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October 14, 2003 -9:16 a.m. Suitable For Framing There are a trio of laughable architects drawings of the proposed Rose Kennedy Greenway in the Boston Globe today. They are pleasant, clean, spacious imaginings of zonal Boston stretching from the North End to Chinatown, oddly devoid of the angry mobs of people, urinating dogs, lunatics on bikes, graffiti or drug peddlers you might expect to see in realistic expositions of city life. These pictures can almost be described as pastoral idylls of Arcadia. One almost expects to see a naked shepherd with a flute perched on a convenient hydrant. The lamb lies down with the Mercedes SUV. The Globe article is called �A Vision of the Future�. Alas, it is obviously the same absurd vacuum-sealed, antiseptic vision of future that includes powdered milk, tupperware and tinned peaches. I can remember the very similar architects drawings of Rowes Wharf, for which they had big plans several years ago. But what happened to Rowes Wharf? Today it is an enormous, very grand taxi rank for taking people elsewhere. Likewise, the Rose Kennedy Greenway will become either an extremely long skateboard park, or a barren, windswept corridor of nothingness. It really depends on the whim of the skateboarders. Architects and city planners, of course, are the sort of people who live in pre-revolutionary homes in Lexington with absolutely no intention of interacting with the horrible environments they design for everybody else, except, perhaps, to partake in late night, drunken, chow-mein eating hi-jinks in Chinatown celebrating lucrative contracts to erect yet more hideous blocks of granite everywhere. And I should know. I grew up surrounded by them. October 09, 2003 -3:20 p.m. How Very Sad A glossy, colorful advertising supplement for a retail store selling Hallowe�en supplies arrived with my newspaper this morning. Featured amongst the usual collection of shoddy plastic pirate, monster and goofball costumes for sale were a series of teenybopper pop star inspired outfits, obviously aimed at the pre-pubescent girl trick-or-treat market. These costumes even included faux microphone headsets; toy replicas of those Britney Spears and Madonna might wear. Fortunately, these glitzy, spangled glad rags utilize more yardage of polyester than the equivalent �clothes� worn by the aforementioned pop superstars. In other words, the tiny tots who wear them out that night will not look like the bunch of strippers on crack that most modern female pop stars do. Nonetheless, they will not receive any candy from me if they arrive on my doorstep without traditional Hallowe�en attire - and I mean dressed like a witch with a conical hat with silver moons stuck on it - �and please do not use the word trick when you are dressed like that, young lady. It has other meanings, you know.� Alas, flicking through the advertising supplement, I do not think I saw a single witch costume for sale, except, naturally, for the Harry Potter versions. Why can�t popular culture go hang itself? Now that IS an idea for a costume! October 08, 2003 -9:54 a.m. The Lost World I have been reading What I Saw by Joseph Roth, a collection of his journalism from the Weimar Republic years of pre-war Germany. This is my favorite book of the year by far. As Roth himself wrote of the German Jewish writers of this period, which would, of course, include himself: "The great gain to German literature from Jewish writers is the theme of the city... They have discovered the caf� and the factory, the bar and the hotel, Berlin's bourgeoisie and its banks, the watering holes of the rich and the slums of the poor, sin and vice, the day of the city and the city by night, the character of the inhabitant of the metropolis." And added, poignantly, "We have sung Germany, the real Germany! And that is why today we are being burned in Germany!" Alas, he was exiled in Paris by this time, where he died in 1939. The breathless prose reminds me of those seventeenth century writers such as Robert Burton�s The Anatomy of Melancholy and Sir Thomas Browne�s Urn Burial, the long, run-on sentences filled with information and ideas that ricochet from one theme to another without stopping. And also of Bruno Schulz, another writer, Polish this time, killed by the Nazis. For some reason these men remain my favorite authors; highly readable, full of wonder at the world in all it�s infinite oddness, warm and good humored, yet aware that things are going terribly wrong. Writing of Berlin�s old Jewish quarter, Roth tells of the ancient gray beard who built a beautiful scale replica of the Temple of Solomon in all its glory - also mentioned in W.G Sebalds� The Emigrants - that was available for viewing by asking at a local cafe. What a sight that must have been. Yet, Roth adds that almost nobody ever wanted to go and see it. Of course not. October 01, 2003 -11:35 a.m. Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Gloom Of Night The United States Post Office�s motto claims that varieties of bad weather, no matter how cyclonic or bleak, will not prevent the delivery of letters, parcels, and, of course, personal tailoring bills. Alas, the founding mail fathers who constructed this famous saying never considered the medical condition known as dyslexia, which continually proves to be a significant impediment to the accurate completion of their appointed rounds. I regularly open my mailbox only to discover post addressed to my neighbors, and vice-versa. For example, here is a list of correctly addressed items � of which I am aware � that I failed to receive over the years: Postcard from my girlfriend who was visiting her college roommate in Tokyo (lost). Package from my mother containing foods she thought I ought to be eating (it finally turned up at a house down the street, the owner of which was considerate enough to call me). Birthday card from my sister. (accepted as lost, although possibly dubious) Postcard from my father visiting family in England (lost). Wedding invitation from an old roommate of mine (missing, presumed lost). Probably some others that I have forgotten about. Nevertheless, I still find it amazing that you can stamp and address an envelope to a small island in the Outer Hebrides, mail it in Boston, and that � occasionally � it usually arrives at its destination. So three cheers for the world�s postmen, even if they cannot see straight sometimes! September 26, 2003 -8:58 a.m. Indian Rope Trick I am thinking of becoming a recluse, preferably a holy man type rather than your average smelly, outrageously bearded hermit. Sitting on top of my mountain, I shall dispense wisdom such as, �observe the ways of the snail and follow his example.� Or even, �the wise man swims through the world like the cyprinoid swims through the frog pond.� Offerings of food from travelers and seekers will be welcomed, as long as they are well cooked, meaty and accompanied by fine wines of reasonable vintage. I will also accept gifts like golden trinkets and interesting examples of scrimshaw. On the other hand, I refuse to wear garlands or be perfumed. Neither will I be seen dead in saffron robes since the modern holy man is sponsored by Prada, I know so because God told me. September 24, 2003 -9:11 a.m. I wrote this many years ago and just rediscovered it recently. Unhappy with it at the time, I rather like it now. Beauties And The Beast For the past few months the Beast had been abducting all the women in town. The Beast had started with the most beautiful woman and, wife by wife, had swiftly moved on down the beauty chain. Bill Price�s wife was the first to disappear, as you might expect. �The Beast has good taste,� we all agreed. Then Tom Fisher�s wife went, which was reasonable enough if you liked redheads, and the Beast certainly did. Dick Powell�s wife was next. �The Beast has obviously never heard of implants,� we all sniggered. Meanwhile the abductions continued. Eventually, by mid-September, only Ed Foot�s wife and my wife were left. It was unkindly suggested that maybe our wives were not beautiful enough for the Beast. �Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.� I told people. �Yeah. But the Beast�s eye isn�t too choosey,� they replied. Ed Foot actually forced his wife to hide in their house and pretend that she had already been abducted. But that fooled nobody. As for my wife, I told everyone that the Beast must be a connoisseur and was saving the best for last. �Not bothered about scraping the barrel, you mean.� They said. I sometimes saw Ed Foot outside the hardware store on Elm Street. We never spoke, just nodded silently to each other and wondered which of our wives would be the last woman in town to be carried off to the Beast�s lair. Several days passed and there was no sign of the Beast. It seemed the Beast really wasn�t interested in my wife or Ed Foot�s wife after all. �Must be too ugly.� People said. �I�m sure the Beast will stop by and abduct her any day now.� I told them. But the Beast never did. Many guys became pretty smug after the Beast abducted their wives and drove around with bumper stickers bearing slogans such as �My Wife Was Sixteenth� and �Proud Husband Of Number Thirty-Seven�. But as time progressed they began to miss little things like home cooked meals and clean bed linens. Consequently, a motion was put forward at a Town Meeting that something should be done. It was proposed and passed that the Beast should be killed and the wives returned to their homes where they belonged. We had heard eyewitness descriptions of the Beast on local news radio, and everyone knew the Beast wore knee britches, buckled shoes, a frock coat and a powdered wig on his head. �The Beast is a big fag,� everyone said. Killing the Beast would be easy, it was agreed. However, according to the ancient scrolls that were discovered stuffed behind the cistern of Professor Herbert�s downstairs toilet, the Beast could only be killed with this root thing that you had to special order from Peru. Apparently you needed to whittle the root down until it became a sharp pointy stick, and then you had to fire the pointy end into the Beast�s ear at close-range using a blowpipe or an old-fashioned peashooter. There was also this mystic oil stuff that you needed to anoint the pointy end of the root with, and that was an additional cost. Bill Price and Dick Powell had been talking pretty big at the Town Meeting before the scrolls were found. �We are going to find out what kills the Beast and we are going fill a big truck with it.� They said. �And then we are going to drive the big truck all over town. And when we find the Beast we are going to unload the big truck. And then we are going to cram two-tons worth of whatever kills the Beast right up the Beast�s asshole. That�s what we are going to do.� Back then they thought either a simple wooden stake or a flask of holy water would do the trick. A few really gung-ho guys like Tom Fisher even suggested melting down Reverend Miller�s silver Jesus to make silver shotgun pellets: �I�m going to give that Beast both barrels through both his big hairy balls.� He boasted. Of course, when everyone found out about the root and the mail ordering and the postage and the international currency exchange, they all suddenly changed their tune. People stood around with their hands in their pockets muttering to themselves: �I�m gathering a mob brandishing flaming torches and we are going down the post office tomorrow. Or maybe next week. Whenever it is convenient. Soon as I can arrange a day off work I�m going to buy those air-mail stamps and send away for that root and the mystic oil and show that Beast who is the Boss around here. Any of you folks know where I can find the nearest Bureau De Change?� A few days later it was rumored that the beast had purchased three hundred and sixty-five tickets for an amateur production of Evita in a nearby town. September 19, 2003 -11:12 a.m. Ladizingennelmun, for your Edification un Delight, I Present ..Today�s Blog Entries! Hurrah. Exeunt all pretence of serious discussion followed by alarums Since I neither drive a car nor ride a bike, and because I believe the only appropriate means of human transportation from A to B are the hovercraft and the hot-air balloon, the sole justification I can perceive for the invention of the wheel is to provide hamsters with a method of occupying their time. Meanwhile. A desperate friend of mine invited me to sign up for the online waste of time called Friendster. So I did. Now I find I am connected to the entirety of Central Asia through one friend. Friendster insolently requires that you enter very personal details about yourself. Most of the form they provide has a drop down menu; therefore, under the heading �Marital Status� I could not answer �Divorced, Beheaded, Survived� as I normally do. Oh well. And here endeth the entry since it is raining outside and I am weary. September 18, 2003 -2:56 p.m. A Short Evaluation of the Relative Sanity or Lack Thereof regarding the MBTA Above ground, where, such as along the University building lined thoroughfare called Commonwealth Avenue, the subway trains must conform to the same stop and go rules that govern regular automobiles, there are many indications that the Boston transport authority has been a stranger to commonsense for many years. Who but the MBTA would position a station directly after a set of traffic lights, like at St. Paul Street on the Green Line, thereby forcing the train to often make two sudden stops in quick succession? Surely it would have been logical to place the station at the traffic lights so the train only needs to stops once. Who but the MBTA would charge a dollar for fare but not accept dollar bills and not place change machines at many of it�s stations? However, they did the possess the wisdom to name the line to left wing Cambridge the Red Line, and the good humor to call the line to studentville the Green Line, and the practicality to call the line to the Airport the Blue Line. But what on earth can the Orange Line refer to? And so we come to the conclusion of our short evaluation of the sanity or lack thereof regarding the MBTA � the verdict: the MBTA is a bit mad. September 17, 2003 -12:34 p.m. I, Naturalist I took an excursion into the alleyway behind my house where neighborhood cars are parked at enormous expense amid the gravel, recycling bins, nettles, ragwort and dandelion. I usually restrict such back door adventures to trash disposal, keying obnoxiously oversized SUVs, and those occasions when furtive escapes from my apartment are required. Today I departed via the rear since the hypochondriac who lives downstairs, and who is always prepared to bore me senseless with his litany of imagined ailments obstructed my regular method of egress. Imagine my pleasure then, when I let the door slam behind me, bent down to re-tie my shoelace and found myself eye to eye with a proud and fearless cricket had perched himself on the edge of a drooping leaf. He was an excellent specimen of the type an old-fashioned schoolboy might imprison in a glass jar. Fortunately I had an old Bolex 16mm camera with me and managed to roll off a few frames before he leapt away. Perhaps I shall film some more urban entomology at a later date, after I have fabricated an appropriately ludicrous voice-over to accompany the footage. Limited, maybe, but it will be better than the Discovery Channel, at any rate. September 16, 2003 -4:02 p.m. The Hobby A friend of my father's named George has kept every single issue of every magazine he has ever read. This is the same man who wallpapers the interior of his garden shed with a collage of all the junk mail he receives. The magazines, however, are stored in a series of large boxes in his basement, much to the chagrin of his second wife, whose name is - truthfully - Georgina. The stacking and alignment of these boxes on the basement floor and along the walls has formed a type of cardboard labyrinth, an intricate maze through which the visitor can wander to their hearts content, perhaps to discover - as I once suggested to my father - George crouching in a corner like the Minotaur with a papier-m�ch� bulls head, reading Field And Stream from March 1964. There are worse ways to spend your spare time, I imagine. - September 11, 2003 -3:55 p.m. Summer�s Last Will And Testament The reading of my uncle Thomas� last will was an occasion of singular interest to me since I had not witnessed such an event before, and, even more intriguing, I had been named among the beneficiaries. Uncle Thomas had always been a remote and obscure figure. Rarely seen in person, his name was only invoked by my parents as the personification of worthless and dangerously eccentric characteristics; a dire warning of a potentially catastrophic future � �you don�t want to end up like Uncle Thomas� I was often told � the most undesirable fate of all! Having been the sort of man whose personal administration was not a subject dear to his own heart, my parents thought it unlikely that Uncle Thomas would have put his affairs in order prior to departure for the next world. Consequently they refused to attend the ceremony on the grounds that it would undoubtedly be a litany of confusions and therefore a total waste of time. My father in particular was disinclined to believe that Uncle Thomas could possibly have been �of sound mind� at any point in his chaotic life. Nevertheless, I decided to go and hear what the lawyers had to say. Uncle Thomas had never married and possessed no other living dependents except my immediate family. Obviously I did not expect to receive much in the way of a financial bequest, but considered that anyone who had lived in his life in such an unconventional manner might have accrued a few objects of enduring oddness, which he might consider leaving to his only nephew. As it turned out, Uncle Thomas� estate � if you can dignify it so without smirking � was left entirely in the hands of my father, as he feared it would be. Apart from my uncle�s legal representatives on Earth, I was the only person at the reading of his will: �Bad luck,� the legal people said to me, as I became the puzzled owner of a silvered commemorative fountain pen and three decrepit seascapes painted by someone who signed themselves �Grainger�. The seascapes each depicted a distinctly choppy and vacant sea, and each had a different colored violent sky: imagine Turner with a headache and no inspiration and you have some idea of the style, although it was rendered without skill or talent. God knows when they were painted. �The frames may have some value,� my father said sniffily when I showed the pictures to him. �Why don�t you put them on ebay.� And so ends a life completed with nothing to show for it. September 10, 2003 -9:15 a.m. Oh Happy Day There is a new goldfish swimming around happily in her magnificent bowl placed atop the living room mantelpiece. She is to be called Mimosa, which I think is a lovely name for a goldfish. How, they ask, can I be sure that Mimosa is female? Truth is, I don�t, and merely hope such feminine aquatic gender to be the case. When referring to fish most people employ the masculine pronoun �He�, mainly, I suppose, because most fish look as if they are men; and grumpy old men at that. But I like to think we are different from most people: hence Mimosa is called a she. Anyway, I have modified the fishbowl�s obligatory submerged castle so that it now appears as a fairytale palace - far more suitable for a female fish than the ruined gothic stronghold it resembled when I bought it from the pet shop. Also, rather than the standard plastic Deep Sea Diver model, I have laid a fantasy mermaid figurine in the bottom of the fishbowl. Our only problem now remains, what does a female fish eat when she is concerned about her waistline and hips? September 09, 2003 -1:25 p.m. Ghosts Again I possess more than a passing interest in ghosts since I am undoubtedly the type of person who will become one. And it is fair to assume that I will haunt the aisles of my local grocery store, Deluca�s Market, doomed for eternity to seek a loaf of bread that is neither stale nor as moldy as the grave itself - a task that will certainly take an eternity if the current state of the store�s shelves is anything to go by. I will be the phantom �Man In White� who is occasionally witnessed checking out the Sell-By-Dates before vanishing into thin air with a spine-chilling scream of despair. But what sort of white thing will I be in? �You can�t take it with you,� as the old saying goes. Well, if you return to Earth as a ghost apparently you can at least bring your clothes along too. People who believe in ghosts must also accept the existence of ghostly shoes, coats, jackets, socks and so on. How else can sightings of ghosts in period costume be explained? But will the sight of spectral beings wearing Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirts, baggy jeans and a pair of Nike sneakers scare our descendents stiff? It seems unlikely. - September 09, 2003 -11:47 a.m. Pluggers - The World's Worst Cartoon A big fat fly, a prune with wings and legs, perched himself uninvited on the lip of my coffee cup, rubbing his spindly hands together with glee like a comic book villain reviewing his dastardly plans. It seemed as though the fly might dive into the cup, but then he suddenly had seconds thoughts and quickly flew away. Even flies do not like the coffee I make, I thought, before noticing the Boston Globe on the table before me, opened to the comics page that features the single panel Pluggers cartoon. Aha, so that was why he flew away! Pluggers must be the unfunniest cartoon ever conceived of by the human mind - and it faces some pretty stiff competition. It appeals to the smug, self-satisfied good old boy and girl who believe themselves to be the Salt of the Earth with their �can make do� attitude and acceptance of the most tawdry, cheap, and down home approach to life. This morning�s effort features a humanoid animal throwing his clothes down the stairs; the caption simply states "Plugger�s Laundry Chute." Obviously even the tiny fly brain finds this sort of thing tedious beyond all endurance. September 08, 2003 -10:30 a.m. Grim People There is a documentary film playing at the moment about a group of criminally misguided zealots who called themselves "The Weather Underground." American college students who formed a murderous terrorist gang formed in the nineteen-sixties, they killed people in the name of peace, love and Bob Dylan. Here is filmed proof that self-righteous sixties radicals could be more destructive than Tartars, Barbarians and Huns combined. Observing some of the campus organizations active today, one wonders how long it must be before similarly ill-advised, fanatic student groups emerge in our current climate of socio-political volatility. Not long, I imagine. Hell sometimes hath no fury like unwashed suburban youth wearing Che Guevara tee shirts and reading the collected dog-eared paperbacks of Karl Marx. Meanwhile� The interesting thing about listening to President Bush address the nation is that he must think the people are even more stupid than the people think he is. And since he is obviously right, perhaps he is actually quite smart after all. Who knows? And then there is Senator Edward Kennedy, a man who can be acceptably described as a bovine oaf. His voice appeared on the radio this morning, full of such self-important, utterly banal windbaggery and total wrong-headedness that it beggared belief. September 03, 2003 -9:43 a.m. Reading Matter Outside Copley Place subway station last night a little old man sold Conan The Barbarian comic books on the street. White-haired and somewhat bedraggled, he must have been in his late sixties, the comic books arranged in a grid pattern beside him on a concrete bench. "Conan's are here!" he announced to no one in particular. A typical salesman's pitch, but delivered with a strange, quietly strangled shout. "Conan's are here!", as if they had finally arrived after years of frustrating delay, freshly printed, hot off the press featuring the latest news that everybody craved. Do people read comic books anymore? With the exception of the terminally adolescent it is hard to believe there is a market for them. I imagine that children must limit their reading material to either MacWeek, Nintendo News or Gangsta Rapper Monthly. And that is a shame, really. As a young boy, I remember reading Dracula Lives and Dr Strange quite frequently. In many respects these illustrated stories were the instigating agent behind what became my passion for reading proper books. The same process must be true for many other of today's avid readers, and therefore the comic book has undoubted value beyond mere entertainment. Nostalgia being what it is, had the old man been selling Dr Strange he would have made a sale, but since rippling muscles and swords never appealed to me, I strolled by without a second glance, hoping that someone with nostalgic Conan The Barbarian memories would stop. September 02, 2003 -4:47 p.m. I swear by almighty God "God's turban and tutu!" was an exclamation of mild irritation my grandfather would often adopt; quite the bizarre image for an impressionable young mind to conceive, although, much like a centaur or some other fabulous being of myth, it merely implied that God was half this and half that; in this case, half Oriental sage and half ballerina. Actually, come to think of it, I can quite easily imagine God dancing pas de deux with each and every soul in heaven while quoting from scrolls of ancient Coptic wisdom. Alas, nobody curses or swears with colorful originality these days. The vocabulary of exasperation has been reduced to a dreary stream of f**ks and sh**s. Whatever happened to "Zounds!", "Sblood!" and "Gadzooks!", all satisfying Shakespearian expletives evoking aspects of God's anatomy. Moreover, whatever happened to His turban and tutu? September 02, 2003 -9:18 a.m. A Day At The Beach At the shoreline we walked across gray sands, circumnavigating clumps of brittle seaweed the color of burnt, twisted and rusting metal. Overhead, a seagull picked fights with each low and scudding cloud, then flew down to inspect splintered planks of wood and fragments of rope imbedded amongst the pebbles. We walked on with our backs to the wind. "What is the sea made of?" A good question. It was black and evil today, as if the witches from Macbeth had tipped the dregs from their cauldron into it, even the ocean air smelled like an old hag's armpit. Against the sea wall, his face pressed against unreadable graffiti sprayed on the thick stones, a drunk was being sick into a paper bag. The tide was coming in. I wondered if he had the energy or inclination to move, or would he simply be swept away and drowned. We were approaching the chemical plant on the headland. "Let's go back it's starting to rain." "No it isn't." "Not rainy rain, the other kind." "Oh. Okay" I tried to skim a flat pebble but it just sank without trace. August 29, 2003 -1:09 p.m. Living in the (extremely grubby) Past Last night I watched a documentary about people dressed up in medieval garb, prancing around in a field pretending they were visitors to Ye Olde Scrotum Solstice Fayre or wherever. "Hey nonny, nonny for we will merry, merry be." The ale must really flow at these gatherings. You can understand those enthusiasts who fancy themselves as kings, queens, barons, knights and so on, and even the fat guys who must, and can only be, Friar Lardass. But what about the weirdoes who want to be the peasants? What manner of incurable neurosis must engulf someone's psyche that they fantasize about being the sort of smelly, toothless loser who spends all day asleep in a pig trough wearing a dirty sack? August 28, 2003 -2:00 p.m. Gin Machine My first gig as a one man David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon Tribute Band went extremely badly. Obviously, "being" David Bowie Rock'n'Roll Chameleon on stage demands not only an extensive knowledge of the maestro's highly diverse oeuvre, but also requires almost superhuman talents as a quick-change artiste; and looking back on the show, I think this is where it all went wrong for me. I began modestly - wearing a long-haired wig with a tight-fitting sailor shirt and bell-bottom trousers, an acoustic guitar slung sullenly around my shoulders. Thus attired, I performed a passable version of Life On Mars. As the last chord echoed around the auditorium, I rushed backstage, slipped into a pair of diamant� underpants, wedged a wah-wah pedal in my armpit, slapped a streak of red and blue paint on my face, then ran out again and did Ziggy Stardust. "Ziggy played guitaaaaaaaar!" I wailed, and ran back to the dressing room - desperately out of breath by now with a restless crowd waiting - hustled myself into loud checked shirt and hip huggers, wiped the crap off my face and ran back out again for a Young Americans duet with a voice box: so tired I could barely stand there and croak, never mind sing falsetto. Somehow I managed to get through it, but then the horrible realization dawned that the next number was a bloody medley! Rebel Rebel, Golden Years, Boys Keep Swinging, and finally Ashes To Ashes in full clown costume and make-up. Needless, to say it was a total disaster. I was still in the middle of singing "hot tramp I love you so" - while playing a synthesizer with one hand, drums with my feet, and strumming with my other hand as I was trying to fit my clown shoes on over my Thin White Duke socks and pulling my novelty Diamond Dogs thong off at the same time - when my mind went blank. I forgot the lyrics to the songs, tripped over my thong, knocked the microphone stand over and fell into the orchestra pit. Someone yelled "Ground control to Major Tom!" and that was the end of it. August 28, 2003 -8:45 a.m. Underground Transport Authorities are raising the subway fare here in Boston - so that they can fund a study investigating why the service is so bad. At least, I hope that is what they will use the money for. I take the subway every morning, but most of my journey is actually above ground. After two stops the train departs the tunnels and transforms itself into an old-fashioned tram; which is rather charming in it's way. However.... Traveling from my station, Copley Place, to my destination on the so-called "B-Line" - about a mile away -takes about twenty minutes at most when the train is allowed a straight run, which, alas, is seldom. Without warning, the train often stops after ten minutes and everybody is forced to disembark because it has suddenly been converted into an express - or what I call "the ghost train", since there are no passengers on it anymore, just the ghostly driver fading into the distance as we stand neglected and forlorn on the open-air platform, shivering or boiling, depending on the season. Two trains to travel about a mile on a single track, and now I will paying extra for the privilege. August 26, 2003 -10:04 a.m. Specials Of The Day Food seldom tastes like what it actually is these days, especially if you consume the food at a restaurant. Mashed potatoes always taste like garlic, for instance, since regular potato flavor is apparently pass�. All restaurants now seem to offer garlic mashed potatoes. They are more common than ketchup, but wait staff always announce them with great enthusiasm, as though you were dining on some especially lucky day when garlic mashed potatoes were finally available. Last night I ordered "herb-encrusted salmon" from The Cheesecake Factory. I enjoyed it immensely. However, had I not known it was salmon I would never have guessed since the herb was encrusted so very thickly. In fact, a more accurate description might have been, "crusted herb with salmon stuck on the side." A six-man road gang could not have tarred a highway more effectively. I could imagine the chef surrounded by orange traffic cones, standing over the salmon with a tiny cement mixer, preparing his gravel-like herb for the encrusting process while a policeman directed waiters to some alternate route. Chefs cannot resist a little encrusting these days. Indeed, they seem to prefer encrusting to drizzling. Although at the Cheesecake Factory I am sure they had drizzled the herb in something else before encrusting it, for I could not identify the encrusting herb for the life of me. August 25, 2003 -3:55 p.m. Wireless Life I have taken advantage of recent developments in technology to purchase a new mobile phone. Not only is it a telephone, it also features AM/FM radio, photo messaging center, flash light, potato gun, optional roll-on deodorant attachment, nose hair trimmer, espresso machine, Swiss army knife, detachable nozzle for spraying weed killer, and, best of all, I can plug it into my computer so that my computer doesn�t work anymore. Alas, I cannot actually talk on the thing because it receives no reception outside the Taiwanese Lab it was made in. When I used a regular phone to dial my service provider and complain, they asked me to call back later because they were just about to drive into a tunnel. August 22, 2003 -8:31 a.m. Whatever happened to the proud, warlike, mead-sodden Scandinavian hordes with their dragon-helmed ships and massive beards? Once they were the scourge of Europe with their ravaging, looting and pillaging. Now they just make gourmet biscuits and pop groups. Meanwhile.... It Doesn't Matter Who You Vote For Because The Government Always Gets Elected When peace came after World War One, everyone knew that a Germany crippled by reparations would be a dangerous Germany; yet crippling Germany with reparations was exactly what the Allied Governments decided to do. (Alarums. Enter Hitler stage right with German people carrying spears.) You can almost bet your last flag that, given the chance, Governments of every political hue will do the wrong thing. So why vote for them? Beats me. Alas, there will always be lunatics who wear straw boaters, rosettes, and stand on the side of the road with placards urging you to vote for some smiling politico who promises to be tough on crime and promote education. And thus, observing the cheering idiots from his podium, the grinning politico can justify himself. The problem is, of course, that career politicians make political decisions rather than sensible ones. Back in the good old ancient days when everybody was both farmer and warrior, the local tribe would send their delegate to the Sacred Grove to meet with other tribal delegates. Here, reasonable decisions would be made and then everyone would return to their tribe, till their soil, milk their cows, and live in the peaceable kingdom. At least until the Vikings arrived. August 21, 2003 -9:52 a.m. Bedtime Story Invited to a dinner party at Mary Mary's cottage last night: an unappetizing buffet featuring homegrown vegetables, and thus rather heavy on the silver bells and cockleshells. Personally I find both ingredients completely inedible. Conversation at the table was a total disaster. Mary Mary disagreed with almost everything anyone said, and Simple Simon insisted on repeating the extremely tedious tale of his encounter with a pie man for the umpteenth time. Dessert, as usual, was a particularly stodgy confection of curds and whey made by Little Bo Peep, and - uggh! - I am certain there was a hairy spider leg in mine. Mary Mary became especially contrary when it was suggested she give the assembled company a tour of her garden, complaining that the only reason people came to visit her was because they wanted to tramp around her garden leering at the pretty maids all in a row. Nevertheless, after a great deal of flattery and being promised a free bag of my specialty 'ring o' roses' compost, she finally granted our wish. All I can say is, it must have been a very bad year for growing pretty maids all in a row, because this season's crop were dreadfully flat-chested. I was bitterly disappointed. Things To Do Today: 1. Cross the Rubicon 2. Cut the Gordian knot. 3. Pay the Piper 4. Eat no fat. August 20, 2003 -8:56 a.m. Food Glorious Food It is amazing how much The Stomach God controls our daily lives. We even reserve certain hours of the day for satisfying The Stomach God's tyrannical demands. Millions of people actually spend their entire working day harvesting and preparing special items especially for The Stomach God. Stroll along any street in either a rural or urban area and you will find various temples erected to The Stomach God, many with golden arches, others with decorative canopies of more elaborate design. The shelves of every bookstore creak under the weight of devotional literature written for The Stomach God. There are even persons who worship The Stomach God so much that they permit The Stomach God to expand and overtake their entire bodies. The Brain God, however, well, he is just some smashed, craven idol left to sink into the sand and dust of the ruined ancient city long since abandoned and forgotten. His once proud acolytes persecuted and ... hmm, excuse me; I'm just going to get something to nibble on. Oh, those cakes look nice... August 19, 2003 -8:26 a.m. Future Imperfect
The year 2003: were we not supposed to be wearing thermally insulated silver togas with flash insignia by now; living in verdant, techno-Arcadian splendor with beatific expressions permanently fixed on our faces? Whatever happened to those vertical take-off jets boots we were promised? Why are there no household robots to do the washing up? The only wars we ought be fighting should be against the Martians and the highly evolved fish people from the Twelve Aquatic Moons of Piscara - and even they should be fought in another galaxy. What has gone wrong? Personally, I feel it has a lot to do with the companies who manufacture soft drinks: We can never live in Future Paradise if citizens can still buy disgusting grape flavored soda. � � 
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