far too much writing, far too many photos Friday, November 16, 2001 A week ago, I had lunch with a friend in Boston, spent a couple of hours beforehand on my own. Picked up a new pair of pointy boots at Walker's Riding Apparel on Boylston Street -- they're kinda tight, but they'll stretch. A friend in England -- a lovely person who has so far only known me via email -- read an earlier entry in this journal in which I mused on my affection for pointy boots and promptly sent me a note saying she hadn't realized I was a dandy. A dandy??? Screw that -- we're talking about an essential of life, something fundamental to my current existence. But I digress. Once finished at Walker's, I took a walk down Boylston into what used to be called the Combat Zone: an area adjacent to Boston's Chinatown, formerly overflowing with sex shops, XXX-theaters, hookers. Seedy. Ugly. A bit dangerous even. Thoroughly urban-rehabbed now, though still home to Jack's Joke Shop -- an institution, around for nearly 80 years. A treasure trove of plastic vomit, rubber dog poop, vampire teeth, sneezing powder. I stepped into Jack's, found a slightly dingy, slightly tired, dimly-lit space crammed with trash. An amazing collection of trash, trash of a classic, indispensable kind. Your whoopie cushions, your plastic snot. Three middle-aged men slouched around, all thin, tired-looking, all a bit stoop-shouldered. Glum, lacking spark, low on zest for life. Three gentlemen who clearly had had their fill of squirting cigarette lighters and fake ice cubes containing fake house flies. The youngest of the trio stepped out from behind the counter, asked if I needed help. "I'm looking," I replied, "for a rubber chicken." (A Christmas gift for a friend. No, really.) "Ah," said he, moving toward the back of the shop. "This way." The space turned out to be surprisingly deep, lined with packed shelves, a forest of items hanging from the ceiling. Something along a shadowy length of the counter burst into bizarre noise as we passed -- like wild, derisive laughter. With the phenomenal overabundance of junk, I couldn't pinpoint the source of the sound. The sales guy turned halfway around as we continued on, asking, "How many would you like?" "Er," I said, startled by the question, "just one." We reach a section of shelves near the rear of the store, the designated dead fowl area. Many, many rubber chickens hanging from wall hooks. I take one, check it out: it's rubber, it's a chicken. My mission is complete. I notice it has a large capital D painted on its neck, then glance at the others -- they're all similarly marked. "What's this?" I ask, pointing at the letter. The salesman glances at it frowning, then scans the others. "Must be the brand," he says. "Oh, right," I say, "from the chicken ranch." We chortle briefly at that, he asks, "Will there be anything else?" "No," I answer, "this'll do." He nods, the nanosecond of hilarity over, he drags ass back to the counter. On the way, the screeching noise starts up again. I see something called The Screaming Skull -- in the right area of the counter, looking low-fi enough, tacky enough to match the sound. The salesman stuffs the chicken into a bag, I pay up and leave. Throughout the entire transaction, the other two men remained perched silently on stools, appearing dispirited, almost bitter. Once out in the brisk November air, I took a moment to check the hour, get my bearings. Seeing that I had time to spare, I moved off at a leisurely pace. Turned left off Boylston onto a cross-street, noticed a large, old brick building across the way, vaguely industrial-looking. Saw the name 'Dainty Dot's Hosiery' on the near wall. A factory? A store? Don't know, didn't take the time to check it out. Up ahead, across the street: two lunch shops. To the left: Real Taco. To the right: Daddy's Roast Beef. The clientele in Real Taco appeared to be office folk. Daddy's customers looked working class, all male. The thought of a plate of tacos twinkled briefly in my teeny brain, until I remembered I was actually on the way to meet someone for lunch, reminded myself it wouldn't do to hoover down an entire meal beforehand. For the hell of it, I checked out the prices in the taco joint -- way too expensive. There are fine tacos to be had in Cambridge -- at Boca Grande, for instance -- for much friendlier figures. Continued along, turned a corner, passing the Boston Rescue Mission, then the Psychic Eye (a place to get, er, psychic readings, far as I could tell). [more to come] rws 6:54 PM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT People/Weblogs: dooce foxvox fudge it fear not rebekka bookslut 802online idle words madhaiku wockerjabby grow-a-brain rebel market letting me be out and about kung fu grippe fanatical apathy baghdad burning wfuv's music blog kexp's music blog mimi smartypants between the miles just a hippie gypsy the impossible cool tomato can brushes vermont homestead sugar mountain farm Good Clean Fun: gizmodo futurismic postsecret dave barry human clock mcsweeney's spaceweather book-a-minute internet archive self-portrait day my cat hates you out of context quotes surrealist compliment   generator strindberg and helium Makin' Musical Whoopee: last fm stereo8 pandora soma fm .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . ABOUT RWS/CONTACT This page and all its contents copyright © 2001-2011 by runswithscissors unless otherwise noted. runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done. 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