Friday, September 29, 2006


As I was rereading my posts from this week, I realize I've been pretty negative. You can blame it on the moon, PMS, an overloaded schedule, the fact I'm a raging bitch, whatever. In any case, I don't want to fall victim to a completely negative attitude. No, I haven't gotten laid. Shut up. I just want to put some good out into the world. So, to celebrate Friday, here is a list of things I've liked recently.

Christy Mihos' head-up-the-ass ad.

Surely you've heard all the hubhub about this ad. It features an animated Mihos asking engineers and politicians who resemble Romney and Healey why the Big Dig ran billions over budget, the response being murmurs and heads being shoved up asses. It doesn't really prove a point or offer any solutions, but it's pretty funny. Mihos has the electorate figured out-- at this point, we can't make the Big Dig run under budget, Romney won't suffer any consequences, Matt Amorello has made out like a bandit, and Bechtel will get away with shoddy construction. What can we do but laugh and satirize?

Kerry Healey doesn't understand the internets (from Steath B.)
Click the link...

See where you end up. Come on. I've been using the internet since I was twelve. Surely somebody on the Healey campaign should have figured out that you buy all the domain names that could be associated with you before somebody makes you look a fool.

My Name is Earl
In high school, I hated my hometown. I hated the fields, the ponds, the trailer parks, the shitbox cars for sale on people's front lawns, the cows, the locals. Now I love to go back from time to time, but back in the 90s I was ruthless in calling my town Hicksville. Thus, I have a soft spot in my heart for the hicks on My Name is Earl. Jason Lee's bitchin' 'stache alone is worth the price of admission, and Jamie Pressley is hilarious as Joy, Earl's ex-wife. "I want one a them TVs in the wall like Britney and Kevin got."

The Office
This is kind of negative, but if they don't bring hot Jim back to the Scranton office I am going to scream. I love John Krasinski (or, as Kristen calls him, the Polish Boy) a lot. Like, really, a lot.

Bad Boston Accents
I've seen the preview for the new Scorsese movie, The Departed, about one hundred times and Leonardo DiCaprio's Boston accent is one of the worst I've heard in a long time. What is so hard about the Boston accent? Why can't Hollywood get it right? We could rent out Butchie as a dialogue coach to all these Hollywood boys who can't get it right. "Didn't you play a fuckin' rethaad? Say it. 'Re-thaaaa-d.' In a sentence now. 'I'm a fuckin' rethaaad who can't get this shit right.'"

Dear Pino's,



Pumpkin Spice Latte
Mighty pumpkin spice,
You delight me with your taste.
Thanks baby Jesus.

Thursday, September 28, 2006


I was cranky as hell yesterday afternoon. I had work I had to get out the door before a doctor's appointment, forgot I hadn't photocopied it before putting it in the mail, and, of course every damn photocopier in the place jammed, I hastily threw the stuff in the FedEx, got in the long line to buy T tokens, hopped on the jammed train, and was late to my doctor's appointment. After my appointment I was feeling a little better, but had to haul my butt to pilates class. I walked up School Street by the Omni Parker House while checking my voicemail, dodging tourists left and right. Then, I looked up and saw three well-dressed people coming at me. The first person I noticed was a pretty attractive guy in a suit, who had a determined expression on his face. Next, I noticed the well-dressed blonde woman in a suit, who was talking to a short, round man who was fidgeting with his suit. It took me a minute to place who I was looking at.

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Ladies and gentlemen, Mayor Menino.

Of course I'm on the damn phone, so I can't stop and try to shake his hand and give him a piece of my mind (could we call a moratorium on the sewer work in Back Bay for a while, please? I saw six rats on my drive up a public alley on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning and had the fear of God they would hop in the Zipcar when I opened the door), and he looked like he was consulting with the blonde about wherever he was going. I had a big stupid grin on my face (I'm a dork and I love meeting politicians) and the Mayor had a look on his face like he hoped I didn't recognize him and wouldn't try to talk to him. His face fell a little as he saw me beaming stupidly at him. The Mayor arranged his face, gave me a smile and a nod, and was on his way with his blonde woman advisor and the cute dude in a suit. (Call me, Cute Dude!)

That's all that happened, really. But it was very exciting for me.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

You Motherf*ckers Don't Know How to Act

So last night I went to a goth club in Providence. Yeah, I know, it's odd that my Justin Timberlake, Kelly Clarkson, Indigo Girls-lovin' self ended up swathed from head-to-toe in black, driving one hundred miles roundtrip for a goth club. But my friend's burlesque troupe, the Dazzling Dames, had their first show last night and I didn't want to miss it. I drove down in a Zipcar Honda Fit (which sucked mightily, by the by) and walked in.

When I was in high school, a lot of my friends tended to sway goth. My prom dress was bought at Bedlam, a gothy-punk clothing store in Providence. (It looked really good.) I wore my Doc Martens with the dress, much to the chagrin of my grandmother. ("Do you need money? I will buy you any other pair of shoes if you don't wear those boots.") Since then, something happened to me and I became a J. Crew-loving fool. But I will always have a place in my heart for the goths.

The DJ who played before the Dazzling Dames came on was actually good. I usually don't get into techno music because of its redundancy, but I enjoyed the variety of beats he spun. Girls in corsets and guys in utilikilts danced enthusiastically. My friend came up to me in fishnet stockings and a skirt made of beads to say hello. She introduced me to her least-gothy friends, I got a Gansett tall boy for $2.50, and she ran off to get ready for the show.

One of her less-gothy friends lived in the dorm I lived in at URI, so I talked to him and his girlfriend for a while. His friend, James, was the guy that gets a preamble. You know how couples have single friends that they really wish would have somebody to date? James was that guy. After being introduced to James, URI-guy's girlfriend whispered "James is really a great guy if you're interested" into my ear. I hate that. If I have a question, I'll ask. If I'm interested, he'll know it. But James seemed nice enough, so I chatted with him for a few minutes.

"Can I get you guys something?" James asked his friends. They replied yes. Then he turned to me and asked if I wanted another Gansett.

This is the problem I have with men in Boston: they are cheap and aggressive. Sorry. Whenever I leave the 128 belt, I get offered drinks by guys who don't skeeve me out. Last weekend, I went to the Unlocal in Brookline, and saw one cute Irish boy who kept staring at my friends and I but never approached us. There was also the guy in his mid-to-late-thirties who kept staring at us, and eventually came over to Steph and said "you are just so beautiful, stunning..." immediately after he said hello. I am sick of guys verbally (or physically) humping my friends and thinking it's okay. Say hello. Ask me how I am first. If I give you short answers, I'm not interested, carry on. If I keep talking, then you may proceed to lavish praise upon me. I was impressed that James bought me the beer, chatted with me, then didn't try to pry my phone number off of me. I said goodnight, he gave me a quick hug and said it was nice to meet me.

Let's put it this way: He gets the Dunkin Donuts Gift Card Award for Civility.

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Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Boston Isn't For Little P*ssies Who Scream

If I may paraphrase Madonna, Boston isn't a place for people who demand open niceness. Sorry. If you're looking for ebullient, cheerful, people-who-start-a-conversation-at-anytime people, Boston is not the place for you. I admit that Boston's guarded nature gets on my nerves from time to time, but that's what attracted me to Boston in the first place. When I drove through the midwest with Steph a few years back, the niceness of people in the midwest scared the shit out of me. One woman at a rest stop, with her enthusiastic "How y'all doin' today?!" had me imagining our corpses being buried along the I-80 due to our blue state plates on the car.

So it doesn't ring true that the T is offering riders $2 Dunkin Donuts gift cards for being curteous. T riders are notorious for letting pregnant women sway from the handrails, of stepping over slow old people to get to a seat, and being generally obnoxious. But bribing people to be nice kind of defeats the purpose of niceness, doesn't it? People should be nice because the world sucks enough, and sometimes a smile or a seat on the train when you're tired or sick can reinforce someone's belief in humanity. If you want to be selfish about it, the theory is if you're nice to someone, someone will repay the kindess when you need it. Kindness shouldn't be rewarded by a product-placed gift card from the Niceness Gestapo. Be a fucking adult and let the old lady sit because she's old, not because you want a donut.

Friday, September 22, 2006


I didn't get the details on the Station plea deal until late on Wednesday when I finally got to a television. I'd been babysitting before then and hadn't heard anything about it. When I heard the details of the deal, I was shocked Jeffrey and Michael Derderian would get off so easily. Michael, the actual owner of the club, would serve four years in actual jail. Jeffrey, who was a kind of co-owner, wouldn't spend any time in jail.

I don't know if that's right. I don't think that Michael and Jeffrey acted in malice when they allowed the pyrotechnics to go off in their tinderbox club. I think they're idiots who had no business running a nightclub since they clearly had no idea of the risks involved, evidenced by the lack of insurance and use of cheap, flammable foam as insulation. I think Dan Beichele is also a dumbass for setting off fireworks in a small wooden building. It was a bunch of stupid people acting stupidly, and sadly 100 people paid with their lives. There's nothing right about the situation at all. I do think that each of the Derderian brothers should spend some time in jail. I don't think they should be locked up for life, nor do I think they should be put to death. I read a suggestion that they should have to serve community service in a burn ward so they realize the agony the victims went through, and that seems fair.

I understand why the victims and their families are so upset over the deal. It minimizes the consequences for these boobs who hurt and killed so many people. Frankly, if I were Jeffrey or Michael, I would not step foot in Rhode Island ever again, because a distraught family member is going to assault or kill them. For real. If my last name were Derderian, I would pack up and head to Kansas or something to avoid the hate that people have for those brothers.

I called my Mom yesterday, and mentioned the plea deal and that it seemed a little too light for the crime. She responded she could see it both ways. "It was a horrible thing," she said, "but that trial would have torn the state apart. It would have gone on and on, people would be upset every day with all the testimony and pictures of people dying. I don't know if it's fair, but I think it's better that Rhode Island doesn't have to go through that."

And, of course, the people who were effected by the fire still need help, so here's the information for the Station Family Fund, which has been helping pay medical bills and provide counseling for relatives since the fire happened. Many of the people who hung out at the Station didn't have great jobs with benefits, so it's money well spent.

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Tuesday, September 19, 2006


Yesterday was a long-ass day. I worked the part-time job after the full-time job and stumbled home, my mind racing, my feet and back sore. Alicia was on the phone with me from New York, and I entered my dark apartment. A strange smell greeted my nose. It was thankfully not of the dead-rat variety, but a subtle, new smell. I knew my landlord was stopping by to fix a leak under my sink, and my first thought was that he replaced the waterlogged wood at the base of the cabinet. I turned on the lights, and I stopped Alicia mid-sentence.

"You're not going to believe what is on my coffee table."

"What's on your coffee table?"

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My first thought was that my landlord left them (listen, it was late, I was tired) to make me feel better about the leaky sink and mice in the ceiling. Two dozen beautiful red roses just sitting on my messy coffee table. A shrubbery of red roses. Despite myself, I was smiling.

In a way, I knew they weren't for me. When I turned twenty-four I had to spell out in painful detail that I wanted the Whatever to buy me flowers for my birthday, which he interpreted as "have Amy's friends pitch in for flowers" because he was a cheap douchebag. My Mom suffers from a similar ailment, and she bought me flowers for my college graduation after I asked her. Pete bought me flowers for the prom. But I am not the kind of girl who gets two dozen red roses delivered to her.

I looked at the card, which was addressed to an Alejendra who lives at my building number, but on a different street in the Back Bay. Her phone number was on the card, so I got off the phone with Alicia and gave her a call.

"Hi, Alejendra?"

"Yes?" She asked cautiously.

"My name is Amy, and I live at [my address]. I just came home and found a bunch of roses that should have been delivered to you."

"Oh my goodness," she said, laughing, not sure what to make of the situation.

"Do you want me to bring them by? What should I do?"

"I don't know. Oh my goodness."

"I do have the number of the flower company on the card. Do you want to call them, or should I call them?"

"You call them. Is this a number I can call so I can call you if I need to?"

"Yes. I'll call the flower company now."

I called the florist, who still had people on-call at nearly 9:30, which surprised me. I explained the situation, and the woman took Alejendra's number and mine.

"Is someone going to pick these flowers up?" I asked.

"I'll take your number, but I doubt it. I think we'll just send her another bouquet."

I repositioned the flowers near my window, but then moved them back to my desk so they wouldn't rot in the sunlight. There's a card attached to the bouquet from whoever sent Alejendra two dozen red roses. The envelope is red, with "Alejendra" spelled across the front in sloppy black handwriting. I haven't opened the envelope-- as long as I don't hear from the florist today that they want to repo the flowers, I'll toss it-- but it was a Herculean effort to not open the card. Who sent Alejendra two dozen red roses? Obviously, someone who loves her, but she sounded surprised on the phone. Was it someone who admired her from afar, and was finally admitting it with a big gesture? Had he had a fight with her boyfriend, and he was apologizing? Maybe her mother or father wanted to surprise her? Was it her birthday, and she had to spell it out for her cheap boyfriend?

No matter what, I came home to two dozen red roses after a long day. That's got to be karma paying me back for something.

Monday, September 18, 2006

I Poo to the Finish 'Cause I Ate me Spinach...

Am I the only one who's really, really wanted a spinach salad after all this talk of E. coli bacteria?

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SpongeBob tries to make little kids poo, but in a bad way.

I am not being sarcastic. I was at Shaw's yesterday, and the section of bagged spinach was empty and sad looking. Spinach salads are wonderful. Bacon, blue cheese dressing, hard-boiled eggs? Perfect. Apples, walnuts, blue cheese? Delicious. I want nothing more than to wilt some spinach in a pan with olive oil and heaps of garlic and eat it on pasta. I did buy some frozen spinach that I can sautee in a pan, but it's not the same. I bought some lettuce to make a salad, but lettuce is watery and crunchy. Spinach lets you know you are eating a vegetable with its thick leaves. Lettuce is filler. Spinach is the main attraction. So let's hope they find what cow or pig farm sprung a leak on the spinach fields soon so we can enjoy our spinach once again.

Friday, September 15, 2006

You'd Better Shop Around

"That certainly was quite an episode of America's Next Top Model, wasn't it, Pete?"

"Well, Frances, if you thought Furonda's look was fierce, wait until you see the cold front that's coming through tomorrow! Temperatures will drop ten to fifteen degrees in an hour, which is faster than a model's tears fall during the haircuts on the makeover episode. Stay tuned for details at 10."

My dreams come true. The dreams of, you know, gainful employment, are done for 100 people at channel 56. But come on. That segue is going to rock.

Boiler Room

I live in a boiler room. Someday, when I am old and have a mortgage payment instead of rent, I will tell my expensive little spawn that once upon a time, when his/her mommy was poor and single, she lived in a boiler room. It was big enough for just her and after living with crazy people for five years, she'd had it with roommates. She would get yet another part-time job to make ends meet, knowing that she would have nothing but solitude when she arrived home from a twelve-hour workday. It made her happy to be alone at the end of the day, when mommy was young and poor.

However, my happiness is rapidly being threatened with the mechanics of living in a boiler room. Being that mechanics come into my apartment to fix the boiler from time to time. I came home on Wednesday to a mess of black footprints by my front door, all my clothes shoved to one side of my closet, and some of my shoes in a heap at the foot of my bed. I didn't know what had happened, but someone had clearly been futzing around in there. Last night, repulsed by the garage-like appearance of my floor, I took out the mop and scrubbed at the footprints. Turns out, it wasn't dust or soot that was on my floor, but oil. I scrubbed the floor a couple times, but it still looked grimy. I used the Target brand magic eraser, and it's still grimy. Grumbling, I put my cleaning supplies away and went to bed.

But I couldn't sleep. I thought about the direction my life is taking, and how I want to make a big change. I tossed. I turned. I was half asleep when I heard a scssstrch in the corner of my room. Oh, I know that sound. Scssstrch. As I tried to pinpoint the sound, it moved across the room. In the ceiling.

There are rodents in my ceiling.

I turned on the light when the noise stopped for a moment, and it began again. Little claws clacking across the drop ceiling. Deathly afraid that a mouse would go all Mission Impossible and dangle from my ceiling, but unable to do anything about it at 1:30am, I put in my earplugs and threw the blanket over my head.

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I hate vermin, but if this happened I would laugh my ass off.

I began to relax and doze off. Just then, a thumpthumpTHUMP went across my ceiling. Since I had the earplugs in, I couldn't tell if it was happening in my upstairs neighbor's apartment or in the ceiling. It sounded like two creatures fighting and chasing each other, and it ended with a CRASH and an honest-to-God speck of ceiling falling onto my bed. I let out a scream, deathly afraid it would be a mouse head on my bed, and got up to take a Tylenol PM to drug myself into sleep.

I'm going to call the landlord, clearly, but I'm already trying to figure a way out of my apartment if I have a winter-long stretch of Mouse Gladiator happening above my head on a nightly basis. Also discouraging was this article in the Globe today about rats the size of preschoolers running around Back Bay. Maybe it wasn't my neighbors fighting a mouse on their floor, but two giant fuck-off rats dueling to the death above my head. If I see a rat, I will be moving back home. End of story. A mouse in the house is one thing. Splinter is entirely another.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Moo Cow

It turns out that Allston-Brighton (or Brighton-Allston, as it's been decided) is trying to come up with a logo for the bicentennial anniversary of Brighton-Allston's incorporation into the city of Boston. Right now, they've got this:
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Which is causing a bit of a stir. Some people think the "bull" is reminiscent of "bullshit" and don't want Allston-Brighton associated with the smell of cow feces. Animal rights activists think it celebrate's Brighton's former claim to fame as the center of cattle-slaughter in New England.

Some residents say that Brighton, a separate town from Boston until 1874, should celebrate the 200th anniversary of its incorporation by marking the progress since that era, rather than recalling it. But the bull nonetheless has serious partisans.

"The bull absolutely has to be a part of it," said Councilor Jerry McDermott, who represents Allston-Brighton.

Some have stood by the bull, because they say it's better than anything else that has come up. Committee members said they have been hashing out ideas for nearly a year.

Well, if you want to celebrate progress in the 200 years since Allston-Brighton became part of Boston, I've got some ideas for the planning committee. First of all, what do you think of when you think Allston-Brighton? Yes, that's right. Students. Drunken parties. Why not put a keg in a plastic tub on the logo? Perhaps a crumpled can of PBR? A girl in purple eyeshadow and too-tall heels, passed out on a couch? A red Solo cup? You could also reference Allston-Brighton's slow-ass T line and show a B-line car, stopped at a red light, fists of passengers popping out of the windows.

There are a lot of good things about Allston/Brighton, before you get all yelly about it. The Sunset Bar and Grill rules my world. The Super 88 Market has a great food court and cheap produce. Brighton was home of the late great Natalie's Pizza and Bluestone Bistro, which has proven to be two tastes that do not taste great together. I could afford to live in Brighton during my college days, which was much better than commuting from Rhode Island. But the pretentiousness inherent in the debate over cow vs. no cow does not suit Allston-Brighton. Or Brighton-Allston. Whatever.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

A Little Nonsense, Now and Then...

It has come to my attention that today would be the ninetieth birthday of children's author Roald Dahl.

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I love Roald Dahl books. I think the first one I ever read was Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator. I vividly remember the green paperback on my grandmother's bookshelf, and I would take it down and read it when I went to her house. I loved the sloppy illustrations, the poems, the made-up words that Dahl clearly had a blast writing. I then read James and the Giant Peach and the BFG. The kids in the books were always so capable in the face of horrible adults and trying circumstances. My absolute favorite Roald Dahl book was Matilda, the story of a girl whose family hates her and doesn't recognize her intellectual brilliance. She uses telekenetic powers to wreak havoc on her family and the headmistress of her school, who won't advance her to a higher grade. It's almost a Carrie for the under-15 set. I had no problems with my family, but the principal of my school was an asshole, so I totally recognized how Matilda felt. Also, her mild-mannered teacher, Ms. Honey, reminded me of my mild-mannered second grade teacher who I liked a lot.

The article about Dahl's birthday sites him as being the first to make a name for himself in well-written children's literature, not JK Rowling. Of the two Harry Potter books I've read, I can see the similarities. Both authors use adults as either bumbling or evil foils to the wiser children. Both Rowling and Dahl use elements of magic. Both like to make up words and have fun with language. Maybe it's because I'm an adult now, and one who doesn't really dig sci-fi books, but I can't get into Rowling as much as I did Dahl. If there are any parents in the crowd, make sure your kids at least try a Roald Dahl book. Odds are they'll love it.

Get Your Vote On

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"Get that damn camera away from me. I have no idea how this bloody thing works."

Linc Chafee won! Hooray! He voted in my elementary school cafetorium! I hate that place. Anyway.

He acknowledged being asked often: "Why are you a Republican?" And he repeated his definition of Republicanism, including fiscal discipline, environmental protection, individual liberty, aversion to foreign entanglements and "a willingess to use the tools of government to help the poor and the vulnerable."
That is the kind of Republican I like. Note the "individual liberty" he tosses in there. As much as I want the Senate to have a Democratic majority again, I actually like Chafee. I know he's a dirty Republican, but I like that he thinks and votes his mind. I'm interested to see how the general election goes.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

::crosses fingers::

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Linc Chafee prepares to do some damage.

It's Primary Day in Rhode Island! You know things are bad for the Republican Party when they've poured over a million dollars into the campaign of a "bad" Republican who doesn't march neatly in the party line just to keep the seat Republican. (Chafee's opponent, Steve Laffey, will be decimated in the general election against Sheldon Whitehouse if he is the Republican candidate.)

Good luck, Linc.

I'd talk about the President's speech last night on the fifth anniversary of 9/11, but I'm afraid they haven't invented the swear words that describe my anger at taking the anniversary of such a tragedy to pull for his own misguided policies in the Middle East and his desperate attempts to keep Americans afraid enough to vote Republican and stop complaining about soldiers dying senselessly in Iraq. I'd also talk about every news program I watched as I lay catatonic on my couch last night harassing people mourning at the World Trade Center site, but they don't have words for that either. Can't we let people mourn alone? If I lost somebody there, I'd be like someone on Cops telling the camera to get out of my face.

Thanks for your nice comments yesterday. Between a sleepless weekend, 9/11's psychic drain, and all the business going on in my life I've been a little frustrated lately. Posts will be spotty until I get the hell over it.

Monday, September 11, 2006


I hate this blog, everything I've ever written on said blog, and life so hard right now.


Dispatches to continue per usual when I damn well feel like it.

Friday, September 08, 2006

There's Gonna Be a Girlfight

I love political debates. I have loved them since I was a kid. In our modern political times, it's the closest we come to seeing a candidate as he/she actually is, and not as the mouthpiece in a political ad between segments of the evening news. My mother bred this political interest in me at a young age-- I got a firsthand look at how elections work when I was in junior high school because she had to be elected to get her job. While she didn't have to debate anyone, she did a lot of door-to-door visits (amazing from my shy mom), and I licked a lot of envelopes. I remembered waiting for the election results to come across the local cable access channel. It was all very exciting.

Last night, as I had caffeine withdrawal on my couch (damn you, fifty-one cent coffee!) I waited for Access Hollywood to come on, but instead I got the Democratic Primary debate. Since I only get channel 7 and channel 5, I decided to sit and watch. Full disclosure time-- I don't vote in Massachusetts. I'm registered in Rhode Island still, and I'm seriously debating taking Tuesday off to drive down, affiliate as a Republican (I know, it makes me feel dirty), vote for Chafee, disaffiliate from the Republican Party as fast as possible (I can imagine the memoir, My Twenty Minutes as a Republican) and come back up. I hate Steve Laffey with a passion. Everybody loves a gay basher for Senate! Asshole.

Enough about Rhode Island. Watching the gubernatorial debate for Massachusetts Democrats was hilarious. First, the physical disparity between the candidates was comedy gold. Chris Gabrieli stood about two and a half feet taller than Tom Reilly and Deval Patrick, with a completely goofy expression on his face. With the three podiums next to each other, it looked like an SNL version of Celebrity Jeopardy. Tom Reilly twitched like a rabid dog on a leash, and Deval Patrick stood smoothly at his podium.

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KCee asked me this morning, as I recounted the hilarity of Tom Reilly jumping all over Chris Gabrieli like the rabid dog who gnawed through his chain and attacked his owner and Deval Patrick taking pages from the Bill Clinton Book of Smooth, who I'd vote for in the primary. Honestly? I don't know. I know I would not vote for Gabrieli-- he lost me in his first answer when he said, "Listen, the economy is important to Massachusetts..." because my ex-boyfriend would always say "Look" or "Listen" in that patronizing manner and it drives me batshit insane to hear someone say that to this day. I'm paying attention-- convince me that you have a valid point, don't slam it down my throat. I was also unimpressed with Gabrieli's insistence that UMass campuses don't deserve as much funding for research as already-prominent schools like Harvard and MIT do. I think it was a miscommunication, but Gabrieli bellowing "What's wrong with Harvard?" while Reilly yipped about UMass deserving as much funding as any other school in the state and Patrick smoothly trying to smooth things over made all of them look bad. Of course UMass deserves more funding. State schools are rapidly becoming a joke, and they should be invested in to keep kids in-state. (You hear me, URI? Your creative writing program needs some serious help!) I guess my pretend vote is a toss-up between Reilly, who looked like an asshole, and Patrick, who strikes me as too smooth. I bought it from Clinton, but I'm not sure if I buy it from Patrick. I think he looked the best out of the trio of candidates, but after that catfight, that's not saying much.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Ciao, Chikage

Industry sources report that Chikage Windler is leaving channel 7 to be a meterologist in Minneapolis. Good luck, Chikage. Maybe your hair will play well in Minnesota. I just hope that now Terry Casey can have his Channel 7 Voice-Over Guy say "Seven Weather With Terry Casey" instead of just "Seven Weather." Poor bastard.

Also, rumor has it that Ed Ansin (to me, namesake of Emerson's Ansin building; to industry-types, he owns channel 7 and a station in Miami) is in talks to buy channel 56. How great would it be to have Pete Bouchard on two stations at once? He'd be on at 4, 4:30, 5, 5:30, 6, 10, and 11pm. Wow. Also, I'd love to see his teases when he references the "fierce" looks on America's Next Top Model and segues them into talk of the weather.

Real Estate

The John Hancock Tower is up for sale. Sadly, I'm a little short on the $910 million the building sold for the last time is was on the market. (It's like Flip This Office Tower around the Back Bay, isn't it?)

If I could, I would buy the Hancock Tower and turn the top half of it into affordable, modest, but classy apartments for me and my broke friends and other debt-addled twenty-somethings. (Read: dishwasher, trash disposal, in-unit washer/dryers-- $1200/mo for a two-bedroom.) The roof would have a roller coaster and bungee jumping platform to poach more money from tourists. The bottom half could remain office space. No, the bottom third could be office space. The middle third would have a bitchin' indoor waterslide. Who doesn't like a waterslide?

This can only go someplace good. Now all I need is several hundred million dollars to buy the space.

Done, Done and I'm On to the Next One

I love my gym. As a teenager or elementary school kid, you never would have heard those words cross my lips. I hated the President's Physical Fitness Test (approximate pull-ups completed in my entire K-12 lifetime: 2) and trying to run a mile in under fifteen minutes. I wasn't a lazy kid-- I'd spend entire days outside, and I loved to swim-- but I hated the barking orders of what physical feat I'd be forced to attempt. Let's just play floor hockey and call it a day, Mr. Z.

Anyway. I love my gym because they have individual televisions on the cardio equipment. The first gym I joined only had two big TVs at the front of the cardio room, so I usually ended up watching Lifetime or Headline News. Now I am the master of the images that float before me as I pedal away on the elliptical machine. Of course, I usually go for channel 7 to catch up with Pete Bouchard, but I often do the gym equivalent of reading over someone's shoulder and watch what other people choose to watch as they work out.

A popular choice, aside from NESN and the music video channel, is MTV. (Note how the gym has to create their own channel for music videos since MTV hasn't played a video in prime time since 1992.) I'll watch MTV if Made is on, but during the post-work workout sessions, it's usually one of their dating shows. Yesterday, the show Next was on. If you've never seen it, Next is probably the dumbest dating show in the history of television. I love a good dating show, don't get me wrong. Blind Date rules my world. It's like Pop-Up Video meets every bad date you've ever had. But Next isn't funny. Next is absolutely terrifying. The premise is that five or six girls/guys ride around in a bus between locations, and they go on "dates" with one member of the opposite/same sex, depending on orientation. The single guy/girl can "next" a member of the bus team at any time. Usually, some chucklehead will see a girl come out of the bus, look at her, and tell her to get back on the bus and send the next piece of meat out. Depending on how long the date goes, the member of the bus gets paid for the date (I think it's $1 a minute). I think that Next makes me so uncomfortable because it's like my dating life. I get off the bus, the guy gets a look, says "Next" before I can even stun him with my wit and stellar smooching, and I turn around and another girl skips off the bus and into his awaiting arms. Then you add in the fact that these people are completely stupid (the "clever banter" once someone is "Nexted" is obviously scripted and not amusing) and will get more ass than I will ever see in my life, and that there is an uncomfortable element of prostitution in the fact that people are paid to date each other, and I'm squirming. And not in a good way.

Last night, one girl came out of the bus. They freeze-framed her, and a bulleted list of her likes and dislikes came up. "Idolizes Nicole Ritchie," read the first. Is that possible? What does Nicole Ritchie even do that can be idolized? She doesn't sing, she doesn't act, she doesn't even consume solid food. Do you aspire not to eat? I guess Nicole is your girl if that's what you're hoping for. "Hates Birkenstocks," read the second point. Um. Okay. "Loves her collarbone." I nearly fell off the elliptical machine in a fit of laughter. I guess this young woman did idolize Nicole because all you can see on her is her collarbone (and all her other bones).

I may die alone. But I can always enjoy a good dose of irony.

Friday, September 01, 2006


When she was younger, the girl I babysit for would gleefully explain to me that late August/early September is "yellow truck season." Every year, this cracks me up as I watch harried people hustle their earthly possessions from a truck to an apartment as fast as possible. On my way to work, I saw five groups of people moving. There is nothing worse than being a packrat and paying the price when you have to pack up all your shit and redistribute it in a new place. I'm still working on unpacking and I've been in my place since June.

Fall in Boston is really interesting. The tourists start leaving (although the weather gets better) and the students make their return. I've been noticing a lot more popped collars and frilly skirts around town. Last night on my way home from Cambridge, I got on the red line with a bunch of college kids. One of them had an iPod hooked up to some portable speakers and was playing "Hips Don't Lie." The token gay kid, who I later noticed had on a fetching Emerson College t-shirt, swore he could dance like Shakira if he weren't on the train. His friend, who wore a green tweed blazer with a maroon tweed flower hanging randomly in her limp brown hair, laughed as he stood uncertainly on the moving train. Their conversation was loud, to benefit the rest of the passengers on the car. The girl with the speaker segued into "Billy Jean," a song which was old news before she was even born. She danced, swinging the speaker around in one hand, tucking the iPod into her green hoodie with an artsy design on the back. When I got off the train, they'd just started on "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey. And, as much as I hate the loud-decibel conversations and the girls who can't drink and stay on their shoes, I wish the college kids well. Boston is a great place to be a college student (especially when you turn 21). There's a ton to do. I busted my ass to get here, I powered through a couple relatively friendless years when I was incredibly homesick, and it was worth it because now I love this place. Despite the irregular train service and high rent it's a good place. I wish the newbies all the luck in the world. Let Boston be good to you.

Of course, I am fleeing town to avoid the crush of moving trucks and remaining tourists. Enjoy the long weekend and I'll see you on the flip.