I Don't Like Change, Charlie

Dear Charlie:

It's been quite a few months since you came into my life and replaced the standard monthly local bus T-Pass ("TP"). The most notable difference between the two of you was your appearance. TP would change colors every month and some transit marketing wizard would coordinate the colors to the season or a holiday taking place that month. I always wondered if there was one person with the sole job of designing the monthly T-Pass, if there was I'd take them out for a beer or two and try to cheer them up because they are now out of a job.

That is because, Charlie, you never changed. You never spruced yourself up in orange for October, or cool pastels in May, navy blue and red in April for opening day.

Not unlike the fanny pack, you were about function not frills. And I was quite okay with that, it was comforting even. I don't like change, Charlie.

We had our ups and downs, I often could never find you when you were needed the most, sometimes you would expire and still hang around and since you don't change from month to month, I'd foolishly try to use you and be belittled by the bus driver.

It was a few weeks ago when I started to get an inkling that things were headed south between us. I got on the bus to find this new shiny machine that I was suppose to put you in as opposed to just sliding you through. I consider myself to be quite on the ball, but I struggled a bit with it so you can imagine what the poor elderly people and various dim-witted bus folk went through. Since we know that most bus drivers have the patience of a diabetic gorilla deprived of a banana there were quite a few times that you were ripped out of passenger’s hands and inserted into the machine by the drivers themselves. It was all quite amusing in a way, so I forgave you, realized my cheese was moved, and dealt with it. I could never stay mad at you for long.

But yesterday my world fell apart, Charlie. Sure, I heard bits and pieces of the changes to come, but I was in denial. I never thought you'd really do it, Charlie.

Then I got this email yesterday:

Beginning with your January pass you will no longer receive a Charlie ticket at the beginning of each month. You will now receive a CharlieCard which will be your permanent pass and will be reloaded automatically each month. All you will have to do at the beginning of each month is tap your CharlieCard on the black target at the farebox and board the train or bus.

First of all, Charlie, you know how I like to randomly lose my credit cards, wallet, purse, bra.... how the hell am I going to hang onto you forever? At least when you came out monthly I knew if I lost you I only had so many days to wait before you arrived in an envelope.

And what's with this black target bullshit? People had a hard enough time using you the old fashion way and obviously wasted precious seconds trying to use you the newer way - and now this???

And the sick part of all this is, you are going up in price - meaning I am paying for these changes that were never really needed in the first place. I mean, if you and the T wanted to be more efficient, why wouldn’t you consider adding more buses and trains?

I just don't get it, Charlie. I'm pissed and hurt. And worst off I am stuck with you. I never thought I would find myself in a loveless relationship, but here I am. It sucks and I’m sad.

I hate you Charlie, burn in hell. Consider yourself couch-bound indefinitely.

Irately Yours Not By Choice,

Auntie Elizabeth Ann Scotch, IV

The Best Drinking Night of the Year in Boston...

So, tonight is the famed best drinking night ever imaginable in Boston.... what did you do?

COMM-ENTS!!! (pounding my desk)
COMM-ENTS!!! (pounding my desk)
COMM-ENTS!!! (pounding my desk)

If Allston’s the Worst, You Can Keep The Best

A new book entitled "The Absolutely Worst Places to Live in America" has named Allston, MA as one of the grossest and dirtiest places to live in the United States.

Disclaimer - haven't read this book yet and do not plan on purchasing it - if anything I'll take the 66 bus out of Harvard directly into the deepest bowels of America to steal a copy from the Urban Renewals bookstore on Brighton Avenue.

According to The Boston Globe, the author lived in Allston as a student in the 90's and from the quotes I read, also from The Boston Globe, he has a major chip on his shoulder...

Below in italics are some quotes taken from The Boston Globe of the author's descripton of Allston:

[Allston is] a community of "faux Irish pubs...."

What makes an Irish pub authentic anyhow? I mean, unless it's located in Gallway, aren't all American Irish pubs faux in one way or another? Most of the Irish pubs in Allston are owned, or founded at least, by true red-blooded Irishmen.

"....garbage, vomiting in the shrubbery, drunken brawling, late night/early morning car alarms"

That may be an accurate, yet arguable, description of some parts of Allston. I myself wouldn't want to move to the Commonwealth Avenue section of Allston because there is too much hustle and bustle for my taste. However, I am still left scratching my head wondering, even if the author's description is right on the money, how that could qualify Allston as being one of the worst cities to live in in the United States. And not only that, Allston is ranked No. 14!! It's in the top 25!!! I can name at least a dozen shitty areas in Massachusetts alone!

As a life long Brighton resident, I have griped for years about absentee landlords renting over-priced/over-crowded apartments to students. I am fortunate enough to only have one of these houses in close proximity to my house. The place looks as though it is about to fall down, there is always trash in the front yard and loud parties that go well into the wee hours of the morning - take that scenario and multiply it by 10,000 and you've got Allston. I don't blame the students - kids will be kids. I guess my point is - the author lived in Allston as a student, Allston is pretty much dominated by a student population who contribute greatly to the garbage and late night drunken behavior he complains about. It is what it is.

Allston has never dragged residents in under false pretenses of being the best cities to live in America, but it is certainly not one of the worst.

And then he gets really mean and strikes out in a seemingly passive agressive way......

"Allston is a Neverland for the thrift shop set," he writes. ". . . you have this whole aging (thirtyish) segment of the population pathetically suffering from the Peter Pan-like delusion that they'll never grow old or irrelevant, still hanging out at the college bars and sitting in each other's living rooms dissecting pop culture like it's 1992."

Ouch..... That kind of stung a bit since I myself am a delusional 30 year old - even if I avoid the college bar scene like a VD. All I can say is that this guy must of had some really bad experiences in Allston, but it serves him right if he's going from living room to living room of thirty-something college bar dwellers. Nothing good can come out of that.

In any case, I’m already over this - the guy has gotten enough attention and will most likely make a ton of money from the free press alone.

The Inebriated Epicures Brunch at SoHo

On Sunday Elsie, Bella, Andrea, Regina and I met for our very first, of what we hope will become a weekly, or at least monthly, ritual, of getting together on Sundays for brunch. The idea was born out of a brainstorming session of Elsie and I - we thought it was about time we devised a concrete plan to drink on Sundays and since no one likes to have a big head at work on Mondays, the earlier the better. So brunch it would be.

We all met up at Soho on Market Street in Brighton around 11:00 AM. I had only been in there once before, but that was at night. When I walked in I was extremely impressed, I immediately fell in love with the contemporary decor surrounding the large Irish bar in the center of the room. We sat in front of a big window facing Market Street - prime location for my love of people watching. They had a jazz band playing in the lower level adding to the ambiance and I was happy - we made the right choice by coming here!

The server came over to take our drink orders, Reg dove in first by ordering a Bloody Mary. It was then we discovered a horrible, heinous, unspeakable, tragic reality. Massachusetts law forbids the serving of alcohol before 12PM on Sundays. When the waiter told us this Andrea jokingly said "oh you are pulling my leg" and we all laughed like hell. The waiter defensively responded that it isn't his decision that it is the state of Massachusetts. Okay, so our sarcasm attempt was lost on the guy, we told him we were just joshing and ordered coffee.
The waiter brought back our coffee and told us to go help ourselves to the buffett. That was the second to the last time he came over to our table. I'm not sure if it was the no booze before noon joke, or the fact that we were dressed casually (as more people trickled in we realized that people dressed up for brunch, and we were in jeans and sweaters) therefore we were labeled as trash, but he seemed to be avoiding us.

The food was good - no complaints, no raves. The coffee on the other hand was un-drinkable. Very, very strong.

Noon came around and finally the waiter surfaced to take our drink orders. This could have changed my view of him if not for the fact he never came back to our table, we ended up having to go up to the bar to get another round of drinks, and we had to track him down to even get our check. Our table was littered with glasses and coffee mugs for the entire duration of the meal.

All in all it was a great day. The food was okay, the locale and atmosphere was great, the service sucked and of course, the company rocked! I don't think I'd go back there for brunch, but I would certainly return for drinks in the evening!

The Circle of Meth

Years ago I once heard someone refer to Brighton as "a melting pot" - I laughed because they said pot and I was pretty stoned at the time. Aside from that, they did have a point, Brighton is a pretty diverse community although I'm not sure how well we "melt" together. However, despite our different ethnic backgrounds, religious and political beliefs and sexual orientation - there is one thing that we all have in common that no language barrier can deter - and that is our undivided passion for gossip.

That said, it warmed my heart last night when I heard that a drug-making laboratory was uncovered on Surrey Street. Just in time for the holiday season!! I have not seen this many people out and about on the streets since the old barn behind my house burnt to the ground. There was excitement in the air as helicopters flew overhead and news crews flooded the neighborhood. Familiar faces on the 10 o'clock news making statements of shock and disbelief added to the fun.

Reports this morning indicate that the lab was producing ecstasy, cocaine, and crystal meth.

"Meth" as those in the know call it (or those who watch A&E like me call it) scares the shit out of me because I read that the average user is between the ages of 35 and 45.

When I turned 30, I patted myself on the back for getting through my teens and twenties without a serious drug problem (go ahead and take a crack about booze being a drug). I figured it was quite a feat to live so self destructively for so many years and still be able to hold down a job and not steal from my friends and family. In fact, if I die tomorrow, that is what I want to remembered for. On my headstone I'd like it to read "Auntie Scotch - She Was Not A Crack Whore." My finest accomplishment.

So you can see how it may worry me a bit that there is an addictive drug out there that is affecting my soon to be age group.

I can see it now, I'm 35, I'm at a dinner party with friends and just as the hostess is about to serve dessert and coffee someone busts out a meth pipe. Buckling under peer pressure and driven by a constant need to fit in, I take a hit.

Next thing you know, everything I achieved over the past five years is gone - my fabulous husband, my wonderful children, my million dollar home and red hot career. I'm back living in the apartment upstairs from my mother, broke, alone, spending my free time blogging about nonsense.

Christ I'm pathetic.

Mepos

Last night Regina, David and I went to Harpers Ferry to see the Mepos perform. If you are a fan of live music and have not been to Harpers Ferry, you are doing yourself a great in-justice. It is a larger than average rock club that hosts well known performers as well as younger, local bands. Harper's Ferry is located in on Brighton Avenue in Allston "Rock City", which is an area known for t's many bars and great local, live music.

I grew up a stone's throw from the area and have always had a love for the local rock scene and a weakness for musicians. In fact, most of the guys I have dated in the past as well as two long term boyfriends have been musicians. I am a moth to a flame when it comes to the creative, moody, tortured, misunderstood man and I find that guys in bands fit that bill pretty well. It's a wonder why my love life has such a high failure rate.

Back to last night - the Mepos took the stage at 10:30 PM and dove right into their all original set.

A blurb from their website:

Mepos is a four piece improvisational rock band based out of Providence, RI. The band blends elements of funk, jazz, and rock to create a unique experience that continually surprises and pleases its audiences. Playing a wide variety of covers and originals the band’s high-energy performances and growing repertoire attract the attention of new listeners and constantly surprise veteran fans. Mepos thanks a constantly growing fan base dedicated to enjoying its live performances.

The band is made up of Matt on guitar, Nate on bass, Pat on keys, and Mario on drums. All four members of Mepos are individually talented as musicians but they also play very well together. I suspect that they are dedicated to practicing often. As serious as they appear about the quality of their performance it does not dilute the impression that these guys are having a great time up there. They obviously enjoy performing together and that is what really stands out.

So check out their website - http://www.meposmusic.com/ - if they are playing at a venue near you and you are looking to have a great time and listen to some fun music the Mepos are just the guys to give it to you.

Some Things Don't Mix

Sunday Jude and I took a mini-road trip up to New Hampshire to attend my Uncle's memorial service. Although it is said there are no guarantees in life, I can always count on a few sure things anytime Jude and I get in a car together and have to travel over 20 miles. First off, just as we are about to get to our destination Jude's gut directional instincts kick in and she decides that we have gone too far, the wrong way, etc. Suddenly we are off the directions and lost - let the ritual begin. We stop at the first gas station that without fail, every time, gives us the wrong directions. We drive around, I realize my bladder is full, the inner-fighting begins. Our nerves are shot, we contemplate just turning around and going home and finally, we find someone on the street, or stop at a second gas station and get the correct directions on where we have to go. We always make it, even if we are late and ready to kill one another - but we make it nonetheless.

The tribute to my Uncle was very nice. They had it in a ballroom in Newmarket and everyone showed. I come from a very large family so it isn't often that we are all together in the same room, it's unfortunate it had to be under these circumstances, but it was good to see everyone and catch up.

After chewing the fat with my cousins for a bit I decided there was no time like the present to go up and get myself a rum and coke. I figured it couldn't hurt my social anxiety and it would take the edge off the trip home since it was almost time to leave. I sipped my drink slowly over the next hour (and i know that is hard to believe coming from me but it's true) and as I greeted a few more aunts/uncles/cousins no less than two of them asked - "you're not driving home are you?"

The honest answer to that was, no, I wasn't - Jude was.

But what I really wanted to say was - if you know me well enough to assume that I am totally hammered just because there is a bar here (which by the way is the safest assumption you can and will make) than you should also know me well enough to know my view on drinking and driving.

I mean, anyone who has tried to man the wheel and shake up a decent batch of martinis knows that it is nearly impossible to do so. On top of that it's dangerous - say you hit a pothole, you are running the major risk of dumping your drink all over the place and you damn well know I don't condone spillage.

Cellophane Assault

Yesterday I found myself wandering up and down Church Street checking out the “Please Support Our Business” signs amidst all the construction that has been going on in Harvard Square for months now. I made a mental note that I would selflessly have to convince Amy and Kerry to have strawberry beer with me at “Cambridge One” very soon. I’ll have to dig deep into my heart, but I’m sure I’ll be able to muster up the charity – it’s for a good cause after all.

I rounded the corner onto Mass Ave to pick up a pack of smokes at C’est Bon convenience store. There are two side notes that very short sentence. First of all, I made a feeble, half-assed attempt to quit smoking this week but had decided for the sake of all those around me that maybe now wasn’t such a good time. Secondly, I am very happy that the stubborn side of me has allowed the weak side of me to shop at C’est Bon again. About a year or so ago I gave the clerk a ten dollar bill and he mistook it for a five dollar bill, after causing a mild ruckus over the dispute I swore I would never step foot in there again - for the most part because I was embarrassed to have caused a scene (I recall yelling - “REMEMBER MY FACE WHEN YOU COUNT OUT YOUR TIL TONIGHT AND COME UP FIVE DOLLARS OVER, BUDDY!!”). But I’m over it – it’s easy to lose conviction when your enemy sells two-for-one packs of cigarettes.

Heading back to the office I stopped to pull the smokes out of my pocket and sort of just feel into a trance. To say I’ve been feeling a little bit “off” this week is an understatement. I developed a somewhat unhealthy, but possibly normal, preoccupation with the circumstances of my uncle’s death last week. This has caused all sorts of side effects, the worst being my lack of eating anything remotely decent and inability to sleep well. For example, Tuesday night here is what I had for dinner – four beers. No, not four beers with food. Just four beers. The next morning I woke up starving so I had orange peanut butter crackers and a diet coke for breakfast. It’s a slippery slope into becoming a total sloth but the good news is I’m pretty much at, or very close to, bottom - it’s all uphill from here!! Anyhow, back to my trance –

I snapped out of it and started to unwrap my smokes; I struggled a bit because I realized stuff was starting to fall out of my pocket. Before I knew it, a small piece of cellophane blew off of my cigarette pack and onto the ground. Hands full with coat-pocket debris (matches, ATM card, countless mint wrappers, cash), I watched it float away from me.

Then I hear him.

“MISS!! HEY, MISS!!! YOU JUST DROPPED SOMETHING ON THE GROUND!! YOU JUST LITTERED!!”

I looked up at him half expecting to see a Square Rummy or one of the mentally-ill regulars that frequent the area. But it was a normal looking, middle-aged, sweater and khaki wearing Possibly Prof. John Doe.

I was pretty confused, I obviously had my hands full and did not intentionally throw anything on the ground. I just stared at him in surprise. As he made his way past me, his enraged glare turned soft and his head dropped, as if he were ashamed, toward the ground. For a mere moment I thought he had read my mind (Forgive me, I’ve been trying to watch “Heros” on NBC). And if he had the ability, he would have read:

Sir, yesterday I was walking in this area and saw a man pissing on the side of a building. The day before that a homeless, intoxicated elderly man fell to the ground and no less than ten people walked by and over him before I had a chance to reach him. There are kids in the alleys shooting up. People begging for change and food and for you just to buy a dammed “Spare Change” newspaper already. But, you should be really proud of yourself for taking such a risk, such a stand, against my unintentional assault of this fine area. Small pieces of cellophane blowing into the gutter has been a crime that has been ignored for too long – and you sir are a fucking hero for finally speaking up, if only to a five-foot-three woman standing alone looking sad and confused.

Okay so I’m being hard on the guy. But I was really kind of taken aback by it when it happened. The funny thing is, this is the second time I have made a cellophane faux-pas.

A few years ago Regina and I were standing on a pier at Lake Mead admiring all the trout with a group full of tourists. People were feeding them and there were just tons and tons of them, really amazing.

I went to pull something out of my pocketbook, (god knows what probably a cough drop), and all of a sudden a piece of cellophane flew out, up into the air….and directly into Lake Mead. A few gasped in horror as one unlucky fish gobbled it right up.

I hear hushed whispers of “it was her” ...... and next thing I know all eyes are upon Regina and I…. eyes of hatred and pure disgust. Turning to Regina, but obviously addressing the crowd I say “who am I, Saddam Hussein? Like I did it on purpose….sheesh”.

Needless to say it was a very awkward tour bus ride back to Vegas because most of the folks on that pier were also on our bus.

You know, as I wrote this I started to think about all of the embarrassing travel moments I have caused poor Regina over the years. Thanks for being my friend Regina, I know it hasn’t been easy at times.

Great Day For Massholes

Now, you should know by now that I don't like to blog about anything deeper than my laundry woes, obsession with little people, and my stance on the state of public transportation in Boston. It's not because I have this intelligent side of me that I'm trying to hide from you, it's because I'm pretty self-absorbed and shallow - a stereo-typical fat American who resists getting involved in anything beyond the three walls of my cubicle unless it affects my everyday life. I was pissed when the final debates were on the very same night Entertainment Tonight was running it's exclusive interview with Anna Nicole Smith, knocking it off the air. WTF?

Despite that, I am still going to tell you that I am elated with the election results. The dems are back baby!!

I do have to admit I was a little put-off but the whole anti-Patrick campaign that had him on my television every half hour describing the wonderful qualities of a rapist. Was it just me or did it seem like he was trying to convince someone to go on a blind date with this guy?

"He's very eloquent...."

Um, yeah, I hear ya D...but the whole sexual assault thing is kind of a turn-off. I do have standards ya know.

"He's very well-spoken..."

Okay, enough already, you can give him my number. But I'm not promising I'll go out with him. What does he look like?

Sexy Dexy

Warning, the below is probably the worst writing to date.

Whoever said that serial killers cannot be sexy has obviously never written a love letter to Ted Bundy or seen an episode of Showtime's latest hit series, "Dexter". I have done both.

Okay, so maybe I haven't written a letter to a serial killer, but I'm sure if we compared a profile of a women lonely enough to pen her devotion to a psycho against a profile of yours truly, there'd be enough parallelism to at least get my friends and family talking about an intervention. Where is my intervention already, people?

Regina was the one who turned me on to “Dexter”, and although her description of the plot made me wonder if it would be too gory, violent, or suspenseful against my usual TV viewing preference of the Food Network and Antiques Roadshow, I decided to give it a shot. If there is one thing I can say about Reg, it's that she has NEVER led me in the wrong direction when it comes to her movie, TV, and book reviews. Truthfully, the only time I am disappointed is when I go against her advice and end up kicking myself for not listening to her (See - “Bad Santa”).

About the show:
The details of the incident that made Dexter Morgan a serial killer have not yet been revealed. We do know something pretty bad happened to him when he was a kid (and I’m guessing it’s a lot worse than the time my dad exclaimed “hey, are you getting boobies?” when I was 11 causing me to run away), and he was raised in a loving foster home for most of his childhood.

Currently, he is a blood splatter forensic specialist working for the Miami PD. In his free time, he rids the world of evil-doers by – okay, I don’t want to get too graphic, so I’ll just say he kills them. Before he does he shoves it in their face of what they did and why he is going to kill them. TAKE THAT CREEPS! I know it sounds pretty brutal, but it’s written in such a way that you really, really, hate his victims. Possibly more than I hate taking the bus. Man I wish Dexter would kidnap and brutalize my bus.

But there is so much more to the show than who Dexter is, what he does, and why he does it. There are some great sub-plots and supporting characters.

The main character of Dexter Morgan is played by Michael C. Hall. Hall starred in another one of my favorite shows, “Six Feet Under”, as the forever struggling, gay, good son undertaker, David Fischer. Since I loved "Six Feet Under" so much, and in particular the character of David Fischer, I thought that I would find it hard to watch him in such a dramatically different role. Not so. I don’t know if it’s the new hair-do or the fact I’ve been in a dry spell for over three months, but I had no problem taking the leap from my gay best friend David to edgy, sexy-although-I-should-know-better, Dexter.

But, considering the fact I have recently admitted out loud my attraction of a street performing cowboy and Matt Roloff (the father from “Little People Big World”), I caution you not to take my word for it, but go on and check it out yourself. If you do not have Showtime, I’m sure it will be out on DVD soon enough.

10 Reasons I Enjoy All Hallows Eve Despite the Fact I'm 30, Single, and Have No Kids (great, now I'm depressed)

1. Confusing Jude by yelling "I really like your costume" off my top porch in the morning as she heads to work wearing a pants suit.

2. Eating chocolate before noon without the fear of being judged about my weight.

3. Street performers return to Harvard Square. They typically taper off around Labor Day but they were out in full force yesterday. There was a new addition of a cowboy doing a lasso show. I found myself oddly attracted to him and only wish I had the courage to ask him to join the freak show that is "The Men I Keep Company With."

4. Being eccentric by calling it "All Hallows Eve".

5. Cute kids in small doses.

6. Words like "spook-tacular" and "boo-tiful".

7. Bella asking her boss to leave work early because she doesn't "want to hit any little kids on her way home." Priceless.

8. Emailing pictures of my cat in costume to corporate higher-ups making for an awkward afternoon when no one responds or mentions it to me.

9. DELETED

10. Jude's anticipatory angst that kids above the trick-or-treating age will come and solicit candy from her. She'd get nervous in the service every time someone over 5'0 walked near the house. Ma, it's a guy walking home from work, he ain't coming up here for an almond joy so please calm down.