Happy People Dwell in Faneuil Hall

I was killing time downtown after an appointment I had got delayed today, so I decided to grab a bite at Quincy Market. I managed to score one of the coveted low tables with a seat. Across the table from me, and old man was telling a couple of tourists about the wonders of train travel. Once the visitors got up, I knew the old man was going to chat me up. Since my mind was on the meeting and the astronomical parking fee I was going to have to pay, I kept my responses short.

Midway through my meal, a bald guy took a seat across the table from me, next to the old man.

"How are you today?" He asked me.

"Good," I said, taking a bite of my pizza. As he sat quietly, I felt kind of bad for not keeping the conversation going.

"How are you?" I asked as he was between bites on his sausage, egg, and cheese on croissant.

"Stupendous," bald guy replied emphatically.

"That's a pretty bold statement for such a rainy day."

"Hey, at least it's not snowing!" Bald guy said with a smile.

The old man had clearly found a kindred spirit in this happy bald guy, and started talking to him about his cross-country trek on Amtrak.

"They named me Traveler of the Week," the old man told the bald guy.

"That's wonderful," said bald guy.

I watched as the duo enthusiastically discussed Boston sports teams and the old man's work with the sports teams in his California community.

"Making people happy is what makes me happy," old man said. "I always say that happiness is an inside job."

"You have to be right here," bald guy said, pointing to his heart, "before you can be happy for the world."

With that, I politely excused myself, tossed my trash, and went to check out the ironic t-shirts at Urban Outfitters. That much happiness on a rainy afternoon was enough to make me lose my overpriced and underflavored mall food lunch.

Where's the Cold?

Long-time readers of this blog know I like it warm. I enjoy a day at the beach, sunning my pasty flesh to various shades of red that I fully expect to regret in my later years when I walk around like Nelly because I've had cancer spots frozen off my face. But I also enjoy seasons. After all, without cold, we cannot know warmth.

So any time the weather wants to cool down, I'm ready for it.

Come on, Ma Nature. It was cute a couple of weeks ago when I went apple picking and didn't need to wear a coat. It's kind of nice to have it warm because I can't afford a whole new fall wardrobe, so being able to wear my t-shirts for a while longer is nice. But it's dark before 8 p.m. and leaves are scuttling across the ground while I'm padding around in my flip-flops.

October baseball is all about the chill in the air, dramatic photographs of an athlete's breath hovering. The Sox aren't even wearing their red turtlenecks for the most part. One does not think of earth-shattering end-of-the-world baseball when it's sweltering hot out.

And my flannel sheets are on my bed. I want to pull the covers over me without needing to chug water when I wake up because I sweat so much.

Halloween should be cold for full effect.

Leaf peepers should be able to enjoy a hot cider after peeping all day.

Fall in New England is cold, Nature. So hop to it. But if you could warm it back up, I'd appreciate it.

She Didn't Look Eighteen to Me

Hmm.

[W]e're especially prone to overestimating the ages of teenage girls. In the British study, bartenders were shown pictures of people aged 13 through 22 and asked to guess their ages. They judged about one of every five 13-year-old girls to be over 18, while they correctly identified the 13-year-old boys 97 percent of the time.

So sketchy guys may not be lying when they said "she looked eighteen to me, officer"?

HEY-O!

Yeah, I'm phoning it in. I was stupid enough to stand around in the driving rain (hey, Pete Bouchard-- what Annette and I were standing in was not "light rain" by any stretch of your weatherman hoodoo-voodoo terminology) to watch the very impressive fireworks.

Happy 4th of July, indeed.

And why doesn't America understand that not all songs about America are blindly patriotic? I mean, we went through with with "Born in the USA" and it continues with "Our Country." While I'm all about talking about the problems America has on July 4th, I don't think most of the audience gets the point. It would be like playing "God Save the Queen" on St. George's Day in England. "Oh yes, do save the Queen indeed. ::golf clap::"

Man. I need a nap.

Superfreaky

Today I had an appointment, and Google maps sent me out of Boston on the Mass Pike. I generally don't take the Pike since I don't feel like I should pay a toll to take a major highway. After some construction worker forgot to cover up a detour sign to the Pike and after I missed a turn in Back Bay, I finally got on the Pike in Chinatown. The traffic was light, it was sunny and warm, and I was listening to the radio and generally enjoying myself, despite my road rage while trying to find the goddamn on-ramp downtown.

I got to the Allston/Brighton tolls and fished a dollar out of my wallet. I rolled down my window and stuck the bill out the window.

"Hi," I said the the middle-aged woman collecting tolls.

"Let's not talk," she said, barely raising her voice enough to be rude to me.

I was too stunned to respond to her bitchery while I was in the tollbooth. I figured I'd extend some human decency to a woman who probably gets sniped at by drivers and probably makes jack shit because I felt like it was a good thing to do. And how does she respond? By not even acknowledging my greeting politely or ignoring me, but by being a giant bitch. Fine. I hope someone threw a milkshake on you after I left, you nasty wench.

After taking Route 9 back into the city to avoid the milkshake-soaked super-bitch on the Pike, I got on the T to head home. A stop after I boarded, I noticed a tall, scrawny white boy wearing saggy jeans, a white wifebeater, black aviator shades, and had lots of piercings in his ears and face. His white loosely-laced shoes paced the length of the train, and he eventually stopped at the horizontal railing near the big windows on the old Green Line cars and started doing chin ups while watching himself in the window. I started to laugh openly, and looked around to make sure someone else was witnessing this. Across from me, a half-dead office drone nodded solemnly, as if to say fear not, you aren't imagining this. I wanted to believe him, but when the Eminem clone got off the bar and said "I'm so fucking hot" to his reflection I almost thought I had to be imagining it. Classes are over at Emerson-- this couldn't be a Jamie Kennedy Experiment-esque bit of comedy, could it? It must have been. No one person could exhibit so many signs of douchebaggery unless it's a satire. I hope.

Ladies Night

Despite their history of awesome sing-alongs, I hadn't been to any of the Coolidge Corner Theater's midnight jams. The premise of these events is that you show up and the theater plays music videos with subtitles and the entire audience participates in karaoke. While that sounds like hell for karaoke's many detractors, it is in fact awesome. I can say this since I attended the "Ladies of the '80s" sing-along on Saturday night.

Amy P and I had a few drinks before heading over to the theater. I wore my usual '80s outfit of a black and white striped skirt with my black white and red Police t-shirt and Amy P worked some epic '80s crimped hair. It's kind of sad that I couldn't tell who was dressed up for the '80s theme or who just walked over in what they'd worn all day, but the crowd was good, even though most of the people there had barely been out of the womb in the '80s. We took our seats, and began the evening with Kim Wilde's "You Keep Me Hangin' On." Amy and I sang dramatically to each other, but remained seated. We also remained in our chairs during the completely hilarious video for Bananarama's "Venus." Back in the day, I thought those chicks were so cool, but watching it again last night showed that choreography budgets were much lower in the '80s. The three women basically hopped up and down and giggled.

"Get up," I said to Amy, "and give Joan Jett some respect." But Amy was already up when the opening chords of "I Love Rock'n'Roll" played. We threw rock horns and screamed at the top of our lungs. I think I found my new karaoke fall back. The Eurythmics came on, and I forgot how hot Annie Lennox is in that video. And why the hell is there a cow?

My favorite moment of the night was when "Love Is A Battlefield" came on. A large portion of the audience had made their way to the stage to dance on either side of the movie screen, including Amy and I. Through the whole video I was waiting for the part when Pat Benatar and her girls shake their shoulders at the johns. As if on cue, Amy and I headed for the opposite side of the stage as one woman on the other side headed for us. The entire theater went nuts as we strutted across the stage, and I realized how I miss being in front of an audience even if I was making an ass of myself. The night ended far too soon, but was closed out by the excellent "Like A Prayer" by Madonna when she was American. I was sad the show was over, but when I saw the previews for the Prince sing-along and the "Jiggy Crunk" rap sing-along with Vanilla Ice, Sir Mixalot, and a pre-Beyonce Jay-Z, I got very excited. I'll be there in July and August, probably pulling muscles to get down to Prince and Salt-N-Pepa.

Rhode Island Dead

Dammit.

Former Providence Mayor Vincent "Buddy" Cianci Jr. began work Friday at The 903 Residences in Providence, NBC 10 News has confirmed. . . . NBC 10 News learned that the federal Bureau of Prisons rejected Cianci's proposed sales and marketing position at the luxury boutique hotel Fifteen Beacon in Boston. Cianci was tentatively scheduled to attend an orientation on Tuesday.

I'll tell you what happened here. Mayor Menino got freaked out. Think about it. You're a somewhat embattled mayor in a city with a crime problem, and a smooth criminal with political experience gets released back into the wild. Are you going to let a guy with an extensive criminal record who somehow keeps winning people over into your city to threaten your plans for a new city hall? Hell no. You're going to send him back to the little podunk backwater seventy miles to the south where he can't run for election until 2014 and won't cause you any harm. Mayor Menino totally pulled some strings and got Buddy reassigned.

Menino had better watch himself. He's going to start getting fireplace logs lobbed though his window at night. I'd mess with a lot of people, but Buddy Cianci isn't one of them.

You Are Not My Lucky Star

I'm cheap. Despite what my credit card balance may say about me, I really don't enjoy parting with any more money than absolutely necessary. Which is why, when my friends brought up a last-minute trip to New York City this weekend, I championed the cause of taking one of the Chinatown buses. Since we didn't want to die or end up with third degree burns on the side of the Pike, we decided to take Lucky Star, a bus line that doesn't feature so prominently in the local news, but was still cheap.

Let me tell you this right now. Never again will I take a bus that has a schedule with the appearance of a Chinese takeout menu, no matter how many of my eggs I must sell to pay off my trip.

The ride down to New York wasn't bad. When we boarded the bus, everything appeared to be in order. The bus reeked of disinfectant at first, but faded as waited for everyone to get on. No new funky smells overpowered us, and the bus backed out of the dock. As it jolted forward, the bathroom door swung open and hit my leg. My friends laughed uproariously as I kicked the door shut. The driver navigated the frightening curly-q ramp down to the Pike and the door kept swinging open. As I tossed my bag against the door to keep it shut, the guy sitting in front of us pointed out there was a bungee cord hanging on the side of the loo to keep the door from swinging when someone wasn't inside.

"Of course it's a bungee cord," I said, "because a bus' bathroom door is just like my Mom's garbage cans."

But we all had a good laugh, the bus stopped once at a Roy Rogers in Bumblefuck, Connecticut (quoth I: "I hate Connecticut."), and we arrived in Chinatown, New York almost exactly on time. We went to our hotel, walked around, met up with a friend, went shopping, had an amazing dinner in Little Italy, got picked up by the sailors' pimp at a wine bar, walked through Times Square at 1am, and went to bed. At an entirely unreasonable hour, we got up to head back to Boston. We waited by some trash cans in Chinatown for the bus to pull up.

The first sign of trouble was the bus itself. While our Boston to New York bus was emblazoned with the Lucky Star logo, this bus had an '80s-inspired aqua and hot pink brushstroke design, with no company logo. It was dinged up in the back. As its driver attempted to execute a three-point-turn in the middle of Chinatown, we got a little nervous.

Once the bus circled the block and pulled into its spot, we boarded. Unfortunately, this bus didn't have three seats next to each other in the back, so someone would end up in their own seat, ready for any freak that had $15 and a desire to see Boston in the springtime to sit next to them. We went toward the back of the bus, but I had everyone turn around due to a a funky human waste stink in the back. There was not even a hit of disinfectant. And where there were shopping-bag sized trash bags on every aisle seat on the bus the day before, there was just litter bouncing around on the floor on this bus. We grabbed some seats, with A sitting alone near a window so she could sleep.

As we sat, I began to notice things were not as good as they'd been on our trip down. The seats were ripping apart. The roof safety hatches appeared to be caulked shut. There was a pronounced odor of piss throughout the bus. There were a greater number of freaks on our bus from New York. There was the girl who is always on her cell phone and never turns it to vibrate. There was a homeless man who added to, but was not the cause of, the piss smell. An old Chinese lady yelled at the bus driver as he helped her store her belongings in one of the few overhead bins with a protective string to keep things from raining on passengers' heads. A ended up with a guy who could easily play football he was so big sitting next to her. Fifteen minutes late, the bus jerked out of its stop and on its way out of Manhattan.

I refrained from donning my headphones until we hit Connecticut. I looked around at the Bronx as we left the city, mentally sang "Jenny From the Block," and watched the old Chinese lady flip through her newspaper and tried to guess what the stories were about. I didn't breathe too deeply so I wouldn't gag from the overwhelming stench of urine. I stopped breathing entirely when the homeless guy wandered his way down the bus and started telling the bus driver something, and didn't take another shallow breath until he got back to his seat. Finally, we stopped at some rest stop on 95 in Connecticut (I fucking hate that state) with a McDonalds. Grateful for the chance to breathe some relatively fresh rest stop air, I got off the bus. After peeing and buying a coffee, we went back outside to where the bus was.

"Where is the bus?" Steph asked.

"Over there," A said, pointing to the one sad diesel pump with our one sad bus next to it.

We stood around and I sipped my iced coffee. The homeless guy wandered around, looking to make friends. He would mumble something, a nicer person than me would try to talk to him, and the homeless guy would say "No hablo Englais." He drank a Fanta he'd begged off someone.

I noticed I was about halfway done with my coffee, and saw that our bus driver was still pumping gas into the bus.

"We must have been on the fumes," Steph said. The bus driver removed the pump, then started fiddling with the gas cap.

"He's little," A commented. "Look, he can't even get the gas cap closed."

I was three-quarters done with my coffee. The driver was still unable to close the gas cap or the door to the gas tank.

"Come on, righty-tighty, let's go," Steph said.

"This delay is because I fibbed," I said. I've told a greater number of fibs this week than I usually do, and I think karma kicked my ass with this bus trip. Duly noted, karma. I'm sorry I fibbed.

Finally, the bus driver drove the bus back over to the waiting passengers. As he pulled up, we noticed the door to the gas cap was swinging freely open and closed. Someone went to the window and pointed this out to the driver.

"Surely he must have some bungee cord on this bus somewhere," I said. We climbed the stairs back into the bus that smelled like piss as the bus driver grabbed a pair of pliers to keep the gas door shut.

"We're never going to make it home," Steph said.

"We can call my Mom to come get us," I replied.

"Do you even know where we are?"

"No idea."

After a half-hour layover, the bus started back on its way to Boston. My iPod decided to play a funny joke by locking up on me. "Oh fucking no," I said to it, rebooting it. It then forgot that it had 1800 songs on it. I rebooted again, it realized the gravity of the situation, and it started playing my music. During the lull in music, I heard the homeless guy talking to someone behind me.

"No hablo Englais. But I don't speak Spanish either." Steph cracked up.

About forty minutes later, I noticed the bus was slowing down and merging to the right for an exit-only lane.

"Oh hell no," I said.

"What?" Steph said. "I just fell asleep. Are we stopping again?"

"Yeah we are."

"What the fuck?" A said, opening her eyes.

"Why do we need the Roy Rogers?" I asked. "Weren't we just at a McDonalds?"

But we had not yet stopped at the China Buffet. We got off the highway and pulled in to some strip mall in Northern Bumblefuck, Connecticut for a food break. After we'd all just eaten. Some people got off the bus, but most remained on board. Some sadists brought take-out back on board, giving the bus a nasty smell of urine and fried rice. It was horrendous.

"Never again. We are taking the train next time," Steph said.

"Agreed," A and I replied.

"I'm sorry I lied," I added.

To add insult to injury, the bus that left New York an hour after ours left pulled up while we sat in the lot. It was one of the newer models, and it appeared to be in better working order. We contemplated a mutiny, but stayed on our pee-stink bus. After twenty minutes, the driver found the one straggler and started the bus. We headed for the exit of the plaza. The driver attempted to exit from the "entrance only" lane. Steph jumped up in her seat, flung her hands in front of her face, and exclaimed "Oh my God. We're going to die on this bus" without a hint of irony or exaggeration.

The driver backed up, in theory to aim for the correct exit lane. But no. Instead, he just straightened out and headed for the entrance lane. I just started laughing hysterically as a Jeep headed for us, stopped, and let us go. Even the guy driving the Jeep was laughing his ass off. I thought about asking him if he'd mind a trip to Boston with three pretty girls. I wasn't laughing because I didn't think we were in a bad situation; I was laughing because there was nothing else I could do. We tried contacting every person we could think of who could get us at the plaza and bring us to another mode of transportation to Boston, but no one was around.

After unsafely getting back on the highway, the bus continued on. The bus shuddered so hard that every inch of fat on my body jiggled, making me horribly uncomfortable. After speeding at what easily could have been 100 miles per hour, the bus driver started slowing down quickly. When I looked to see why, I saw a Connecticut Statie sitting on the side of the road. Somehow, he didn't pull our hot mess of a bus over for speeding and generally being a cesspool on wheels. After the slowdown, I noticed the bus was shuddering even more and moving really slowly. The hills had been a problem for both buses to handle. On the downhill, we flew. When climbing uphill, all I could think of was the Little Engine That Could. "I think I can. I think I can." After we slowed, the bus barely made it up the hills. The engine sounded off, but I couldn't tell if the driver didn't know how to downshift, or if it was a mechanical problem. After going thirty-five miles an hour for about two miles, the bus started slowing down even more on a flat section of I-84.

"We are not going to break down," Steph said.

"Yeah we are."

"Perfect. That's just great." Steph jumped as we were nearly hit by a large truck. The driver, who apparently couldn't admit when the jig was up, remained in the travel lane until he had no other option but to pull over. My fat jiggled violently as the bus went over the rumble strip and ground to a halt, much to the vocal chagrin of the passengers.

"I want my money back," I said. "I am so not even kidding." I said this a bit too loudly, and the other passengers laughed at my riotous declaration.

Vehicles whizzed by our pee-stink bus as we sat idle for the first time in the whole trip. Even when we were at the China Buffet the bus stayed on. Either the driver was ignoring the law that you can't idle a bus for that long, or if he'd turned the bus off it wouldn't start again. After standing for a minute or two, the engine roared to life, and by some miracle the bus sloppily merged back into traffic, nearly getting hit by another shipping truck.

"We are going to die. It is going to happen," Steph stated.

"I am sorry for everything I've ever done wrong in all of my life. I am not a praying woman, but I am about to become one. I'd call my Mom, but I don't want her to worry."

Somehow, some way, our piss- and Chinese food-scented bus made it into Massachusetts. After sitting in tollbooth traffic because the bus didn't have an EZ Pass (how is that even possible? A friend of mine has an EZ Pass and she doesn't even own a car) we powered our bus with hope. Just outside Newton, we saw another Lucky Star bus on the westbound side of the Pike that wasn't as lucky as our shit bus, and had all its passengers in the woods and the hood of the bus was open.

"That was a gift that we didn't end up like that," Steph commented.

Buddah, Allah, God, Jeebus, Pan, whatever deity it took to get that horrible bus into South Station with all of us alive: Thank you. I'm sorry I did wrong. Ever. I have learned my lesson. I also learned never to take a Chinatown bus again.

My friends and I grabbed our stuff and hauled ass past the hordes of people waiting to get to New York. I sat on the T, thankful to be back in Boston, aware that I looked an absolute fright and almost had to smell like I'd pissed myself. I got home and showered immediately. I washed myself with antibacterial bar soap, then gel soap, then a body scrub. I used a ton of shampoo on my dirty hair. I gave myself a clarifying mask to remove all trace elements of piss smell out of my pores. I sit here, waiting for A to pick me up in her car that works and doesn't stink of pee and bring me to the beach to get away from the smell of city for a while. I very well may toss myself into the icy Atlantic to shock even more grime from my body. In any case, I'm not going to take the Chinatown bus again, ever. Can I interest you in some of my eggs? I've got to start saving up for an Amtrak ticket.

Viva Las Warren

Oh come on.

State Treasurer Timothy P. Cahill's proposal to have the state auction rights to build luxury gambling resorts won some key allies yesterday, with Mayor Thomas M. Menino, several state senators, business leaders, and a financial watchdog group praising the plan.

"I've seen it work in other places," said Menino, who has been aggressively lobbying Beacon Hill for new revenue sources. "It should be able to work in Boston."

Really? Yeah, Boston can have derelicts and jammed roads too! God, is there anything Menino won't do for a buck? Has the whole world gone mad? Am I the only person who thinks setting up casinos just to get some quick cash is as dumb as the people who go to casinos with their rent money?

"The real possibility exists that the Indians will have some kind of a casino soon," Morrissey said. "Timmy [Cahill] has seen the light. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

But you can beat them. Rhode Island has done so twice. When did the state just start waving the white flag when it faces a challenge? Also, I'm pretty sure you can't call them "Indians" anymore. They are "Native Americans."

Stupidity all around. This is a bad idea, folks.

Said I Think I'll Go To Boston, Where No One Knows My Name

Like the many Rhode Islanders before him who turned to Massachusetts to get away from the smallest state in the union but still be close to home, Vincent "Buddy" Cianci is moving to Boston. Once he gets out of the pokey, that is.

Former Providence Mayor Vincent "Buddy" Cianci will work in sales and marketing at a luxurious Boston hotel when he gets out of federal prison on corruption charges, The Associated Press has learned. . . .

"He's going to have an office right inside the hotel. He's obviously an expert in sales and marketing. Look what he's done for downtown Providence," Regan said. "We think he'll be a great addition."

I am shocked, shocked, that Buddy isn't going to run for mayor of Providence right away. Buddy still has so many supporters in Rhode Island that I'm relatively sure they'd lobby to have a special election between Buddy and Cicilline and that Buddy would win in a landslide. Even my mother, who hates Buddy Cianci, has started laughing at his shenanigans before cursing him as a low-life thug.

Can you imagine Buddy Cianci trying to sell you something?

"Hi. I'm Buddy Cianci. You may remember me from such convictions as my 1984 assault using the very original combination of a lit cigarette, an ashtray, and a fireplace log, as well as my 2001 host of work, including mail fraud and conspiracy. All of this crime led to Providence, Rhode Island's revitalization, and now I'm here to revitalize your weekend with a stay at Fifteen Beacon, Boston's newest luxury hotel. In the shadow of the Massachusetts State House-- that I do not gaze at every day, tapping my fingers together like Mr. Burns, planning my domination of New England's most populous state-- you can stay in the lap of luxury. And, as long as you don't tell Taricani, I'll see to it my cousin has a real luxurious lady in your lap, if you know what I'm sayin'. So give me a call back, and we'll work somethin' out that's agreeable to both of us."

Yes, it's going to be a boon for business for Fifteen Beacon. Not only do I get to celebrate my birthday on July 28, I get to celebrate Buddy Cianci's release into society. Marinara sauce for everyone!

What Price Speed?

I had a lovely weekend in Rhode Island. I got to see my friend S, my grandparents, and cooked my Mom a bitchin' Mother's Day breakfast. The weather was so nice in my native land that I was sad to leave. I rode the train into South Station and debated which bus would get me closer to my apartment with a minimal hassle. One bus left Central Square, another left Davis Square. I elected to get off at Central and wait fifteen minutes for the bus. I'd have to walk up a hill, but decided it would be quicker that way.

I found the first stop for the bus I decided to take, and stood my massive duffel bag full of clean clothes next to me. Since I was by myself, I decided not to listen to my iPod while I waited. A man with a chihuahua tucked inside his button-down flannel shirt smoked a cigarette inside the bus shelter, so I had to stand in the wind since I didn't want my clean clothes to reek of smoke. The man sat next to an old woman in a work-issued pickle-stand polo shirt who appeared to be dozing while sitting up. Across the street, a woman who looked like the kids' aunt talked to a crunchy-granola friend of hers.

After five minutes, the man got up to talk to me.

"He's freezing," he said, motioning to the chihuahua. "He's not used to this cold."

"Oh," I said. Sometimes, I really wish I looked like I didn't understand English.

"But our car broke down in Watertown while we were visiting friends, so we're stuck taking the T." The woman, who I'd assumed was with the man, continued to doze unattended in the bus shelter.

"That's too bad," I said, praying the bus would show up.

"Yeah. I don't know what to do with it. The thing just shot right out. Ptttffffftttttpppppt. Can I call my bank and just tell them to stop taking my money since it's dead?"

"Uh, I don't think so," I replied, "I think you still have to pay for the car, even if it's broken."

"Oh, I know," the man said to me, thinking I was clearly an idiot for suggesting such a thing, "I want them to repo it."

I smiled tightly.

"Well, I have to get it out of Watertown somehow," he mused, petting the dog sticking out of his shirt.

"You don't want to get a bunch of tickets on it," I commiserated.

"My friend said I should just report it missing," the man said dreamily, "but that would be fraudulent."

I nodded.

"But the job market up here is just so bad. We just moved here." I still wasn't sure if he was referring to him and the dog or him and the drowsy woman. How the hell long does it take to get from Watertown to Central Square by bus?

"Are you a student?"

"No."

"Oh. I thought you were," he said, pointing to my near-bursting duffel bag.

He smiled, then walked away as a couple guys accosted me. They'd been lurking around the corner, then a huge white guy and a small black guy came up to the bus shelter. The white guy started asking for cigarettes while the black guy blasted a hip-hop song out of his boombox. Unfortunately, my head nod was interpreted as a desire to dance.

"YOU FEEL THAT BEAT?" The guy yelled over his beatbox. "UH, YEAH, CAN YOU FEEL THAT BEAT? I CAN FEEL IT."

The radio twosome walked away, and the bus finally showed up. The driver let the passengers off the bus about ten feet away from those of us who were waiting. The waiting passengers wandered over to the open doors, and the driver waved us off wearily, as if we were illiterate. He then drove the bus forward four feet and opened the doors. He looked as if he wished he were dead.

The chihuahua guy and the woman, who was indeed with him, got on the bus. "You'd better not be mean like you were on that last bus," the man said into his chest, "or else this guy will drop you off in the boonies. Not like that other dog who went to Harvard. Like that movie? Legally Blond?" The man said, mostly for my benefit. I avoided eye contact with him. The granola lady got on after me. A toothless couple from Philly got on after her. They snogged behind the chihuahua couple as I begged God to get the bus to my stop as quickly as possible.

A few stops into the trip, the bus driver narrowly avoided hitting a car that had cut him off. I nearly flew sideways into the bus driver, and pickle-shirt lady was half-standing, her Dunkin Donuts cup clutched in her hand. When we slammed back into our seats, the woman's coffee splashed forward in a half-figure 8. It looked like a cartoon as we all collected ourselves.

"Those asshole Massachusetts drivers," the guy with the dog muttered. "At least if I don't have a car I won't be the one cussing at them."

"What a nice dog," the granola lady remarked. "Is he a puppy?"

"No," the man said, "he's from Georgia and he's six years old. His name is Mr. Sandy McSunshine."

"Georgia in this country?" Granola asked.

What?!

"Yes. We have another, but she's at home. She's going to have some babies by this guy."

"Is that her son?"

Oh, I thought, we're in the dog incest place with this.

"Oh no. He's from Kentucky, but we don't let them do that."

Before I could hear any more about the sexual predilections of the man's dog, my stop came up. I took the brisk walk home, happy that I'd be alone once I got there. Next time, I think I'll take the bus from Davis.

But They're Cool People

Recently, I've had a lot of people ask me how to get the true flavor of Boston. Friends of friends who are visiting the area, or coworkers of mine from the international offices have asked how to enjoy Boston quickly on limited time. Sadly, I didn't have any great answers for these people. But I've been thinking about it, and figured those anonymous tourists who Google before they book would like to know how the locals do Boston. So here is my completely incomplete list of fun stuff to do in Boston, written on my lunch break, that could use much improvement.

A British coworker asked me last week what the one thing Bostonians are crazy about. I immediately answered "Red Sox. Fenway Park. Go." This advice, in retrospect, kind of sucks. Unless you know in February that you're coming to Boston at a certain time, odds of you getting tickets are slim. And if baseball isn't your thing, you may be slightly pissed about spending so much money on a ticket and watered-down ballpark beer. Even if you're working on the pound system, it's still not cheap to visit Fenway.

If a Sox ticket doesn't fall in your lap, fear not. You can still enjoy the Red Sox on their home turf without parting with all your traveler's checks. Your best bet is to watch the game at one of Fenway's bars. Sure, the bars immediately surrounding Fenway Park are expensive, but when Papi hits a home run, you can hear the thunderous applause over the Green Monster. My personal favorite Fenway bar is Game On, despite the fact that the beer costs nearly as much as it does inside Fenway Park itself. The nachos suck too. But the downstairs cavern with countless televisions playing the game is well worth the price, especially when you consider that Game On does a raffle in the second inning for Monster seats, so it's possible you may end up inside the park after all.

The Cask ('n' Flagon) is also good. The food is much better, and the people-watching is great from their outdoor seating. I'm slightly disappointed that their remodel led to the place looking like an overpriced Ground Round, but it's good. I'm in the middle of a hissy with Boston Beer Works, because every time I go there for dinner with a large party and we want to sit for a couple more pitchers (each) of beer, the waiter gets huffy and asks us to leave. I understand people may be waiting for the table, but we're still ordering. It's hard to manipulate pitchers around the bar area. I always forget what bitches they are in there until I'm already seated. But the beer is awesome, as are their fries.

Another thing Boston is crazy about is walking. Bostonians walk as much as possible. While this is due in part to the beauty of the city and its compactness, it's mainly because Bostonians hate the T. We walk down Newbury Street just to be seen on Newbury Street. You can try to shop, but it's massively frustrating and overpriced. Bostonians love to walk/run/rollerblade/bike/unicycle the Esplanade, which is why I love Boston in the summer. I don't know where they are for the rest of the year, but it's a parade of hotties on the Esplanade during this time of year. I'm going to start tripping them so they have to talk to me and take my number, if only for insurance reasons. You should also walk through the North End, but please watch for people who actually live there manipulating groceries. Step aside, let them through, then resume your gawking. (Annette, you're welcome.)

Visitors must also take advantage of the Filene's Basement in Downtown Crossing before it closes for "renovations." But for the hardcore bargain-shoppers, a trip to Wrentham is a must. The land of premium outlets, both Americans and foreigners go crazy for the bargains. My friend S's friend from England dropped about $600 on shirts, socks, and pants. He had to be dragged bodily away from the outlets. While taking a car is advisable, there is a bus that runs from Boston to Wrentham if you don't feel like driving.

Don't bother with Cheers. Just don't do it. It's a basement dive bar turned tourist trap. When I was at Emerson, I should have worn a sign that read "Cheers is under the big fuck-off yellow banner fifty yards in front of you. Leave me alone." If you must visit "Cheers," visit the one in Fanuiel Hall. They sell all the touristy crap and it actually bears a resemblance to the bar on TV. If you want to see a real Boston bar, visit the Pour House. Cheap, decent food, affordable drinks, a good mix of students and people who actually live in Boston. The Hill Tavern in Beacon Hill/Government Center is also worthwhile and good. Also an awesome dive, the Hong Kong in Fanuiel Hall has meat on a stick for a buck, scorpion bowls, and fun karaoke.

If I had to leave Boston tomorrow, here is what I would do with my last day:

• Brunch at Dillon's. (Apparently, I'm leaving town on a weekend.)
• Walk down Newbury Street.
• Walk down the Esplanade by the Hatch Shell.
• Walk over the Longfellow Bridge.
• Lunch outside at Tealuxe on Newbury Street, for the good sandwiches and excellent people-watching.
• Watch a baseball game at Fenway.
• Dinner at Sel de la Terre, the Washington Square/Beacon Street Tavern, Super Fusion Cuisine, or the Publik House.
• Dessert at Finale.
• Mojitos at Bonfire.
• Dancing and drinking on the cheap at Cleary's.

That's all for now. Weigh in in the comments section.

Movin' On Up

I am moved. The fine folks at Stairhopper Movers took all my earthly possessions and loaded them in a truck and hauled them to Somerville. They huffed and puffed to remind me that they were indeed working hard, and then left with their massive truck. I was on my own again.

So far, (::knocks on wood::) things are great. My place is deathly silent, which is great. There is no evidence of rodents. Last night, I watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition for the first time in months. I just sat in my own company with no place to go for the first time since January. It was great.

So here is a short list of things I like about my new neighborhood:

• The Pizza Place. It's so good. I went over there on Friday once I realized I hadn't eaten since 7am and it was nearing 2pm and ordered a calzone and frozen yogurt with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in it. When the guy handed me the box with the calzone, I nearly dropped it since it was much heavier than I'd expected. When I got home, I was pleasantly surprised. The calzone was as big as my head, with a crusty outside and heaps of hot spinach inside and so much garlic it stung my mouth. Also in the box was a vat of marinara sauce. Seriously. I think I easily could have swum laps in it. The frozen yogurt was also excellent. While most pizza-place froyo machines just push the candy into the top layer of the yogurt, this had crumbled of peanut butter cup throughout the large cup.
• Target. I drove to Target on Friday since I needed a ton of crap, but once I'd bought my supplies and parked the car, I took a walk through Union Square. Only then did I realize that I'm about a mile away from a Target. I can walk to Target. This means only bad things for me, people. I think I need an intervention.
• The Packie. I was exhausted on Friday, but wanted to have a beer or two to welcome myself to my new abode. While driving around the new hood in my Zipcar, I saw a small packie. I walked back over later and walked back into the cheap beer section. And what to my wondering eyes should appear? 'Gansett. "Oh fuck yeah," I murmured, smiling as I handed over the six-pack of tallboys to the clerk.
• Market Basket. I'd heard great things about the Basket from my friend Steph. She told me it was cheap and the meat was good. I'd read things online about the absolute horror show that this store is on the weekends. I'd heard it referred to as "the UN." It is all of that and more. I went late on Friday afternoon and tried to look like I knew what I was doing. My feet crunched across the aisles. There was a wide variety of meat. Chicken breasts were about $4 for a pound. There were the plantain chips that Missy bought for a beach snack last summer that I'd loved. For several bags of food, I spent $29. Tonight, I go back to buy things to actually cook.
• The library. It's right near me, and it's a building from 1972. Or something. It's dated, but awesome. Funky stairs, orange metal racks of books, a rack of free stuff that included a pocket-sized Constitution. Once I can prove residence, I'm going to be there all the time.
• My apartment. It's so new. Everything is freshly-painted. There are no holes in the wall, no uneven spackle jobs from previous tenants. The floors gleam they're so new. I still have random boxes of crap everywhere, but it's mine. The kitchen is small but beautiful. I didn't know this, but ovens have new-oven smell. I have drawers and cabinets, unlike the Shithole. All I need is some internet up in that joint, and I'm good to go.
• This sign:

Oh Why Oh Why Would I Want to be Anywhere Else?

There is something amazing about Boston on a warm spring day. Something about the way that Boston (and I'm sure other New England cities) embrace the sudden warmth with determination. We're going outside, dammit, we're going to wear as little clothing as possible in weather that probably doesn't call for miniskirts, and we are going to enjoy ourselves. Today found me getting up earlier than I may have liked to get a Zipcar and check out an apartment. (I put in an application-- keep your fingers crossed.) I drove along, XM radio blaring everything from REO Speedwagon to Tori Amos' new song "Big Wheel." (I like it, though nothing will ever be Little Earthquakes, maybe because I will never be thirteen again.) Sitting in a sunny patch of Amy's living room, watching a Sox/Yankees game with a warm breeze blowing across my skin. While I hate the cold winds, the rain that seems to soak under the skin, there is nothing sweeter than the first really warm day where the sun hits your face hard and the whole world seems to thaw.

Figure It Out

I love the marathon. Every year, I go out and cheer on the runners as they chase their own goals. I like the silly shirts and bunny ears.

I do not, however, enjoy the marathoners in my city.

This weekend featured me taking the T a lot. On Saturday, there was some welcoming party or something for the marathoners, because around 6pm on Saturday, the T was mobbed with people with little body fat and a lot of energy. Which, hey, is great for them, but you can always tell a serious runner. They have a crazy, frenetic gaze. It seems like they're mentally gauging whether they could run faster than you. Some of them seem to silently judge those who would rather drive 26.2 miles. And, on Saturday, they had bags of runner's swag.

If one more person in a BAA hat rode the T like a baby just out of the womb, I was going to lose it. It was the unholy union of marathon tourists and baseball tourists on the Green Line made for a molasses-slow commute to the North End. One woman stood in the way of the door while leaning on the pole. The entire pole. Aren't these people elite athletes? Shouldn't they be able to stand on their own power for half an hour? When the woman seperated herself from the pole for a moment, another woman grabbed the bar. The running woman went back to leaning, and smooshed the woman's hand.

"Oh, I didn't mean to squish your hand!" Runner said.

"Mmm-hm," the woman said, not moving. Finally, Runner got the hint and just held on with one hand.

Of course, it wasn't much better in the North End. A friend of mine lives there, and was not amused with the Globe's coy story about how the North End is trying to lure tourists "back" after the Big Dig had the North End isolated for ten years. Hey, Boston Globe-- the tourists sure as hell know where the North End is. They gawk, stop short to look at a menu, walk four abreast along Hanover Street's narrow sidewalks, stand dumbfounded at the chaos of Mike's Pastry. I appreciate the money tourists bring to Boston's economy and the businesses they keep open, but can we please give them a refresher course on the fragile social contract that keeps our fine city moving? Next year, I'll totally pay to have a run of pamphlets made up that describes the pillars of T-riding (step away from the doors, don't lean against people's means of support, give seats to old and young people, if it's crowded start inching closer to the doors a couple stops ahead of your destination, etc). I'm also going to start contributing my signature to the list of people who think Hanover Street should be a pedestrian-only road during the summer so the tourists have room to gawk and the rest of us can get stuff done.

Take Me Out

Dear Baseball,

Welcome back. Jeets and I missed you.



Go forth. Play your baseball game. For soon spring will be here in Boston, and 'Tek will strike his warrior pose at Fenway, "Dirty Water" will be sung from rooftop parties, basements, beaches, by drunk fans stumbling home on Beacon Street. Let the sausages cook, the hot dogs be adorned with condiments, the babies in Papelbon shirts get their trial-by-fire.

Let's play some baseball.



Love,
Amy

Make me a Pie

As a rule, I try to avoid fights I can't win. In seventh grade, this girl Niki threatened she was going to kick my ass after I started talking smack about her. Since I had no doubt she'd succeed, I kept my big mouth shut until she calmed down and forgot my snide comments about her loose lips (and perhaps other applications of the word "loose"). In my adult years, I've learned I can't win some fights. My Mom is always going to be uncomfortable with homosexuality, Mitt Romney is still going to run for president no matter how many times I call him a little sissy boy (what did France do to him, I wonder?), and wingnuts are going to continue to be wingnuts no matter how liberally you apply logic to them. They just won't bend.

So of course, when I checked Universal Hub yesterday and saw that Celtics radio commentator Cedric Maxwell had taken issue with a female ref's call not by saying she'd made a bad call but by telling her to "get back in the kitchen" I had to get into it. Not only were the WEEI-wingnuts being referred to Universal Hub in droves, but they resorted to such wonderful ad hominem attacks on Adam Gaffin, who didn't even post the original writeup on the incident.

Of course, when I announced that Adam was my new platonic crush (the man is married!) and that Maxwell's argument was a "stupid fucking" argument, I got slammed too. Which is fine. Wingnuts are wont to do that. So here are my rebuttals to my detractors.

Detractor #1

Amy, Who was he arguing with? Or did you not hear the comments. There was no argument. In fact he said she was one of the better refs in the league after his mockery of Tommy Heinsohn. Also, I am very offended by your vulgar language. I do not find it funny. Anyone who agrees with me can be my platonic girlfriend.

While I appreciate the use of my own turn of phrase, Detractor #1 doesn't quite get my use of the word "argument." Just because nobody is yelling back at you like it's the Jerry Springer Show doesn't mean you're not making an argument by making a statement. Using the line of reason, "She made a bad call, she's a woman, she should get back into the kitchen and cook breakfast" is an argument. Not a strong or reasonable argument, but an argument nevertheless.

Also, I swear. I don't see what the big deal is about swearing on the internet. The well-spoken folks who came around to anonymously call the owner of the website were throwing around "pussy" like it was nothing. It must be because I'm a woman. Good thing I don't have any babies to kiss with this mouth, huh?

Detractor #2

You and adam deserve eachother. How about you stop making a big deal out of nothing?? Do you really think Max wants all women in the kitchen, did you even hear how he was imitating Tommy Heinsohn? Can you really be this dumb?

Well, I'm smart enough to find the space bar and shift key, hoss. I'd say I'm doing pretty well.

Detractor #3

It's not a "stupid fucking argument", there's no argument at all. It was a joke, you need to get over it. I bet if Dane Cook said it, you'd be eating up.

Nope. I hate Dane Cook with all the power of my soul. In fact, I hate all these comedians who are doing their best watered-down Bill Hicks or Chris Rock bits and fucking Jessica Simpson because of it. Bill Hicks swore a lot, yes, but he was also well-read, had good arguments for why he thought the way he did, and was actually funny.

And, to get to what (I think) was this guy's point-- yes, I laugh at women jokes in the right context. Cartman's "get in the kitchen and make me a pie" line to his mom is hilarious because Matt Parker and Trey Stone are making fun of jackholes who say these things by putting it in the mouth of this boy who doesn't know better. Grown men, like Maxwell and these anonymous internet boobs, should.

Detractor #4

You two should take a long walk off a short pier. Get a sense of humor you PC thugs! Maybe if someone gave you a proper seeing to every now and again you wouldn't be so bitter and miserable and quick to jump on these comments which mean absolutely nothing. Get bent the both of you.

I'm not about to burn my bra over what some radio broadcaster for the effing Celtics (sorry, kcee) has to say about women. However, this is not a something out of nothing situation. This guy said or repeated this "joke" about women when he'd just disparaged the female referee's call. Women, especially those in male-dominated fields, have to put up with a lot of bullshit just because they have vaginas and tits. I'm not saying this woman didn't make a bad call, but even joking that she did so because women belong in the kitchen and not in a sports arena is sexist. Sorry. Unless Maxwell is going to tell a male referee to "get back into your cubicle and be a wage slave to support your at-home wife" which is clunky and also not funny, it's going to upset my feminist sensibilities. It's the fact that Maxwell used this while he and the female ref were both on the clock. I don't tell my boss that she should get back in the kitchen because she didn't give me the raise I want because it's not appropriate in the workplace. Keep it to yourself.

Despite the fact that Maxwell apologized and now the issue's moot, I'm sure the argument will go on until this weekend over on Universal Hub, and I'm sure I'll be told that married Adam and I will be spending the rest of eternity in a humorless PC hell, while in heaven women wear aprons and serve their men while they watch Fear Factor and porn.

Love is Like a Bomb

Right back atcha, little buddy.

A Lite-Brite. Well, not a Lite-Brite, but several Lite-Brites shut down the city of Boston and had residents in a panic for some dumbass marketing campaign? And it took the cops all day to figure out these were Lite-Brites? Lite-Brites with cartoon characters on them? And the Lite-Brites have been up for weeks and nobody noticed them until yesterday? I sure do feel safe now.

I know in the post-9/11 world I'm supposed to be hyper-vigilant and respond to these things seriously until they're proven false alarms but I just don't believe these threats are real. It's like when I was in high school and some punk-ass kid would call in a bomb threat. All of us would sit around in the parking lot for hours, listening to the radio in some senior's car while the volunteer fire department went through the school to make sure there wasn't a bomb, which even the teachers knew. Nobody would want to blow up my podunk high school. One punk-ass kid did throw a molotov cocktail into the library window once, but he didn't build it right and it didn't catch the library on fire as he hoped and he ended up serving time for his "funny stunt." Maybe it's because the local news media carries breaking news any time a backpack is left on a park bench for five minutes that I'm not sensitive to these bomb scares anymore.

Logically, I know I should have been worried about this yesterday. But I wasn't. I guess if they'd found one real bomb and then started finding things everywhere I would have been worried, but they didn't and I wasn't. When Universal Hub broke the news that it was some guerrilla marketing campaign, it made sense to me. The one good thing that will come from this complete and utter breakdown of human reason on both the part of the Boston cops and Cartoon Network is it will put the Boston bomb squad/anti-terror people/whomever's job it is to check for suspicious goings-on on notice that perhaps they weren't doing such a bang-up job (pun intended) in looking for suspicious equipment since these Lite-Brites were hanging from various bridges for weeks and nobody thought anything of it until yesterday.

And how stoked are the Lite-Brite people? I don't think I've talked about a Lite-Brite for years until yesterday and now I can't stop imagining all the fun I used to have with that thing.

And Now For Something Completely Different

Okay. First you break my aspiring fashionista's heart by telling me that the Filene's Basement in Downtown Crossing is closing for two years for a remodeling job like so many of the women who shop there have done to their faces. Fine. Except it seems kind of sketchy and maybe Filene's won't ever open again, leaving me bereft.

But the real kicker is this bit of news:

Filene's Basement, the Boston landmark that birthed the bargain, said it will close its original downtown store this year, and it's unclear whether it will retain its famous "automatic markdown" system when it reopens after two years of renovation.

What? What is Filene's Basement without the Automatic Markdown? It's like peanut butter without jelly. Sonny without Cher. Mitt Romney without his hair. It's just not the same. I walk by the Filene's Basement on Boylston Street on a daily basis and I never go in. To me, Filene's Basement isn't plasma-screen TVs, mannequins and doormen who aren't homeless guys looking for T fare. Filene's Basement means waist-high bins full of coal with the rare diamond somewhere inside. Filene's Basement is a bunch of bargain-hungry bitches burrowing through clothes like starving animals tear through prey. Filene's Basement is the paper signs with the same handwriting on each. Filene's Basement is the torture of bearing your cellulite to all the other women in the dressing room in the hopes of looking great in that bargain-basement find you tore out a chunk of some bitch's hair for. That is Filene's Basement to me, not this glorified Marshalls angle they've recently taken.

I don't know what's wrong with the Basement as it is now. It is not a thing of beauty but it's not meant to be. Since the Basement as it is now remains one of Boston's top tourist attractions and is recommended by endless local magazines as the best place to find a steal on designer clothes, I don't see why Filene's Basement needs to fix what ain't broken. Why can't the Basement elect to age gracefully?

Kismet

It's fate, people. I'm looking to be more creative in my work; Boston is looking for a poet laureate.

In addition to composing works about Boston, according to a proposal by Councilor John Tobin, the city's poet laureate would be charged with educating the public about the ancient art form. He or she would also compose poems for functions such as the State of the City address, swearing in municipal officials, and high school graduations.

Well, I took the infamous Forms of Poetry with Bill Knott at Emerson, and while the class nearly destroyed my will to live, I did learn quite a bit about the forms of poetry the ancients used to entertain themselves before TiVo. I have a writing degree and a rhyming dictionary. Hire me.

Writing samples? Okay. Here are some off the top of my head in the favored quickie form of the haiku. I do them 5-7-5, though the kids I babysit kick it with the 3-5-3 form. I may be counting syllables wrong. As the eight-year-old tells me, I need to work on my math skills.

Blow cold breeze
nose hairs freeze solid
I dream of sun.

Dunkin Donuts love
America runs on you,
bitter roasted beans.

A form of poetry that doesn't get nearly enough love is the clerihew. Here are a couple.

Mayor Menino
got elected by kissing bambino.
He reacted with gall to the fug City Hall
and for a new one he started to brawl.

The Departed
is a film not for the fainthearted.
It entered Scorsese into the Oscar race,
for him to lose would be a disgrace.

JD Drew
a prospect to leave Boston blue.
Us fans? We don't want him
Trot leaving still has us grim.

I mean, this is some pretty rudimentary stuff here. With the proper time and a good benefits package I could do much better, Councilor Tobin. My email's on the sidebar. I have a resume and references. I look forward to hearing from you.

Feel the Rage, Part II

Yesterday, I walked our city streets. I always forget how nice it is to walk around Boston without a destination, just popping into stores or historical sites whenever you feel like it. I'm usually running from one place to another and it was nice to just meander, taking my time. My friends and I walked through City Hall Plaza and watched little kids manipulate one of the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade balloons around. We stopped in a cemetery we'd never been in. While looking at the old gravestones (the skulls and angel wings are totally going on my gravestone) we heard a din coming from the direction of the Common. I thought a skating event may have been going on until I realized it was Mitt Romney's publicity stunt, er, protest of the legislature refusing to vote on allowing the right of gay people to marry going on the ballot. Relishing the idea of heckling Romney in person appealed to me, so we walked to the State House.

Chills went up my spine as I rounded the corner and walked through the crowd. We were close to the police line that separated the voting supporters from the gay rights supporters. We'd missed Mitt Romney's speech, unfortunately, but whoever was speaking was being roundly booed by the gay marriage supporters.

Yeah, it was like that.

He's totally using this image in his presidential campaign. "This flag is not for gay people! I'm relatively sure none of the people behind me has inappropriately emailed young boys! God Bless America!"

I could see Mitt from where we stood, about a football field and a half away from the gubernatorial coif. Despite the fact he probably couldn't see me, I pulled one of these:

Just to let him know I was thinking of him.

Whatever pretentious blowhard was speaking wrapped it up, and then a singer came up and started warbling the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." No, I'm not kidding. The gay rights supporters roundly booed the proceedings, shouting "Shame!" and "You lost, go home."

I understand that not everyone is comfortable with homosexuality. My mom, who is fairly socially liberal is against gay marriage, which surprises me. The debate over gay marriage in the eyes of the state is infuriating, and I have yet to hear an argument that rings true on why gay people should not have the same right to a marriage certificate as a straight couple. Being gay is not a defect. A gay couple doesn't contribute less to society. Gay people aren't worse parents than the average straight couple. We're talking about civic marriage, which has nothing to do with any religion. It's a piece of paper that allows benefits to be shared and ease of transition if something should happen to one or both people in the relationship. A marriage certificate is a legal document, nothing more.

Specific to this fight, I cannot understand why any responsible legislature would allow the many to vote on the rights of the few. It is the government's place to protect the rights of minorities, and keeping the rights of minorities away from the grubby hands of the majority. If you don't like how the legislature works, you vote for someone who shares your views and the legislature amends the constitution.