escape from big apple

Under the cover of darkness, the carnies packed up and skipped town last night. And I think I know why.

Not long ago I passed by the circus tent in Government Center on my walk home. It was late - around 3 a.m. - and as I came upon the outer perimeter, I heard some sort of commotion. Low and behold, when I rounded the bend, there were two humans making a break for it. The first specimen, a male in his 20s, had just finished scaling the fence and made it to the side of freedom. His cohort, a female, screamed from inside that she wanted out. The male jumped up on the fence so he could see over and coach her in her climbing skills. But she was panicked and cried that she was unable to make it all the way up. The male opted for another tactic, lifting the fence from its anchors, and the female successfully crawled underneath. The pair then stumbled away into the night.

All of this I watched from the shadows. I don't think they saw me, and of course, I didn't report this crime to anyone. Clearly these humans had been abused - perhaps kept in small cages, malnourished or forcefully inebriated. But the carnies were too cowardly to warn anyone about the danger of the escaped specimens and too proud to declare their inability to put on more shows without them. And they needed all of their resources to hunt down the missing pair. So the carnies left, swiftly and quietly in the night.

I just hope those two humans made it to safety. And that I can get some sort of refund for these tickets to next week's show.

under surveillance

The Eye of Mordor relocated to a shiny new plastic home outside my kitchen window. I think (read: hope) it's firey gaze is directed at the alley below, as all the new (read: additional) "no trespassing" and "under video surveillance" signs would lead passers-by to believe. But even if the camera belongs to my landlord and not to unloved-by-his-family guy or loud-masturbator guy (read: my neighbors), there's something creepy about having a camera right above my second-floor window.

If it's not capturing everything I cook on my trailer-home-sized gas stove (mmm, steamed greens - scintillating footage), surely there's some video of me blocking its view of the alley. While my fire escape turned out to be a deathbed for plants rather than a charming container garden - even before the Eye of Mordor made its home here - it does serve as an occasional makeshift porch/smoking lounge. So anyone reviewing the tapes (or, even creepier, a human operator watching in real-time) has surely seen me climb out my window and sit on the steps with a newspaper or the occasional smokey treat.

Perhaps I'll finally get to make my debut on YouTube.

laughing with myself

There's probably a number of people who see me in passing and think I'm mentally unstable because I'm laughing out loud, gesturing, or making some ridiculous face while sitting by myself in a cafe or walking down the street. So be it. Without the context of my thoughts, these things don't make any sense to anyone else.

But for a change: some context. I've been reading the papers in the local coffee shop, and as is typical in newspapers, there's often some gems buried in the stories that are laugh-out-loud funny. Or maybe I am crazy. Judge for yourself.

In today's Boston Herald, regarding what is done to an invasive species of toad in Australia:

"We kill them with carbon dioxide gas, stockpile them in a big freezer and then put them through a liquid fertilizer process that renders the toads nontoxic," [Frogwatch coordinator Graeme] Sawyer said. "It turns out to be sensational fertilizer."

Perhaps it's the image that comes to mind. Or the use of the word sensational. Or the fact that the type of person I imagine using the word sensational isn't the type of person who would partake in liquifying toads.
And in yesterday's Herald:

"The city of Boston is under siege from armed teenage marauders and cretins with chromosome damage who have paralyzed Boston," [Curtis] Sliwa told the Herald yesterday. Sliwa was announcing his intention to bring his Guardian Angels to Boston after yet another murder here.

Must be the alliteration. Or that it sounds like it could be the beginning of some lyrics. Or maybe it's just that my sense of humor is a little twisted. But I'm okay with that.

maybe i should go into sales

The dark side is failing.

Every time I ride the T, I stare in confusion and amazement that the people behind the Special K print ads thought they were a good idea. The ads are crisp and clean, with an image of one of the company's new products (the snack bar I understand, but Special K water? Really?) and the word unsatisfying. Now, I understand that the pouring water or part of the snack bar are supposed to be obscurring or making the un in unsatisfying disappear, but really, what you have is a large photo of your product and the word unsatisfying. And the un is just too clear for me to think anything besides, "Yuck. I better not try this new Special K product. It's going to taste terrible, and I'm not even going to feel full after I eat it. In fact, eating a bowl of Special K cereal is reminiscent of eating a bowl of shredded paper that was liberated from the office recycling bin and soaked in the communal coffee creamer during a moment of desperation. Not that I've ever done that. But I'm sure the taste is similar."

But maybe that's what the folks at Special K HQ were going for.

In other marketing missteps (and in a search for tastier recycling bin contents), I discovered a job ad that includes the phrase, "Work environment involves only infrequent exposure to disagreeable elements." This makes me wonder what is so occasionally terrible that the job poster felt the need to advertise it. And just what are these elements? It rains in the office? Drunken Red Sox fans sometimes riot in the employee parking lot? You have to lick and seal your own envelopes? There's an employee who masturbates in the bathroom every day?

If you're going to go so far as to tell me there are disagreeable elements, you might as well lay 'em out on the table. Take a cue from Special K - the world would be a much better place if everyone could be as upfront and honest.

the walls have ears

I have thin walls. So for better or for worse, I hear a lot of my neighbors' goings-on. But I'd rather not.

You see, I know more about one neighbor through my bathroom walls than from in passing in the hallway. I don't know his name, but I think he might be the Incredible Hulk. Either that, or he's the angry-at-city-hall maturbator whom Charlestown comedians the Walsh Brothers once encountered, pants around his ankles across the street from Government Center at 3 a.m. Except normally he's just angry at his bathroom sink for not draining properly. Or maybe he just keeps a loud, angry zombie in his shower.

My other neighbor was uninvited to Christmas dinner at his sister's house and habitually raps his fingers against our shared wall at odd hours of the evening. We've never introduced ourselves, but he frequently appears wherever I am - from Downtown Crossing to one of the local coffeeshops. Maybe he's the zombie from the other guy's shower and my brain is on next week's menu. Maybe that's why his sister uninvited him - she couldn't come up with something appropriate for him to feast on.

Come to think of it, just the other morning I awoke to the two neighbors having a conversation. Unloved-by-his-family guy was telling loud-masturbator guy how he was going to twist a knife into someone's abdomen and bite off his balls. Gee, how pleasant.

But again, I'd rather not know these things. Aside from the fact that it wouldn't surprise me if these men had zombie-mafia ties, it's just not as interesting to hear the sordid details of strangers' lives as it is to know salacious details about friends and acquaintances. And teasing a roommate about his orgasmic bathroom adventures probably has less severe consequences than bringing it up with someone who keeps company with the violent undead.

Also, if I know these things about my neighbors, then surely they have heard my phone conversations with my mom and know when and how often I partake in sexual relations.

Well, if nothing else, maybe they'll at least be able to write an entertaining blog post about it.

a series of unrelated events

These are old but kind of funny, and I haven't posted in forever. Theoretically I might have developed any one of a longer form, but I'm lazy and if it hasn't happened yet, it ain't gonna.

• Nothing says responsible employee like running into your boss on the train the morning after a night of drinking. Especially when you still smell like a combination of alcohol and cigarettes and are only on the train because you crashed at a friend's place and got up early so you could go home and make yourself presentable before you saw anyone from work. Also, it's even funnier when you only work two days a week, and you've clearly chosen to get blasted on one of the few work nights.

• Homeless guys panhandling will do remarkably better if they tailor their pitches to the types of people who are passing by. Therefore, asking for donations to assist with the research and development of alcohol consumption while in Downtown Crossing should yield good returns. Or at least smiles.

• Sometimes a trucker who wants to drive through a road that's blocked off with a sawhorse will stop his truck in the intersection, get out and move the barricade so he can pass through. What's better is when he drives ten feet further, stops again and moves the sawhorse back into the middle of the road behind his truck. This is especially funny when the sawhorse was put there as a joke in the first place.

• "Indoor voices" are underrated. You may learn this the hard way, when you hear someone laughing in the alley below your window after you blurt out something to the effect of, "Yeah, I'm annoyed. I'm horny and I've always fucked you everytime you wanted to be fucked." Of course, if you've said this at normal decibel levels, it makes you wonder what else people in the alley or neighboring apartments have heard. And you thought paying more in rent to have a studio provided some semblance of privacy.

• It's weird when someone wakes up angry at you because of something "you" did to him in his dream. Don't worry, he'll get over it, once he makes you promise not do in real life what you did in the dream (even though it is unlikely in real life that you would have a threesome with him and his roommate and then go fool around with just his roommate after he's fallen asleep).

• When a car full of strangers honks at you while you're crossing the street and then someone shouts something to you out the window, you'll be happy when instead of asking for directions the driver says, "You're beautiful, that's all," and the woman in the passenger seat next to him says, "You're sexy." Still, you will not have a threesome with these people, because the light turned green before you could say anything more than "thanks."

i feel safer already!

The woman across from me snapped her gum and tapped her foot impatiently. Two college students bitched about their upcoming class schedules. A curly haired hippie-looking guy rocked out to his iPod. Everyone avoided eye contact and looked generally unhappy to be there. Just a regular night riding the T, by all standards.

But then I noticed to my left, a man was highlighting passages in a magazine. Okay, so he highlighted an entire sidebar piece in bright yellow. And, wait - he was starting to highlight the entire article that surrounded it - line by line, every line. He must be a little crazy, I thought. That can't be helpful - how is he ever going to find anything if he highlights everything? Definitely crazy.

I shifted my gaze back, toward his face, then shoulders. Oh, dear. Is that a real TSA uniform? Yep, that looks like a genuine ID hanging from his neck.

I feel safer already with someone so attentive to details being in charge of aiport security.

bits and pieces

• There are next to no Boston Herald newspaper boxes in the city. Every few blocks there is a cluster that includes a Globe box, Weekly Dig and Phoenix boxes, various dispensers of free classifieds, and the obligatory Improper Bostonian and Stuff@Night boxes. The two Herald boxes I found during a stroll from Harvard Square to downtown Boston were empty, of course. What's up with that?

• There is graffiti on the side of a building on Mass. Ave. that reads: "owned by no one but still illegal." It would be a good point, except for the fact that someone inevitably owns those bricks.

• Commonwealth Books on Boylston Street downtown is celebrating its 10th anniversary. The sign in the window is priceless:

Our 10th Year*
*despite Emerson College

• I have perfected the fuck-off-and-die look such that MassPirg canvassers don't approach me. But I was happy to see several anti-MassPirg flyers along Mass. Ave. that direct people to NoMassPirg.com. It's nothing fancy, but you can buy an anti-MassPirg T-shirt if you haven't perfected your look of death.

liberation through loss

I make lists. Lots of them. Lists of things I need to do someday. Lists of things I need to do today. Lists of things to get at the grocery store. Lists of books and films and music I want to check out. Lists of people to call. List of things I want to write about. Lists of lists of lists.

It's an endless parade of scraps of paper and tiny post-it notes that clutter my table, my calendar, my bookshelf, my pocket. Half of this compulsion is driven by a certain satisfaction in being able to cross things off, crumple a little sticky note and throw it in the recycling bin and feel like I've accomplished something. Of course, half of the lists are composed of such obvious, routine tasks it's silly. But I fear I might forget them, or neglect to do such obvious things as laundry or grocery shopping or even eating.

But when I reached in my pocket to pull out my well-worn, crumpled to-do list, it wasn't there. I was momentarily panic-stricken, until it hit me: I'd been liberated. If I couldn't remember what was on the list, then it must not be that bloody important in the first place. It just wouldn't get done.

I better go make a list of the things I remember.

ch-ch-ch-changes

Somehow, impending change is almost always worse than the change itself. It's the anticipation, speculation, the thinking too much about circumstances beyond your control. But life goes on. We roll with it. Out of sight, out of mind. Then it's easier to be open to the most outlandish possibilities. Hey, it never hurts to dream, and anything is possible when you're unconcious, uninhibited, unrestrained. Because when you wake up it's the work-sleep-eat-meetings-bullshit-work-work-work-burnout routine. You need the job to make the money to pursue the dreams. But to pursue the dreams you need the time and the energy that the job sucks away. And then you know: It's time for a change.

if only

There's something simultaneuously energizing and depressing about the hoards of people that filled my street after Italy won the World Cup semifinals. On the one hand, it's easy to get caught up in the excitement - the singing, the fireworks - and the sardine-can-like confines of Hanover Street. But damn, it's depressing that this many (and this set of) people wouldn't be out in the streets fighting the good fight. Granted, there's something vastly different about celebratory, spontaneous street gatherings and street protests. But still ... I wish people actively cared about their world and their rights as much as they care about a sports team.

ole!

The snap-pop-bang-pop-pop-pop of fireworks fills the apartment. From the fire escape, where I can usually see the double-parked cars on my street, all I can see are people packed into the street. I can't tell where the fireworks are coming from, because the people seem too dense to be able to have them right there, yet there's smoke rising from the center of the street. It's amazing how the pop-pop-pop continues without pause for ten minutes, and people sing-chant ole! ole, ole, ole! ole, o-le! and chatter in italian. i guess it's clear who won this game of the world cup, so here's to many more days of my neighborhood exploding as the games continue.

nonmarital bliss

I was editing a profile of Sandra Bullock today (sorry, I know, I know), and there was this quote in which she was talking about how there's a real expectation that women get married at 22, start having babies, and that there's a lot of pressure from other people to sort of adhere to this "norm," and what bullshit that all is.

It occurred to me right then how happy I am to be surrounded by a supportive community of friends and family who would never even think to say something as stupid as, "So, when are you gonna get hitched?" Apart from my grandfather, no one's ever even suggested I need to get on with my life and start a family (as though there's no real direction or point to another type of existence).

Even my nonpolitical friends back home, most of them are single, and those who are paired off have done so in more nontraditional ways. None of my good friends there are married or have kids, but it seems like everyone else we went to high school with has had at least one kid, and half of them are single parents (a recent discovery when I found a whole slew of people on the voyeuristic time-suck that is MySpace).

So, I guess a big up to all the people in my community. Sometimes I'm kinda down on a lot of aspects of it, but then there's these reminders that snap me back into the reality of how much more it sucks out there in the larger world (some guy poked his head under my umbrella today and called me "baby." It caught me so off guard, all I could do to was just scream "fuck you" at him as he walked in the opposite direction. Ugh - do people ever actually respond positively to this sort of behavior?).

So here's to the never-gonna-get-married crowd and all the people who aren't interested in having kids and agree that the world is overpopulated as it is. Cheers!

trashed ideas

Today, while I was sitting in a coffee shop trying to be productive and do some writing (my apartment being too distracting a place at the moment), I was sad to see the art on the walls was the very photo project I've had in my mind for a long time but haven't gotten off my ass and done. Right there, on the walls of the cafe, someone beat me to it (and hanging in a place I would consider asking to display my work, nonetheless!). Sigh.

you can't pee here!

File under: odd observations.

I've recently discovered that Boston's pay toilets aren't even open for half the day. That seems odd, given their proximity to bars and given every place shuts down at 2 a.m., leaving drunken revelers to flow out onto the streets and wander home. These are the type of people who might pay a quarter for a place to piss at 3:37 a.m.

But the diplay on the pay toilet at Government Center clearly states that it is closed from "1800PM to 700AM" (yes, indeed, complete with those superflous AM and PM labels). Seriously? What's the point of having pay toilets that shut down at the same time as nearby offices? It's not like you're going to pay a quarter for a toilet when there's one at work that doesn't cost a thing.

I hope somewhere there's a homeless person who's learned to time the toilet closing just right to have a semi-warm, dry place to sleep. Because someone should be able to make use of the thing during its 13 hours of downtime.

silence is sweeter

Note to Boston's street musicians who insist on playing "Sweet Caroline" every time I'm at Government Center or Park Street: If the people in the station aren't singing the "woah-oh-oh" part anymore, maybe it's because we've all been hearing "Sweet Caroline" a little too much lately. It's a popular number, but it's growing tiresome. Seriously, it's the only song I've heard the past five times I've taken the train. Share something original for a change.

invisible insanity

A shriek echoes through downtown. Like a soprano's vibrato, only applied to a trilled R - a letter and sound on which you'd never hear a singer hold a note. It stops. And starts again. On and off, repeating at irregular but frequent intervals.

As I walk around the corner, I see a scattered crowd of business people, their gazes all pointing in the same direction. For a moment, I imagine the sound is an emergency whistle. Someone is in trouble, but all the passers-by stop to watch instead of help - cold "professionals" who can't be bothered to ease someone else's suffering. After all, it's not their job.

But as I cross the street, I see the whistle blower - a 30-something man, pressed slacks and dress shoes showing beneath his black peacoat. He repeats the shrill call again and again and again, his eyes fixed on the street, the whistle between his lips, both hands at his sides.

And all those business people? Their gazes are actually fixed in the opposite direction, as if they don't have to acknowledge the man's existence if they refuse to make eye contact with him. Or, as they say, out of sight, out of mind.

extras in the movie of life

Upon exiting the Government Center T station through the turnstiles, I hear it:

"Animal rights. Sign the petition."

The shout is monotonous. The speaker's face, expressionless. If she were a stand-up comedian, I would call it deadpan. But I think she's serious. I think she really wants people to sign the petition. With a complete lack of passion or enthusiasm, though. It's like she's been put up to it.

Rather, it's like my life is a movie with bad extras. Where do they find these people?

nature: only in mexico

The wind rushes through downtown Boston, and the air is cool enough to necessitate use of a scarf. It might not be snowing, but it feels like it might. Right near City Hall Plaza, in front of the Holocaust Memorial, a woman is walking, barefoot and bikini-clad. Some green palms provide her shade. A man in board shorts is nearby; he's got a volleyball net set up and is looking for someone to step up to the challenge.

As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.

And I just might join these beach bums if I weren't on my way to work. Oh, and if they weren't enclosed in fiberglass "promobus." Yes, these are real people. But while my ears reddened in the wind, they were on display in a heated U-Haul truck with transparent walls, sand lining the bottom and tropical plants scattered throughout. The lower rear of the truck had a slogan painted on it: "Nature: Only in Mexico."

OK, so that isn't entirely true. I don't remember what the slogan was exactly, but it was along those lines, and it was that absurd. Clearly the U.S. is going to destroy Mexico's ecosystems while it's working on obliterating its own. So even in the future, if there's only one place left to find nature in the world (aside from that fact meaning we're entirely screwed), it certainly wouldn't be Mexico. But it's a nice idea.

Though I can't say such nice words about the means of advertising. There's something just creepy about a life-sized snow globe with real humans inside (or sun cube, as the case may be). But apparently these are award-winning sun cubes, and they're traveling to a city near you. (You can also find the press release here.)

On the plus side, they're too big to shake. But they're just the right size for gawkers and frat boys with cameras.

same old shit

You'd think after weeks of not updating, I might have something verbose to say. But it's short and sweet: I hate cops. It isn't enough to be a powertripping asshole. You have to make up laws, detain people unnecessarily and waste taxpayer money to boot. Fuck the police.