a fairly decent 18-pack of dishes and a $1 alarm clock and a 50c towel. In three hours. And I spent $7 on a bad lunch. There's not a thing at IKEA that you couldn't get at Target or Bed Bath & Beyond or OfficeMax or something. Why on earth this place got such a reputation is out of my realm of knowledge. Why people flock from Rhode Island and Maine to flow through this store like herded cattle is beyond me.
Please, please, save yourself from wasting a half day of your life or more. Go to Tuesday Morning, for all I care. Just stay the heck away from IKEA. Even better, quit buying things.
Wow, maybe I'm a little more Tyler Durden than I thought.
Once you get done milling about the upper area with your mesmerized friends, you should go to the cafeteria. There, they give you such elegant dishes as mac 'n' cheese and salad. If you're feeling particularly rich that day, you might even get some Swedish meatballs. Once you've forced down your Plate O' Crap, you are reminded to bus your own table because it helps them keep the prices down. What? It's a cafeteria, like the food court or Taco Bell or the campus dining hall. What makes their policy of taking care of your own tray so special?
Then, excitement of all excitements, you get to go downstairs to the kitchen & bath area. There are towels and wine racks and...I don't know...endless miles of crap. In a basement without windows. Like a casino, they keep you there as long as they can and eliminate the distinction between night and day. You get to waste your whole life deciding on whether to buy square or round plates.
Eventually, I bought a fairly decent 18-pack of dishes and a $1 alarm clock and a 50c towel. In three hours. And I spent $7 on a bad lunch. There's not a thing at IKEA that you couldn't get at Target or Bed Bath & Beyond or OfficeMax or something. Why on earth this place got such a reputation is out of my realm of knowledge. Why people flock from Rhode Island and Maine to flow through this store like herded cattle is beyond me.
Please, please, save yourself from wasting a half day of your life or more. Go to Tuesday Morning, for all I care. Just stay the heck away from IKEA. Even better, quit buying things.
Wow, maybe I'm a little more Tyler Durden than I thought.
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