far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Wednesday, September 04, 2002

[continued from previous entry]

So we're walking, passing a storefront that used to house a restaurant called Souper Salad where, in the late 80's, I ate now and then with friends; then a building I worked in for around 13 months during the mid-80s; then a basement sub shop I frequented during those 13 months; then a row of brick townhouse-type buildings that used to include a shop which dealt solely in wind-up toys, a place that brought some sunshine into my life in that decade; then what used to be the Harvard Book Store Café; then a Greek restaurant I used to frequent with friends (Steve's -– good food, and still there despite soaring Newbury Street rents). Then what used to be the Trident Bookstore Café, where Bill once saw Peter Falk, in town doing a show. Then J.P. Licks, where we stopped for refreshment. A funky shop with a strange, free-form counter which always reminds me of the work of Simon Rodia. Good ice cream, too. In fact, I discovered that they've come up with a version to my favorite ice cream, Cherry Garcia, called Cherry Garciaparra in homage to the Red Sox shortstop of the same last name. I ordered a bowl, it was extremely acceptable.

Through all this, as I pointed at different places and spewed memories, a bit amazed at how they all seemed to be crowding in on that particular afternoon, Bill stayed with it, with easy, tolerant grace. Labor Day weekend is traditionally the time when the college students arrive in Boston/Cambridge, the abundance of students and moving trucks/vans prompting Bill to reminisce about the Labor Day weekend he himself arrived in Boston -– not a student, startled to find the city flooded with them and unable to obtain housing because of that flood. Welcome to Bahston.

We sat on the large sidewalk apron to one side of J.P. Licks, often a hangout for pierced, tattooed, baggy-clothed skateboarders or pierced, tattooed, leather-clad, technicolor-coiffed punksters, talking about, er, vaguely metaphysical matters, if I remember correctly. The continuing sidewalk people-parade provided scenery and diversion while the afternoon sun drifted further and further to the west, its light looking mighty autumnal, both in color and angle as it settled slowly toward the horizon. Bill suggested we head Cambridge way, I suggested the most direct route: a walk down Mass. Ave, across the Mass. Ave. bridge (also called the Harvard bridge for reasons I don't understand, it not being anywhere near Harvard) and into Central Square, where my car waited.

Which we did, more memories accosting me as we sauntered (i.e., a basement Indian restaurant on Mass. Ave. where I once ate with friends and we discovered a cockroach trapped beneath our table's glass top). The Mass. Ave./Harvard bridge extends from Back Bay to M.I.T. across the Charles River, a small, friendly waterway for most of its winding length, spreading itself wide as it approaches its basin. It's a long, wide-sidewalked, well-traveled bridge which underwent a slow rebuilding during the 80's, a process that kept one or two of the four lanes out of service at all times -– hellish for automobile traffic, but providing generous, ever-changing expanses of bike lane. My main mode of transport through much of the 80's was a five-speed bicycle, I rode into Boston across both the Mass. Ave. Bridge and the Longfellow Bridge thousands of times.

At some point in past years, before my arrival in Cambridge in Feb. of '82, some M.I.T. frat guys commandeered another student named Smoot, laying him repeatedly along the walkway, painting a line every ten lengths, thereby measuring the length of the bridge in Smoots. The lines remain, each one accompanied by a legend denoting the number of Smoots they measure. After hundreds of viewings this stuff is old hat, though it makes me smile virtually every time I bike or walk across the bridge. This time, though, as B. and I approached the 120 Smoots line, we saw another line close by, three or four feet Bostonward, accompanied by the legend "Rebecca's Smoot – 123," provoking a major double-take from me. Smoots I'm familiar with. Rebecca's Smoot -- this is a relatively recent addition to the show.

The pranksters at M.I.T have been guilty of impressive bouts of entertainment, such as the night they managed to round up an M.I.T. campus police car, hoisting it to the top of the Great Dome, complete with a dummy in a police uniform sitting at the wheel. A genuine feat of engineering, done under cover of darkness with superhuman stealth, the prank undetected until the next day.

The walk terminated in Central Square -- a major concentration point of ethnic restaurants -- with a dinner of Indian food, followed by coffee at the 1369 Coffee House. When I got back to the apartment, Woody was just heading out. I turned on the tube, finding nothing much until I stumbled across a showing of This Is Spinal Tap, which led directly into a showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Dammit, Janet! That took care of the rest of the evening. Though I noticed with disappointment that this version of the film ended without the reprise of the "Time Warp/Sweet Transvestite." A major misstep, in my humble, ignorant opinion.

Next day: drove home via Kittery, Maine (outlet stores) and Warner, New Hampshire, (a long, leisurely visit with friends). During the stretch between those two points, I came across the first major display I've seen of autumn color, a stand of trees alongside a turnoff from I-89. Since that sighting, I've witnessed more and more -- still minimal, but that'll change. One of the trees along the northern boundary of this property, near the road, now sports leaves turning orange and red down one side, something that hadn't begun when I left for Cambridge on Thursday. A drive into Montpelier today brought more of the same.

It's September. The sun is lower in the sky, coming up later, going down earlier. Native apples have appeared at local produce stands. The nights are chilly, the air crisp. Many songbirds have already headed south, I expect the goldfinches now making pigs of themselves at my feeders (so much for the expression 'when pigs fly') will be on their way any day now. I've got a delivery of coal coming tomorrow, a sure sign the days are streaming toward colder times like the mythic lemmings over a cliff. It'll soon be the season for the scent of wood smoke in autumn air, for down vests, for breath turning into mist. It's all beautiful, but I would love more summer. Maybe the warm weather gods will bless us in the coming weeks.

Time will tell.

rws 6:41 PM [+]

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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
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August 2005
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October 2005
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January 2006
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December 2006
January 2007
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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

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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

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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

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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