« July 2005 | Main | September 2005 »
Still on hiatus, but more out of work obligations than out of any kind of writer's block. Back soon. Go read Babies are Fireproof until then. It's Iowa-licious!
Cooling our heels for a bit and temporarily reverting to the first person plural. There are worse vices.
Funny can be found elsewhere until we snap out of it.
In the meantime, please enjoy the shiny new Movable Type upgrade, completed at three o'clock Saturday morning. Now with the ability to ban IP addresses with a single click! (There are two in particular that are tempting, due to the seething anger that ensues when we see them in our site statistics, but we're not entirely clear on the process of unblocking IP addresses so we'd probably just regret it in the morning. Like so many other things.)
Google AdSense ads are a truly underrated source of comedy.
If you've got GMail, you've got AdSense -- Google picks up on certain words in your messages and delivers a few targeted text ads in the margins. So if you're having a little e-mail exchange like the following:
To: TracyYou might see a text ad for the Coolidge, maybe another one for Netflix, and possibly one for umbrellas. This is how the program works in theory.
From: Jonelle
Subject: Movie
Would you like to see a movie tonight? Perhaps somewhere in Brookline, because that is where you live?To: Jonelle
From: Tracy
Subject: Re: Movie
But it's raining. Perhaps we should rent a movie at the video store instead.
In practice, you generally get ads that have absolutely no relevance to your life.
I never really noticed this until Avital e-mailed me to say farewell before she takes off for Yale, and I wrote back to wish her well. AdSense seems to have picked up on my query of "Are you pumped?" That's "pumped" as in "excited." Not "pumped" as in this sense:
A baby on the way?The oddest thing about this is that it was above an ad for a moving company, which would have been vaguely relevant if Avital was the kind of person organized enough to hire professional movers.
We'll pay you $75 right now to complete a simple survey!
PaidSurveysOnline.com
Incidentally, I can only imagine what kind of AdSense havoc I'm wreaking by actually clicking on these links, fooling some stats program into thinking that I'm really, really interested in breast milk.
(My camera phone isn't of the higest quality but you get the idea)
My friends and I are generally functional people. We all graduated from college in four years (more or less). We have signed leases, paid bills on time, finished law school, had functional relationships, won grants, gotten promotions, and remembered to move our cars for street cleaning. We're responsible. We're organized. We like to accomplish our goals.
So why is it we consistently fail to make it to a movie that is (a) at a movie theater on the Red Line, on which we all live; (b) playing on three screens at 9:15 p.m. every night, and (c) is something we all want to see?
I mean, Andrew and Katherine wrote theses. This has got to be easier than doing that.
It's probably not the first time that River Gods has derailed the best-laid plans, and it was a good night. Any evening that starts with an Eric Averion Adobo Chicken Spectacular (followed by ice cream sandwiches) is a good night.
I'm somewhat averse to psychotherapy; The closest I've ever come to getting any kind of professional help was the summer after senior year, when my roommate and I would sit on our porch, drink beer, and eavesdrop on the group therapy sessions that our psychotherapist landlord would hold in the basement. (The number of repressed memories we came up with generally correlated to the amount of alcohol consumed.) But if I ever discover serious mental quirks that need to be worked out, I'm totally going to this guy.
Come to think of it, whenever I was mopey as a teenager, my grandmother would say that kind of shit to me for free.
Having re-evaluated my attitudes towards weblogs in general, I'm bringing back the comments. C'mon, Vasant. C'mon, Pei. C'mon, Marty. C'mon, Tracy. C'mon, spammers. C'mon, Bostonist staff. Bring it.
So, I'm sitting here, bleary-eyed, drinking tea and eating peanut-butter toast with the crusts cut off (because it's my breakfast, and I can be as six-years-old as I want to be about it, okay?). And I'm witnessing what is quite possibly the most awkward moment in Channel 7 News history.
If you wake up as early as I occasionally do, you might know that a local newscast starts at 5 a.m. and runs up until the Today Show starts at 7 a.m. At around 6:40 a.m., the newscasters have a jokey little exchange with Matt Lauer or Katie Couric about what's coming up on Today. When it's Katie Couric, I generally have to flip over to SportsCenter or run the risk of throwing up my peanut-butter toast. Fortunately, she's on vacation (and I can't help hoping it's somewhere where kidnapping of annoying Americans is rampant), so Lauer stepped up to the plate for some banter with Jonathan Hall and Christa Delcamp.
I'll summarize: Blah blah blah, good stuff on Today this morning, blah blah blah, Pat Robertson bad, Lance Armstrong good, chick in Aruba still missing, Scott Peterson still on death row, blah blah blah...
Matt: And on a much, much lighter note, Christa?
Christa: Yes?
Matt: Have you ever had a girl crush?
Christa: I, uh... what?
Matt: You know, a girl crush.
Jonathan: [smirks]
Christa: I don't... what?
Matt: Well, there was an article in the New York Times a few days ago about "girl crushes" -- totally non-sexual --
Jonathan: [continues to smirk]
Matt: Straight women who have profound attraction and admiration for another woman.
Christa: Well, uh, I certainly admire women like, uh, mentors and celebrities... and our producer.
Jonathan: I have a guy crush on Mike Carson, our general manager.
Matt: I probably have a guy crush on the owner of the Mercedes dealership upstate.
Christa: [laughs nervously]
It's a shame he didn't ask Randy Price about guy crushes.
[Pei and I discussing what music I should listen to today]
themockup: Perhaps some Lil John. YEAH.
pei_ho: wow
pei_ho: i haven't listened to that in awhile
themockup: WHAT?
pei_ho: i know
pei_ho: it's terrible
themockup: OKAY!
themockup: I just enjoy doing that
themockup: although it doesn't really come across in text
pei_ho: haha
pei_ho: OOOOOH
pei_ho: YEAAAAAH
themockup: okay
pei_ho: ?
themockup: I mean, OKAY!
pei_ho: better
Dude never fails to make me feel better about things.
Lest you think I destroyed my blog in a fit of pique, let it be known that the host server had a small seizure last night, and websites were blowing up like so many North End manhole covers. The page loads and there's the usual dose of spam in my inbox, so things appear to have been repaired.
Word of the Day ('cause I've got nothing else funny right now):
expatiate \ek-SPAY-shee-ayt\, intransitive verb:
1. To speak or write at length or in considerable detail.
2. To move about freely; to wander.
Example sentence: The server downtime prevented me from indulging in my nightly habit of expatiating on whatever musings that happen to weave through my head; instead, I took the opportunity to expatiate around my neighborhood at 2:00 a.m., waking up one very angry dog in the process.
The Harvard Square EMS has been hosting great-sounding hike, bike and paddle trips all summer; homework and a general lack of organization on my part have kept me from tagging along. This weekend's hike, though, sounds hard to pass up:
This Sunday we will be going on an awesome hike up in the White Mountains. We will be heading to the Franconia Notch region in order to summit Mounts Flume (4328') and Liberty (4459'). This 10 mile loop will feature some light scrambling as we ascend over 3000 feet up the Flume Slide Trail (weather and route conditions permitting) and a beautiful stretch along the Franconia Ridge (the same ridge that gets VERY crowded down by Mts. Lincoln and Lafayette). We will return via the Liberty Springs Trail. It is only a two hour drive from the Cambridge/Boston area, so a 6:30 departure (which is somewhat reasonable) will get you up there with time to spare (or for an early start).
I'm thinking about it. Maybe some light scrambling will unknot the still-present ball o' stress.
Normally I would ask who's down, but I know that there are exactly zero people reading this who are both (a) living in the Greater Boston area and (b) intrigued by the idea of waking up at 6:30am for a 10-mile hike. Lazy urbanites, all of you.
Marty, acting on his subsconcious lifelong desire to be a TV exec for Fox, has posted a fine collection of When Animals Attack videos. Why? Why not?
If you watch these at work you definitely want to call over your co-workers and have everyone gather around your screen; they're best viewed collectively.
Camping is supposed to be a calming, meditative activity that helps one focus and gain perspective on the civilized, urbanized world one inhabits -- at least, that's how I always saw it, with the added bonus of being a good excuse to light marshmallows on fire and eat them.
I had a calming, meditative time camping (with the exception of the kareoke boat) but somewhere between Lovells Island and the Aquarium T stop a huge, tense, angry ball of stress knotted up between my shoulders. It's been merrily traveling the length of my neck ever since and I'm damned if I can figure out why. (Well, I could probably figure it out if I sat down and thought about it, but avoidance is always a good policy.)
I've tried the generally failproof methods of relaxing -- though I haven't yet attempted Charlotte's favorite exhortation to "salsa it out," I've covered the long, hard run; the long, hot shower; the funny movie (not even a Monty-Python-induced laughing fit could shake the stress-ball free); and the immoderate amounts of whiskey. Professional help is in order.
Unfortunately, MTI, my go-to place for cheap massages, is closed for the summer. So my question is twofold:
Questionable, I know, but I'm getting desperate.
Disappointing. But worth the $9.25 to see Kevin Pollack do the joke as Christopher Walken.
The HLS kids are back in town, for better or for worse. No longer will Cambridge Commons, Temple Bar and the Mass. Ave Starbucks be abandonded.
I caught up with one of those overachieving, law-review-writing, state-of-New-York-defending 2Ls for dinner last night, but not before he sent me this e-mail:
let me know if you want a date with that guy i was standing next to on the street in front of temple bar... you might not have gotten a very good look at him, but he's 32 years old, really weird, and possibly addicted to heroin (he never wears short-sleeve shirts, is extremely hostile to the american drug laws, and spent nine years in california that he refuses to talk about).
That was almost better than the time Andy tried to sell me on his single friend by telling me he "doesn't have much of a sense of humor" and "you might not find him physically attractive."
I suppose I should be thankful that my friends are (1) so well-meaning and (2) so horrible at spin.
Everyone who remotely likes camping should pitch a tent on one of the Harbor Islands once in their lives. Despite mildly sketchy weather, camping on Lovells Island was ridiculously nice.
You could tell by 4:00 pm that the sunset was going to be pretty spectacular:
Breakfast was less spectacular. No granola left in the house so I brought my camp stove and a freeze-dried meal of unknown origin:
Mmm... rehydrated eggs.
Pages to proof. Spoon show to attend. No time to post anything of substance.
Pick up the Dig this week if you haven't already. Funnier than usual.
Also, Little Leaguers weigh in on steroids while showing precocious awareness of how ridiculous it is that they're being asked about steroids.
We're out, getting our Harbor Islands on. Back on Sunday.
I love Universal Hub -- it points me to all sorts of lovely Boston-based blogs that I'd never read otherwise (and it occasionally points other people to this page, leading them to gleefully e-mail me about the proper spelling of Kerry Healey's name). Today the Hub highlights a vaguely annoying post by Carpundit about that Fung Wah bus catching fire:
A cheapo bus from Boston to New York burned up yesterday halfway to its destination. What do you expect when you only pay $15 for a trip to New York?
Spoken like someone who can afford to ride the Acela (bad brakes be damned). In my experience, the Fung Wah has a spotless track record when it comes to getting me to New York alive and back to Boston in the same condition. And using that yardstick, Fung Wah handled this situation pretty well -- they got everyone to New York alive, if a little later than usual.
A few years ago, when I was riding a bus from Oxford to Stratford to see King John, we pulled over to the side of the road in Chipping-on-Something (one of those random English towns you see in BBC America miniseries). The driver got out, pulled open the back hood, looked at the engine, frowned a little, and got back in the bus and drove on. There was an acrid, burning-oil smell in the air, but we didn't think too much of it. Five minutes later, we were all standing on the side of the road, watching our bus turn into a double-decker fricassee.
I don't think it even made the news. According to the lovely people of Chipping-on-Something, buses spontaneously combust all the time over there.
By comparison, this Fung Wah sitation is pretty run-of-the-mill. The driver even made an attempt to evacuate the bus when he smelled smoke. When I was on that Stratford trip, the back seat had to literally catch on fire before it occurred to anybody to get off the bus. But despite the fact that the driver did the responsible thing and got everyone off the bus before it burned down, Carpundit is amazed that anyone would ever want to ride Fung Wah again. You know what? Greyhounds catch on fire. Luxury buses catch on fire. BMWs catch on fire. (Acelas don't catch on fire, but they also don't always stop when they're supposed to.)
Buses go up in flames. Shit happens. Brush the ashes off your shirt and move on.
Who sells a bunch of four-year old, fully-functional laptops for $50 each and doesn't expect violent chaos? The accompanying photo makes the story.
Virginians. Trampling their fellow citizens for the privilege of shoddy technical support.
The "impulse buy" is something that brings us together as Americans -- giving into that saw-it-in-the-window-and-gotta-have-it feeling is downright patriotic, what with it stimulating the economy and all.
People are generally drawn to a specific type of impulse buy, a particular product that unwaveringly seduces them. Some people buy CDs. Some people buy shoes. Some people buy unnecessarily powerful cars.
I am not much of a shopper, so I reserve campsites. My train of thought this morning went from, "Yeah, I really should hit the Harbor Islands before the summer ends" to "There's only one site left for this weekend! Reserve it! NOW!"
I've never camped on the Harbor Islands, but it sounds like a nice way to kill a Friday night: sleeping under the stars as the sewage-stocked waters of Boston Harbor lap at the shore. Let's hope the weather holds this weekend (although, if worse comes to worse, I'll sleep in the tent -- we've already established that it's lightning-proof).
Purchases made by members of my household during the tax-free shopping weekend in Massachusetts:
Total saved: $18.40.
Well, at least it's $18.40 that won't go towards furnishing Kerry Healy's office.
EDIT: Yeah, I know, "Healey," not "Healy." How Bostonist of me.
It was kind of cloudy last night, but I still saw four or five shooting stars. I was too groggy to make any decent wishes (and despite my high level of superstition, I've never really felt compelled to wish on shooting stars -- they're not close and tangible like coins thrown into a fountain, but too impossibly far away to have any power in this level of the atmosphere).
All the same, the spectacle was nice. If the sky is clearer tonight, I may give it another shot.
Last night was my last class of the summer -- tonight was supposed to be my first full night of sleep in weeks. Instead, expect sleep to be thwarted by poetic geekiness in the form of a meteor shower.
The peak of the shower is expected between 2am and dawn... I'll be sitting on my apartment steps at around 3am, drinking White Hen coffee and thinking about Whitman. Anyone who wants to join me should stop by. Bring your own coffee.
Our office manager is on a quest to drive me insane.
I work in a relatively small building in a relatively out-of-the-way area of Fort Point Channel. We've got a ineffective but friendly team of security guards protecting us, so we leave our lobby doors open during business hours, thus allowing people we work with to enter and exit the offices. This doesn't seem so unreasonable.
But apparently -- much to my surprise -- I am the only thing standing between our little publishing house and the big, bad world. My intimidating physical presence is crucial to the safety and security of the workplace. I learned this when I took a summer Friday off and the office manager sent this e-mail:
Sent: Fri 7/29/2005 11:50 AM
To: All Staff
Subject: FIFTH FLOOR RECEPTION DOORS SECURITY
Good morning , since our receptionist is out today ,and there are so few staff in house ,also for our own security . PLEASE, keep the reception doors closed for the remainder of the day. Do not forget your key card if you go out for lunch.
Thank you
The receptionist (namely, me) is a 5'4", 127 lb. girl who (a) couldn't stop a would-be thief or terrorist if she wanted to and (b) probably wouldn't be inclined to even if she could. What am I going to do if a shady character walks in here? Throw handbooks at him?
It gets better. I came back from a long lunch on Wednesday to this e-mail:
Sent: Wed 8/10/2005 12:25 PM
To: All Staff
Subject: PLEASE HAVE CONSIDERATION
Good afternoon , this problem has been brought to my attention and now i am going to mention it . Please , do not hold any impromptu meetings in the hallways or gatherings , as there are people working . . Also , the noise level should be toned down ,in respect to your fellow workers . I am asking everyone to please cooperate in this matter .
Thank you
I wonder what he would have to say about the live-action lobby Pong.
Holy hell. 1,273 words in the space of 10 hours?
What was I on yesterday?
Reading this article on Mimi in New York, a lap-dancing writer, got me thinking about the nature of my own public writing. (And specifically, "blogging," as the kids seem to be calling it these days.)
Until I started this website, I kept personal public writing to a minimum. There are personal pieces out there, of course. I've written them under bylines and I've written them anonymously (keep trying, Marty -- you'll never figure it out) and some of them are decent, and some of them are godawful.
This obviously isn't a highly personal blog; most of the posts revolve around making fun of the Times and Bostonist and I try to stay away from LiveJournal-esque emotional spewing. But when things happen in my day that I'd like to comment on, I have to bear in mind that there are people who read this, and I actually know five or six of them. What information do I want them to have? Do I want them to know if I'm looking for other jobs (I'm not) or feeling kind of depressed (not even remotely) or thinking about moving (always in the back of my mind) or dating someone (possibly -- hard to tell) or if I'm secretly a lap dancer?
We'd like to think that we're all open books but we're not; we like to have some loose grip on how we're perceived. Knowing that I have a few friends and co-workers who read this fairly regularly forces me to hold information back. And it's information that could end up as decent writing.
(I'm not secretly a lap dancer, by the way. I should have clarified that earlier.)
This is all compounded by the fact that I am a meticulous editor -- not just of my words, but of my ideas, beliefs, actions, style, everything. I certainly edit these posts as I write them, but it's a relatively rapid fire process. I don't take the time that I did with my columns or my freelance pieces, because the daily posts are so short and the ideas and jokes are usually so ephemeral that I know I'll lose 'em if I don't get them down. And once I get them down, I don't go back and change them, because I know that someone has already read them as they are.
The upshot of all this is that when I look back on the writing I've done here, I'm not particularly thrilled by it. I like the funny stuff, when it's actually funny, but the personal stuff and the critical rants come off as silly and trite. This entry is going to seem particularly ridiculous in the morning. C'est la vie, I suppose.
I've been posting things here for over a year now. You'd think this all would have occured to me sooner.
Anyway, here's something funny to make up for all the treacle.
View From the Cube, a Globe column written by aspiring freelance writers disguised as everyday office drones, makes Modern Love look like Kafka.
This week, we revisit the novel concept that working in a fun office is, indeed, fun. Allow me to summarize:
"I used to work in an office where we would wear flip-flops to work and slide down banisters and listen to music and it was so totally awesome. Also, I got to work with boys, which is so much cooler than working with girls because girls are catty and mean and don't know how to have fun. I wish I still worked there. (The company doesn't exist any more but I'm sure that's unrelated.)"
Hey, Boston Globe? There's a reason that these View From the Cube authors are office workers (mostly unemployed ones, from the looks from your archives) and not professional writers. This idea that every office should be like a '90's era dot-com is so tired.
Fun, laid-back offices seem to be designed for one purpose: to keep you there. You spend your work time there. You spend your leisure time there. They bleed into each other until 80% of your life or so revolves around your office, which is not an inherently bad thing. No one's saying we shouldn't enjoy being at work.
If the workplace is some blissful, politics-free utopia, spending all your time there is absolutely no problem, but is that ever completely the case? So much is out of your control in the office: you're subject to the whims of managers, customers, clients, wacky office managers. The power relationships are crystallized and defined more than anywhere else in life, and they often seem less fair. (Your parents can boss you around because they've earned the right to; they gave birth to you, raised you, maybe made you peanut butter sandwiches once in a while. But your manager hasn't done anything to justify the fact that she can boss you around -- and she might be foolish and incompetent to boot.) You spend your leisure time with the people that you work with, which might be great, but your relationship with them isn't organic. You just hang out together because you're the same age and working in the same place. Work is life and life is work and you begin thinking of them as seamless and interchangeable -- you're never leaving one or the other behind.
I've worked in fun, laid-back offices; I've worked in places with a more professional sheen. And while I think I prefer the former, I see the appeal of working in the grown-up business world. Some folks like the safety and rigidity of wearing a suit to work. They like playing by the rules of business ettiquete, because the rules of life ettiquete are so much more complicated and messy -- when you eliminate that from your work, you may be less creative but you may also get a lot more accomplished. Some people thrive in that kind of environment and would be totally catatonic if someone forced them to throw around a Nerf football and wear flip-flops to the office.
(I'm not one of them, mind you. We have some higher-ups visiting the office today, so I conceded to wearing a plain t-shirt instead of something with words on it, but I'm still in loafers and a $5 Garment District cardigan. I also keep several bouncy-balls at my disposal should we feel the need to turn the lobby into a real-life version of Pong. I'm just saying -- not everyone wants that in the workplace. And that doesn't mean they're stodgy or grouchy or an otherwise misguided person.)
A case study: Before he retired, my dad worked for the Dept. of Labor -- which, needless to say, wasn't a Frisbee Golf kind of office. (Not that tax dollars haven't been used for more frivolous things.) He'd get home from work at around 4:30 every day, and the first thing he'd do would be to take off his tie and change into a t-shirt and grubby old slacks. It projected this attitude of "I'm home, and I'm chill, and you have my undivided attention (unless there's boxing on TV)." Dad loved his job, and dug the people he worked with, but I can't imagine him being happy working at a place where he could wear that t-shirt and slacks to the office. Wearing a tie meant he was working (which he enjoyed). Not wearing one meant he was doing stuff with his family and his friends (which he also enjoyed, but for different reasons).
Variety is the spice of life, people. Maybe working in a professional atmosphere makes relaxation time that much more relaxing and fun time that much more fun.
I've officially stopped whining, complaining, kvetching et. al.
My final paper is in, my class is almost done, work is going swimmingly, new roommates are dynamite, Mom's totally healthy, Dad's not injured*, and there are a few weeks of kickass summer weather left before we transition into an even more kickass fall.
Not only that, but I'm about to get some sleep.
I might even update listen one of these days. I'm in that good of a mood.
*As of Sunday afternoon, anyway. Lord knows what crashing and bashing he did at his basketball game tonight.
Today, The Mock-Up is investigating the relative enjoyableness of doing certain things while mildly hungover. Thus far, the subject group has included:
The Mock-Up. Sacrificing our liver so you don't have to.
Have you ever sat down to write a paper after four solid days of reading and re-reading material only to realize that:
Yeah. That's where I'm at, right about now. Bollocks. Whose stupid idea was this, this graduate school thing? Why am I spending a utterly gorgeous Saturday pacing around my room and glaring at my laptop and my Film Studies Reader in turn as though it's their fault that I can't force out 1,500 words or so?
Gah!
Rich Garces came up in a converation I had with someone the other night -- I think the exact reference was, "The only way that game could have been stranger would be if El Guapo had come out of the bullpen to close." Lo and behold:
Almost three years to the day (Aug. 7, 2002) since the Sox released Garces, the beloved pitcher is staging a comeback. Don't break out those Guapo T-shirts yet -- Garces hasn't pitched in the United States since 2002, and has made only two Gulf Coast League appearances -- but he's determined to make one last run at reviving his big-league career.
Garces, who pitched in Boston between 1996 and 2002 and was listed at 6 feet 250 pounds in the 2002 Red Sox media guide, told the Fort Myers News-Press yesterday that he weighs 10 pounds more than he did when he last pitched in the big leagues.
He weighs... more? Oh, El Guapo.
Merriam Webster produces another stellar Word of the Day:
small beer \SMAWL-BEER\ noun
1 : weak or inferior beer
2 : something of small importance : trivia
Did you know?
"Small beer" dates from Shakespeare's day... In Henry VI, Part 2, for example, the rebel Jack Cade declares that, when he becomes king, he will "make it felony to drink small beer."
In Othello, Desdemona asks Iago to describe a "deserving woman." Iago responds by listing praises for ten lines, only to conclude that such a woman would be suited "to suckle fools, and chronicle small beer"; in other words, to raise babies and keep track of insignificant household expenses. (Desdemona quickly retorts, declaring Iago's assertion a "most lame and impotent conclusion.")
No small beer was consumed at last night's going-away festivities for Kate and Avital -- just whiskey, soda and Lady Luck martinis (which, despite their appearance, do not taste like Gatorade, nor do they have the same electrolyte-boosting effects.)
Reuters files the obligatory hourly story about Discovery and shows a tremendous grasp of regional accents:
"Tragically, two years ago, we came to realize we had let our God down," said mission specialist Charles Camarda.
Let our... "guard" down, maybe?
This is funnier in light of the fact that I only recently learned that a compartment in one's desk is actually a "drawer," and not a "draw."
The Times offers a article about hedge fund wealth feeding a surge in philanthropy. It's mildly interesting if you often find yourself on the giving or receiving end of philanthropy, or, say, previously worked in a development department. But even if you don't fit into one of those categories, it's worth reading for this:
Last November, more than 500 people gathered at Marriott Grosvenor Square in London for the first annual Hedge Fund Fight Nite, a white-collar boxing event in which eight pairs of hedge fund managers took to the ring while their colleagues, in black tie, watched them beat each other up.
The organizers decided not to declare winners in an effort to encourage people to return, but Mr. Dew said that when his timed bout was over, it was clear he had not won. "There were a bunch of bloody noses, no permanent scars, no broken bones," he said. "Smelling salts were involved."
Shame on you, NYT editors, for burying that in the 19th graf.
Almost immediately after I posted my little rant about Boston going Bohemian, I was called out as a hypocrite who lives in Porter Square, wears the occasional ironic t-shirt, and would like nothing better than to inhabit a happy, artistic, wholly hipsterized city.
Not so. My hypocritical tendencies are have been in full force on this webpage before (LiveStrong bracelets, anyone?) but this time, I can actually reconcile my snarky statements with my state of mind.
I like a lot of the establishments in the "Real Deal Boston Guide." Even the dirty ones. But with the exception of maybe the Brattle, there isn't a place on that list that I don't feel a little uncomfortable being in. In their respective quests to be attractive to a certain type of person, be it neo-crunch hipsters (Someday) or indie-rock hipsters (Diesel) or ultra-Euro hipsters (Pamplona), these places are inherently uncomfortable for anyone who doesn't fit that type. And for those of us in the neurotic, brazenly self-unaware gray space between types, it's tough to fully enjoy a place that is so selectively welcoming.
Simon's is quite possibly the best coffee shop in the world -- nice, calming decor; diverse, non-overwhelming music; madly addictive cinnamon swirl pastries; two blocks from my house. More than anything, I love Simon's because it feels utterly pretention free. Anyone, wearing anything, can walk in there and sit down with a cup of coffee and feel comfortable. (I hope the rest of Boston doesn't figure this out, because I'll never be able to get a table in there.) But if there was no Simon's, I'd do all my coffee-drinking and essay-editing and deadline-blowing at Starbucks. Yes, it's generic, and it caters to everyone -- which is exactly why it's so great. No one is too weird, too normal, or too anything to be sitting in a Starbucks.
I'll admit that I've got a little more hipster in me than some other people, and I can usually hang out at Diesel or Pamplona without feeling too out of place. And I love my artsy neighborhood with its stationery shop and fun shoe store and cool music venue and funky airplane-wing statue. But not everyone feels comfortable in a place like that. Why can't Boston have a few spots that everyone feels comfortable in? If the Boho Boston idiot's idea of "authentic" is "exclusive," I don't want to be living in his city.
Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a double-shot latte calling my name.
Universal Hub is up in arms about some idiot's proposed hipsterization of Boston. However, they've overlooked the best part of this guy's site -- the Boston Guide!
This fool apparently decided that Let's Go isn't "real" enough for him and has put together his own list of recommended eateries and drinkeries:
Restaurants and stores that we call the Real Deal because they feel ... real. You know these places when you enter them because they feel authenic; they aren't trying too hard to make a particular impression. They don't feel phoney.
Which is funny, when you consider that his Somerville list consists of
All sorts of facinating e-mails were sitting in my inbox when I returned to work today from my long weekend. The least infuriating one, though, was Monday's Word of the Day:
INSELBERG
\IN-sul-berg\ noun
: an isolated mountain
Did you know?
"Inselberg," which first appeared in English in 1913, comes from the German words "Insel," meaning "island," and "Berg," meaning "mountain" ... The word "monadnock," derived from the name of Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire, is a synonym of "inselberg."
Never let it be said that New Hampshire hasn't made any positive contributions to the English vocabulary. "But why is the mountain called 'Monadnock' in the first place?" you ask, plaintively scratching your head. Good question:
Monadnock is an originally Native American term for an isolated hill or a lone mountain that has risen above the surrounding area, typically by surviving erosion. The word is thought to derive from the Abenaki language, from either menonadenak ("smooth mountain") or menadena ("isolated mountain").
More to the point, I haven't done a Monadnock hike all summer. Who's down?