In the movie version of my bus ride home from New York City last night, Bill Murray would play the part of driver. From where I sat, two rows back and across the aisle, he looked for all the world like Bill's less successful, hard-luck twin. He was sporting black bug-eye sunglasses, a middle-age mullet (thin on top, party out back), and the kind of skin that suggests a decades-long cigarette habit and/or time in the clink.
Beyond the physical, Bill would be a natural at finessing the driver's character. For example: After frantically collecting tickets at the bus terminal ("This bus is go'in ta BOSTON. You hand me a ticket for FRAMINGHAM, and you're WALKIN," he shouted to the crowd at one point.), he got everyone on board the bus ("Whoah. I hope I dint overload this thing," he said, looking at the hoard of people trying to find seats inside.), and roared out of Port Authority. We were pinned to the backs of our seats as he accelerated, then forehead-to-tray-table with the two-footed braking that immediately followed. Tunnel traffic. Don't think he didn't have colorful things to say about tunnel traffic.
Four lanes divided into two, and everyone wanted to be in the left two. But Bill wanted to go right and set about crushing anyone who got in his way. "We're gettin through this light if we have to take METAL with us," he announced to those of us lucky enough to be within earshot. I glanced around me, and everyone's eyes were as big as saucers. In the two blocks of traffic outside Port Authority, he used his horn as often as he called someone an idiot--which wasn't as often as he muttered worse things to himself. At the height of the drama, he opened his window, put the good part of his torso outside, and yelled "DICKHEAD!" to someone blocking the way. Bill looked around to see if his captive audience was as amused as he was. I looked around for a seat belt.
For the first few hours, it was harrowing. Roads leading out of the city are narrow and curvy, and a Greyhound bus is neither nimble nor designed for racing. But he made incredible time. In fact, he dropped us in Boston a full half-hour ahead of schedule--a fact that did not go unmentioned. "Ladies and germs," he announced over the speaker, "I hope you've enjoyed the trip. But don't ever expect to be a half-hour early again, because I doubt you'll get me as a driver again."
2.27.2006
2.24.2006
morning routine
Three mornings a week, I ride the red line to the top of Charles Street, walk down Charles, then 15 minutes more through Boston's Back Bay. Charles Street, with its antique shops, gas lamps, lumpy brick sidewalks, and tony boutiques, is on every Boston tourist's agenda. But in the mornings, before the shops open and the tourists hit the streets, you realize it's also a living, breathing neighborhood. Paper bags filled with fresh bread lean up against restaurant doors--and apparently no one steals them. An orange and black cat sits in a pool of sun, staring at the passersby, waiting to be let back inside before the crowds arrive. Neighbors out for the paper or a coffee stop to talk on street corners. And anyone who owns a dog is out walking.
Week to week, I see many of the same people--and dogs. There's the scrappy terrier in a Burberry sweater. Gus, the bulldog, who walks at a snail's pace off-leash, periodically stops to stare at the ground, as if he's pondering exactly how and when life passed him by. And my favorite couple, an old man/old dog pair: The gentleman is as grey as his husky, but tiny by comparison. Every morning, they walk to where Charles meets Beacon Street. To the left is the Boston Common; to the right is the Public Garden. As though it were choreographed, the gentleman turns the corner, heading to the left, and dog leans to the right. They stand there for a moment, in a fierce battle of wills. Man yanks on the leash; dog hunkers down, putting his weight into it, until his front end is anchored to the sidewalk, back legs braced for stability. Like a crabby old married couple, they stand there for a few minutes, in bitter and public disagreement. Eventually, the man gives in, but not without a fight. "You are so STUBBORN," he growls from between tight lips. The dog, unbothered by the insult, trots off to the garden.
Week to week, I see many of the same people--and dogs. There's the scrappy terrier in a Burberry sweater. Gus, the bulldog, who walks at a snail's pace off-leash, periodically stops to stare at the ground, as if he's pondering exactly how and when life passed him by. And my favorite couple, an old man/old dog pair: The gentleman is as grey as his husky, but tiny by comparison. Every morning, they walk to where Charles meets Beacon Street. To the left is the Boston Common; to the right is the Public Garden. As though it were choreographed, the gentleman turns the corner, heading to the left, and dog leans to the right. They stand there for a moment, in a fierce battle of wills. Man yanks on the leash; dog hunkers down, putting his weight into it, until his front end is anchored to the sidewalk, back legs braced for stability. Like a crabby old married couple, they stand there for a few minutes, in bitter and public disagreement. Eventually, the man gives in, but not without a fight. "You are so STUBBORN," he growls from between tight lips. The dog, unbothered by the insult, trots off to the garden.
2.22.2006
finally!
In New York last weekend, after many failed attempts, I finally managed to actually get my person inside the walls of the new MoMa--not just in the gift shop, not just waiting out in the cold on 53rd Street, and not just pressing my nose against the glass looking in at the closed museum. Inside the building. Where the art is.
The old one was nice enough, but I had to see what you could do with 630,000 square feet and either $425 and $858 million, depending on whom you talk to. My verdict: If I could afford it, I would totally move in.
The old one was nice enough, but I had to see what you could do with 630,000 square feet and either $425 and $858 million, depending on whom you talk to. My verdict: If I could afford it, I would totally move in.
2.21.2006
new favorite movie
Me and You and Everyone We know
(In French, the title is even better: Moi, Toi et Tous les Autres.)
And I don't say that just because it has the most adorablest child actor ever (Brandon Ratcliff). Or because it reminded me of how, when you got new shoes as a kid, the shoe salesman used squeeze your foot, take measure of how much space was left in front of your toe, and generally decide for you whether or not the shoe was a good fit. And it's not just because of lines that stick in your memory, like: "I gave her the friends and family discount because I'm working on my karma. You know what karma is? It means that she owes me." Or because the characters are quirky and tender and lonely and oddballs.
But for all of those things. And the dialog and the ending and the burger wrapper. Sigh. Put it in your Netflix queue, people. Unless you thought Titanic was a thoughtful and inspiring piece of work--because in that case, I'm not sure Moi et Toi is for you.
See the trailer here!
(macaroni!)
(In French, the title is even better: Moi, Toi et Tous les Autres.)
And I don't say that just because it has the most adorablest child actor ever (Brandon Ratcliff). Or because it reminded me of how, when you got new shoes as a kid, the shoe salesman used squeeze your foot, take measure of how much space was left in front of your toe, and generally decide for you whether or not the shoe was a good fit. And it's not just because of lines that stick in your memory, like: "I gave her the friends and family discount because I'm working on my karma. You know what karma is? It means that she owes me." Or because the characters are quirky and tender and lonely and oddballs.
But for all of those things. And the dialog and the ending and the burger wrapper. Sigh. Put it in your Netflix queue, people. Unless you thought Titanic was a thoughtful and inspiring piece of work--because in that case, I'm not sure Moi et Toi is for you.
See the trailer here!
(macaroni!)
2.17.2006
required reading
How does Susan Orlean do it? "Little Wing," her piece in the Feb. 13 and 20 anniversary issue of The New Yorker has been bought for $250,000 by Paramount Pictures and Nickelodeon Movies. Little wonder. From the first paragraph, I was hooked.
"On a bright, breezy Saturday not long ago, Sedona Murphy gave her homing pigeons away. Earlier that morning, the birds had flown around the neighborhood, looping over the shaggy old trees and the peaked rooftops of South Boston before returning to their gray shed in the Murphy's back yard. They then toddled obligingly into their wooden case. These were racing birds, accustomed to being crated and carried, so the close quarters were nothing new, and they had no way of knowing that this was the last time they would ever fly free."
Homing pigeons, you're thinking. How interesting can they be. Hello, did you see what she did with orchids?
In a tradition that predates the Roman Empire, she explains, pigeons have been finding their way home over hundreds of miles and entirely without the assistance of Google Maps. The birds "have a fixed, profound, and nearly incontrovertible sense of home. Americans move, on average, every five years; pigeons almost never move," she writes. So when 13-year-old Sedona's family leaves South Boston for a new home, 30 miles west, in Southborough, Mass., her collection of racing pigeons kiss the open skies goodbye. Pigeons are like a one-trick pony; they can't be retrained to a new home, and they aren't equipped to live in the wild. So unless the home buyer digs your pigeons as much as you do (because they will never leave), homing pigeons that are moved have to be caged for the rest of their lives. "They become what are called 'prisoners,'" she writes. "It's as if you had pasted your stamp collection on your bedroom walls and then, when it came time to move, you couldn't get it unglued," Orlean says.
I'd link to it, but The New Yorker is so impossibly offline.
"On a bright, breezy Saturday not long ago, Sedona Murphy gave her homing pigeons away. Earlier that morning, the birds had flown around the neighborhood, looping over the shaggy old trees and the peaked rooftops of South Boston before returning to their gray shed in the Murphy's back yard. They then toddled obligingly into their wooden case. These were racing birds, accustomed to being crated and carried, so the close quarters were nothing new, and they had no way of knowing that this was the last time they would ever fly free."
Homing pigeons, you're thinking. How interesting can they be. Hello, did you see what she did with orchids?
In a tradition that predates the Roman Empire, she explains, pigeons have been finding their way home over hundreds of miles and entirely without the assistance of Google Maps. The birds "have a fixed, profound, and nearly incontrovertible sense of home. Americans move, on average, every five years; pigeons almost never move," she writes. So when 13-year-old Sedona's family leaves South Boston for a new home, 30 miles west, in Southborough, Mass., her collection of racing pigeons kiss the open skies goodbye. Pigeons are like a one-trick pony; they can't be retrained to a new home, and they aren't equipped to live in the wild. So unless the home buyer digs your pigeons as much as you do (because they will never leave), homing pigeons that are moved have to be caged for the rest of their lives. "They become what are called 'prisoners,'" she writes. "It's as if you had pasted your stamp collection on your bedroom walls and then, when it came time to move, you couldn't get it unglued," Orlean says.
I'd link to it, but The New Yorker is so impossibly offline.
2.15.2006
it doesn't always go without saying
In yesterday's valentine FAQ section, we were unable to answer all of the readers' questions that came pouring in from around the world. In making our selections, we thought we were covering the necessary ground--but at dinner last night, we learned just how wrong we were. So a supplement to yesterday's post, with apologies for the oversight:
Q: Do these pants make my butt look big?
A: Let's just say that you certainly look happy, sitting next to your squeeze, sipping a pretty pink drink, waiting for a delicious dinner at a nice neighborhood restaurant. You look fortunate--as though your life is not lacking in nourishment, either spiritual or vegetable. You look content. You even look like you might be intelligent, hold an interesting job perhaps. As for your butt? Honey, I can't even see your butt, as I am blinded by the glare of the lights shining on the nipple that's been unleashed from your shirt. Please put that away.
Q: Do these pants make my butt look big?
A: Let's just say that you certainly look happy, sitting next to your squeeze, sipping a pretty pink drink, waiting for a delicious dinner at a nice neighborhood restaurant. You look fortunate--as though your life is not lacking in nourishment, either spiritual or vegetable. You look content. You even look like you might be intelligent, hold an interesting job perhaps. As for your butt? Honey, I can't even see your butt, as I am blinded by the glare of the lights shining on the nipple that's been unleashed from your shirt. Please put that away.
2.14.2006
valentine's faqs
Q: Why does my wife/girlfriend/mistress get all in my face about Valentine's Day?
A: It's deeply rooted in her genetic material. Especially if she's Italian. In ancient Rome, the festival of Lupercus (the god of fertility) began on February 15 and was considered the beginning of spring and an opportune time for a cleansing. Roman priests would rendez-vous at the cave where Romulus and Remus were said to have been raised by their wolf mother. There, the priests would sacrifice a goat and drain it of its blood. Local kids would chop the goat's hide into strips, dunk them in the sacrificial blood, then run through the city, smacking women with the bloody goat rinds. And the women were into it, since the slapping of bloody goat skin strips was believed to make them more fertile. Clearly. If all she wants is a box of chocolates and/or a string of diamonds, maybe you're getting off lucky?
Q: Fine. But who was Valentine and how can I punish him for this imposition?
A: The historians are a bit unsure. The Catholic Church recognizes three different Valentines, all of whom were martyred. One such example: Back in the third century, again in Rome, Emperor Claudius II had the idea to outlaw marriage, because men with wives and children weren't as good at soldering as the singletons. So! No more marriages for young men! Enter Valentine, a priest at the time who, much like modern day's San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom did for the gays, spit in the face of authority and continued to perform marriages. Unlike California's more restrained highest court, Claudius ordered Valentine be put to death for his actions. Romantic, no?
Q: Martyr, schmartyr. Isn't there ANYONE I can blame?
A: You could try the British. They seem to have imported the tradition of exchanging hand-written valentines, adorned with lace and all the trimmings, in the 19th century. Or Esther Howland of Worcester, Mass., who in 1847 marketed the first mass-produced greetings cards. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, Howland is recognized by the industry association as a "Greeting Card Visionary." Truly. But she's dead now, too.
Q: So isn't it just a bogus commercial ploy?
A: You bet. Today, we exchange a billion valentines worldwide (85 percent of which are purchased by women) and use it as an excuse to eat candy. As an aside, we've been falling down on this front: In 1997, American per capita consumption of candy was 27 pounds; in 2004, it sank to 4.7. This, in my view, is a sad state of affairs.
Anyway, it could be worse: Consider the situation in Korea and Japan, where women are socially obligated to give chocolates to all of the men in their office. "By a further marketing effort," Wikipedia explains, "a reciprocal day called White Day has emerged. On this day (March 14), men are supposed to return the favor by giving something to those who gave them chocolates on Valentine's Day. Many men, however, give only to their girlfriends. Originally the return gift was supposed to be white chocolate or marshmallows (hence the name 'White Day'). However, more recently men have taken the name to a different meaning, thus lingerie is quite a common gift." And we all know who the lingerie is really for... Typical. And does anyone find it suspicious that the men do this a full month after getting their valentines? Did this holiday evolve out of years of forgetting to get their ladies a box of chocolates--so much so that the men's industry created a holiday to validate their lateness? Harumph.
Happy valentine's to one and all.
A: It's deeply rooted in her genetic material. Especially if she's Italian. In ancient Rome, the festival of Lupercus (the god of fertility) began on February 15 and was considered the beginning of spring and an opportune time for a cleansing. Roman priests would rendez-vous at the cave where Romulus and Remus were said to have been raised by their wolf mother. There, the priests would sacrifice a goat and drain it of its blood. Local kids would chop the goat's hide into strips, dunk them in the sacrificial blood, then run through the city, smacking women with the bloody goat rinds. And the women were into it, since the slapping of bloody goat skin strips was believed to make them more fertile. Clearly. If all she wants is a box of chocolates and/or a string of diamonds, maybe you're getting off lucky?
Q: Fine. But who was Valentine and how can I punish him for this imposition?
A: The historians are a bit unsure. The Catholic Church recognizes three different Valentines, all of whom were martyred. One such example: Back in the third century, again in Rome, Emperor Claudius II had the idea to outlaw marriage, because men with wives and children weren't as good at soldering as the singletons. So! No more marriages for young men! Enter Valentine, a priest at the time who, much like modern day's San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom did for the gays, spit in the face of authority and continued to perform marriages. Unlike California's more restrained highest court, Claudius ordered Valentine be put to death for his actions. Romantic, no?
Q: Martyr, schmartyr. Isn't there ANYONE I can blame?
A: You could try the British. They seem to have imported the tradition of exchanging hand-written valentines, adorned with lace and all the trimmings, in the 19th century. Or Esther Howland of Worcester, Mass., who in 1847 marketed the first mass-produced greetings cards. A graduate of Mount Holyoke College, Howland is recognized by the industry association as a "Greeting Card Visionary." Truly. But she's dead now, too.
Q: So isn't it just a bogus commercial ploy?
A: You bet. Today, we exchange a billion valentines worldwide (85 percent of which are purchased by women) and use it as an excuse to eat candy. As an aside, we've been falling down on this front: In 1997, American per capita consumption of candy was 27 pounds; in 2004, it sank to 4.7. This, in my view, is a sad state of affairs.
Anyway, it could be worse: Consider the situation in Korea and Japan, where women are socially obligated to give chocolates to all of the men in their office. "By a further marketing effort," Wikipedia explains, "a reciprocal day called White Day has emerged. On this day (March 14), men are supposed to return the favor by giving something to those who gave them chocolates on Valentine's Day. Many men, however, give only to their girlfriends. Originally the return gift was supposed to be white chocolate or marshmallows (hence the name 'White Day'). However, more recently men have taken the name to a different meaning, thus lingerie is quite a common gift." And we all know who the lingerie is really for... Typical. And does anyone find it suspicious that the men do this a full month after getting their valentines? Did this holiday evolve out of years of forgetting to get their ladies a box of chocolates--so much so that the men's industry created a holiday to validate their lateness? Harumph.
Happy valentine's to one and all.
2.10.2006
my iMac is a rock star
After too few years of dedicated service, my iBook was finally checked in to hospice care. We'd run out of options, and everyone agreed it was time. So I kept it comfortable, plugged it in to an external monitor, and didn't ask for anything in return.
But, provided you have an appropriately large line of credit, Apple gives life, in addition to taking it away. So after a long and arduous journey in the hands of UPS--a journey that included but was not limited to one trip to the emergency room by our UPS delivery man (hope you're doing better, buddy!)--the new iMac arrived. It's got the new-fangled dual Intel processors and a remote control and a built-in camera and a screen that makes love lettuce look so much better than it is! I felt like dancing. Or singing. Or recording an album to commemorate the occasion. If I did, this would be the album cover. Party on, people.
But, provided you have an appropriately large line of credit, Apple gives life, in addition to taking it away. So after a long and arduous journey in the hands of UPS--a journey that included but was not limited to one trip to the emergency room by our UPS delivery man (hope you're doing better, buddy!)--the new iMac arrived. It's got the new-fangled dual Intel processors and a remote control and a built-in camera and a screen that makes love lettuce look so much better than it is! I felt like dancing. Or singing. Or recording an album to commemorate the occasion. If I did, this would be the album cover. Party on, people.
2.09.2006
a lost passenger on the short bus of life
Sometimes, I can be sharp as a razor, keen and agile and witty. If someone reaches for the last bite of pie on my plate, for example, you won't see quicker reaction times in professional boxers. Other days, though, you'd wonder how I find my way home without an ID bracelet.
So I'm standing on a corner in the Back Bay, waiting for the light to change so I can cross the street. A woman with grey hair and a friendly face steps up beside me and says hello. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
It seems a little personal for a stoplight conversation, but I go along with it. "I feel great!" I say, adding something about the sun shining, the warm winter we're having--the kind of things strangers say to one another while waiting for an impossibly long light to change.
"That's good--it's so important to get out and experience the day and talk to people--I know what it can be like, and it's tough. Good for you," she says. "Are you getting enough sleep?"
"Um, yeah," I stammer, wondering if she's mistaken me for someone else. "I'm actually a very skilled sleeper--it's one of the things I excel at," I say, looking up at the light, willing it to change so this conversation can end. But it had already gone on long enough that the pauses between inappropriate questions had metastacized into awkward silences.
"Good for you," she persists, determined to keep this thing we have going. "It can be so tough, especially when you're exhausted, kept up all night..."
"Absolutely." When I don't know what to say, I'll agree with anyone.
"Are you getting any exercise?" she asks.
"Uh huh," I say, instead of the "WTF???" that's emblazoned in neon letters, streaked across the billboard of my mind.
Not the least bit frustrated by my obvious confusion, she comes back with: "And how old is she?"
Oh. "She" being the three-month-old infant strapped to my chest, so asleep that her head is flopped over to the side, mouth ajar. In my own defense, I should say that I spend many hours each day with people who KNOW that this child is not mine, so it comes as a genuine surprise when people (quite naturally) assume that the child I'm walking around with is mine.
Anyway. The light changed. The woman and I parted ways, just as the short bus pulled up alongside me and invited me onboard. I found my seat without difficulty.
So I'm standing on a corner in the Back Bay, waiting for the light to change so I can cross the street. A woman with grey hair and a friendly face steps up beside me and says hello. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
It seems a little personal for a stoplight conversation, but I go along with it. "I feel great!" I say, adding something about the sun shining, the warm winter we're having--the kind of things strangers say to one another while waiting for an impossibly long light to change.
"That's good--it's so important to get out and experience the day and talk to people--I know what it can be like, and it's tough. Good for you," she says. "Are you getting enough sleep?"
"Um, yeah," I stammer, wondering if she's mistaken me for someone else. "I'm actually a very skilled sleeper--it's one of the things I excel at," I say, looking up at the light, willing it to change so this conversation can end. But it had already gone on long enough that the pauses between inappropriate questions had metastacized into awkward silences.
"Good for you," she persists, determined to keep this thing we have going. "It can be so tough, especially when you're exhausted, kept up all night..."
"Absolutely." When I don't know what to say, I'll agree with anyone.
"Are you getting any exercise?" she asks.
"Uh huh," I say, instead of the "WTF???" that's emblazoned in neon letters, streaked across the billboard of my mind.
Not the least bit frustrated by my obvious confusion, she comes back with: "And how old is she?"
Oh. "She" being the three-month-old infant strapped to my chest, so asleep that her head is flopped over to the side, mouth ajar. In my own defense, I should say that I spend many hours each day with people who KNOW that this child is not mine, so it comes as a genuine surprise when people (quite naturally) assume that the child I'm walking around with is mine.
Anyway. The light changed. The woman and I parted ways, just as the short bus pulled up alongside me and invited me onboard. I found my seat without difficulty.
2.07.2006
just like I said
I have a small dog with a big name. He's a Cavalier King Charles spaniel, and, yes, he's fancy. The name is hard to remember, so please just call him Sir.
Lucas is, by all accounts, ridiculously cute.* When he's out walking, people can't help but smile--pre-teen girls coo the loudest, but the punks and the grandmas and the toddlers and the homeless and the suits put on a good show, too. When he was a wee-little pup, I used to take him to work with me (thank you, Inc. magazine!). We'd ride the train in to Boston, and by the end of the trip all the conductors could be found huddled around the puppy on my lap. Big, burly men with wicked-pissah accents, they'd fill their pockets with biscuits and argue over who got to feed him each day. Once we got off the train, I'd walk him the 15 minutes or so to my office. Only it took twice that long when he was waddling along beside me, because everyone--EVERYONE!--had to stop and bend down to scratch his head.
Not much has changed since then. Going out with him is like taking a celebrity for a walk--people want to stop to tell him how beautiful he is, how much they love his work. And ever since "Sex and the City's" Charlotte got herself one, people recognize the breed. Or they think they do.
To wit: The other day, we were out enjoying the sunshine, and I could see one coming. You can almost always spot them from a distance: It's not just a smile, but an outbreak of giddiness. Hands clasp the mouth, sometimes there's jumping, often there's squealing.
"This is my FAVORITE kind of DOG," the woman screams as we approach. Lucas, as always, is nonplussed. Another day, another fan--nothing more than commonfolk.
"A Brittany, RIGHT?" she says as she reaches out to touch his head. It's a common enough mistake.
I start to respond with the standard, "No, actually, he's a Cavalier."
"Oh right! A Prince Charles, RIGHT?"
"No, actually, it's King Charles." I can't tell you how many times I've had this very same conversation. It's like I'm in my own private version of Groundhog Day.
"That's right! Just like I said, it's my FAVORITE kind of dog!"
Lucas kept on walking like he was waiting for a better offer.
*The following exceptions apply: When itching his pooper on the carpet, barking irrationally at squirrels and/or other dogs, or whining because the cat is getting the slightest bit of attention.
Lucas is, by all accounts, ridiculously cute.* When he's out walking, people can't help but smile--pre-teen girls coo the loudest, but the punks and the grandmas and the toddlers and the homeless and the suits put on a good show, too. When he was a wee-little pup, I used to take him to work with me (thank you, Inc. magazine!). We'd ride the train in to Boston, and by the end of the trip all the conductors could be found huddled around the puppy on my lap. Big, burly men with wicked-pissah accents, they'd fill their pockets with biscuits and argue over who got to feed him each day. Once we got off the train, I'd walk him the 15 minutes or so to my office. Only it took twice that long when he was waddling along beside me, because everyone--EVERYONE!--had to stop and bend down to scratch his head.
Not much has changed since then. Going out with him is like taking a celebrity for a walk--people want to stop to tell him how beautiful he is, how much they love his work. And ever since "Sex and the City's" Charlotte got herself one, people recognize the breed. Or they think they do.
To wit: The other day, we were out enjoying the sunshine, and I could see one coming. You can almost always spot them from a distance: It's not just a smile, but an outbreak of giddiness. Hands clasp the mouth, sometimes there's jumping, often there's squealing.
"This is my FAVORITE kind of DOG," the woman screams as we approach. Lucas, as always, is nonplussed. Another day, another fan--nothing more than commonfolk.
"A Brittany, RIGHT?" she says as she reaches out to touch his head. It's a common enough mistake.
I start to respond with the standard, "No, actually, he's a Cavalier."
"Oh right! A Prince Charles, RIGHT?"
"No, actually, it's King Charles." I can't tell you how many times I've had this very same conversation. It's like I'm in my own private version of Groundhog Day.
"That's right! Just like I said, it's my FAVORITE kind of dog!"
Lucas kept on walking like he was waiting for a better offer.
*The following exceptions apply: When itching his pooper on the carpet, barking irrationally at squirrels and/or other dogs, or whining because the cat is getting the slightest bit of attention.
2.06.2006
lost and found
About a week ago, I decided it was time to wash the bath mat. (I know! Doesn't this story sound good so far! I can't wait to see where it's going, either!) So I pulled it off the shower door, collected my basket of laundry, and made my way to the laundry room, one floor below. But somewhere between here and there, I lost the bath mat. I can't explain it. I've worn out a pair of Vibram soles retracing my steps. A 2 by 3-foot piece of brown terry cloth appears to have vaporized. Nowhere to be found. Kablamo!
A missing towel is one thing. But I started to really fret on Friday night, when I realized that somewhere between the Back Bay and my front door, I'd lost a $400 check. This is getting serious--I'm really starting to lose it. And by "it" I mean any number of things in addition to my mind.
I spent a few days hemming and hawing, dumping the contents of my bag out again and again, hoping the thing had become wedged in a lining somewhere or stuck to an old piece of gum in an unknown pocket. I put off the inevitable phone call to my friend, the check writer, not wanting to 1) trouble her; and 2) be found out as a butterfinger. I wondered how much the bank would charge her to stop payment on the check, or how soon it would be before a teenager found it, hitched a ride out to one of those check-cashing places, and treated himself to a new pair of sneakers, or whatever it is the kids buy with their drug money these days. Then! The phone rang. "Are you missing anything?" my friend asked.
The facts, as we know them: I boarded a red-line train in Boston, presumably with a check in the back pocket of my jeans. I traveled outbound to Davis square, where I de-trained. My check, however, rode one stop beyond that, to Alewife. Alewife being the end of the line, the check disembarked the train and made its way to a mud puddle somewhere outside the station, where a good samaritan retrieved it. Said good samaritan drove to Belmont, the next town over, and delivered my muddy, well-traveled check to a branch of the issuing bank, where a clerk called my friend, who called me. Amazing that there are still people out there who go to such trouble for a stranger.
Sadly, the whereabouts of my dirty bath mat are still anyone's guess. If anyone can provide information that leads to its safe return, I will offer a reward. Of $400.
A missing towel is one thing. But I started to really fret on Friday night, when I realized that somewhere between the Back Bay and my front door, I'd lost a $400 check. This is getting serious--I'm really starting to lose it. And by "it" I mean any number of things in addition to my mind.
I spent a few days hemming and hawing, dumping the contents of my bag out again and again, hoping the thing had become wedged in a lining somewhere or stuck to an old piece of gum in an unknown pocket. I put off the inevitable phone call to my friend, the check writer, not wanting to 1) trouble her; and 2) be found out as a butterfinger. I wondered how much the bank would charge her to stop payment on the check, or how soon it would be before a teenager found it, hitched a ride out to one of those check-cashing places, and treated himself to a new pair of sneakers, or whatever it is the kids buy with their drug money these days. Then! The phone rang. "Are you missing anything?" my friend asked.
The facts, as we know them: I boarded a red-line train in Boston, presumably with a check in the back pocket of my jeans. I traveled outbound to Davis square, where I de-trained. My check, however, rode one stop beyond that, to Alewife. Alewife being the end of the line, the check disembarked the train and made its way to a mud puddle somewhere outside the station, where a good samaritan retrieved it. Said good samaritan drove to Belmont, the next town over, and delivered my muddy, well-traveled check to a branch of the issuing bank, where a clerk called my friend, who called me. Amazing that there are still people out there who go to such trouble for a stranger.
Sadly, the whereabouts of my dirty bath mat are still anyone's guess. If anyone can provide information that leads to its safe return, I will offer a reward. Of $400.
2.01.2006
four!
One is the loneliest number. Tea is for two. Three's company. Four? I don't know why. But it makes for nice, symmetrical lists. Please don't be so argumentative.
books I've loved
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik
movies I wish I'd walked out on
Joe Versus the Volcano
Lord of the Rings
Star Wars Episode One Too Many: The Phantom Menace
Titanic
tv shows I love
"Arrested Development"
"Six Feet Under"
"Project Runway"
"Da Ali G Show"
jobs I've had--and quit
soldering microchips on an assembly line in New Jersey
writing grants for NPR
fetching coffee for lawyering ingrates
making copy
places I've called home
Littleton, Colorado
Alamo, California
Toronto, Canada
Dijon, France
people who I wish wrote blogs
my hair stylist
Apt. 5B
Amy Sedaris
David Sedaris
foods I love
bacon
roasted butternut squash pizza
arugula salad
rachlette with cornichon and those little pickled onions
tag, you're it
Jerad
Schmutzie
Jen
books I've loved
Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay by Michael Chabon
Paris to the Moon by Adam Gopnik
movies I wish I'd walked out on
Joe Versus the Volcano
Lord of the Rings
Star Wars Episode One Too Many: The Phantom Menace
Titanic
tv shows I love
"Arrested Development"
"Six Feet Under"
"Project Runway"
"Da Ali G Show"
jobs I've had--and quit
soldering microchips on an assembly line in New Jersey
writing grants for NPR
fetching coffee for lawyering ingrates
making copy
places I've called home
Littleton, Colorado
Alamo, California
Toronto, Canada
Dijon, France
people who I wish wrote blogs
my hair stylist
Apt. 5B
Amy Sedaris
David Sedaris
foods I love
bacon
roasted butternut squash pizza
arugula salad
rachlette with cornichon and those little pickled onions
tag, you're it
Jerad
Schmutzie
Jen
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